My life is more amazing, by several exponential levels, in the last ten days, than it has ever been. Beautiful women, and occasionally men, are starting great conversations with me in the most otherwise mundane of places. My mood is so simultaneously Zen and sparkling that nothing bad in it seems like more than a speck of dust to be swept away, and all the good, and there is so much of it, is blowing my mind. I have a "new lease on life," and if you know me at all, the old lease was pretty damn great.
The dividing line in all this is about a week after my surgery. All the evil anesthesia drugs and chemicals and awful things were out of my body and they were replaced with a simultaneous feeling of calm and awesome that is utterly impossible to explain.
The best theory I have is that, with one exception, I haven't had a drink of alcohol in six weeks. And that isn't a ploy to get you to quit drinking. I am not a crusader, and I don't care what anyone else does.
And I like that theory, but it seemed, I dunno, *insufficient* as an explanation, because, really, I am in an off-the-scale great mood. (Oh, and Sara, if you are reading this, I am really sorry for bowling you over last night at that art opening with the bulldozer that is my current good mood. You looked justifiably terrified.)
So I started theorizing -- a dangerous sport for anyone, double dangerous for me. Me with a theory is like a chimp with a loaded handgun.
And I thought, "Hey! What if...."
Um, what if I died, you know, on the operating table.
Right, yes, I just said that.
Here is the theory; I am not prone to believe in higher powers, gods, etc. I don't mind at all if you do, but it just doesn't move me. You may also think that Journey was a great band and that Billy Joel was, in some sense, a "rock" artist rather than a vomit-worthy purveyor of schmaltzy show tunes.
Everybody has their thing.
It's all good. We can agree to disagree on that and move on, still liking each other. (But if you turn down the radio while *that* is on, I'll love you more).
So, I don't believe in an afterlife, and I totally dismiss all those tales of "dying" and white lights at ends of tunnels, and meetups with Uncle Ira who died in a hang-gliding accident before anyone knew about hang-gliding. But there has been a demonstrable behavior in some people whose heart stops: when they get resuscitated successfully, they feel like I feel now -- amazing, no worries. Life is their surfboard and they can ride it on land, sea or air.
So I called the doc's assistant and asked if I had died and been resuscitated.
She must have completely lost her shit, because she has always called me back personally in the past -- "always" being twice -- and instead the doc called me back, told me it was a fascinating question, and told me, "Uh, sorry. No. We didn't need to resuscitate you."
Hey bartender, would you pour me another theory? My glass is empty. And no, dude, I won't sing along with Steve Perry.
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