At that point, I’m sure that white man would have been trying to speak again, so I would have stepped forward and said, “You know what also makes me Indian? I could punch you in the face right now, do an improvised thirty-minute lecture on the sonnet poetry form, and then punch you again. And, hell, you might be a professional boxer who will kick my ass. But that doesn’t matter to me as an Indian. I will fight you even if I absolutely know I’m going to lose. You could knock me out and I could wake up and still deliver that thirty-minute lecture on the sonnet with a heavy-duty reservation accent. I mean—dude, I come from an honor culture. Don’t you know what that entails?”
And then, as a sort of concluding couplet, I would have said, “And also, in case you missed the subtext—in case you misheard—then let me say, ‘Fuck off, fuck off, you colonial turd.’”
97.
Motherland
I TEND TO believe in government because it was the U.S. government that paid for my brain surgery when I was five months old and provided USDA food so I wouldn’t starve during my poverty-crushed reservation childhood and built the HUD house that kept us warm and gave me scholarship money for the college education that freed me. Of course, the government only gave me all of that good shit because they completely fucked over my great-grandparents and grandparents but, you know, at least some official white folks keep some of their promises.
98.
Glacial Pace
When I was thirteen, I coughed on some ice chips
And my mother quickly rose and belted
Me hard on the back one, two, three, four times.
Later, I said, “Mom, it was ice. It was gonna melt.”
I was angry at her maybe because
I needed reasons to be pissed at her,
But she always turned life into a play.
She was a mother portrayed by an actor.
When I told my wife the Ice Chips Story,
She said, “Hey, hey, I’m on your mother’s side
With this one. You can choke to death on ice.
Your mother was trying to save your life.”
I scoffed but then did an Internet search
And learned that an ice cube can strangle you
If it’s large enough and blocks the airway.
Then it becomes a race: Will that ice cube
Melt and slide free before you suffocate?
I told my wife what I’d learned. And she smiled
And said, “Now, you’re racing against the ice.
Will you forgive your mother before you die?”
99.
Next Door to
Near-Death
I DON’T BELIEVE in God. I don’t believe in Heaven. I think “afterlife” is only a pretty way of saying “death.” But, in December 2015, when I was lying anesthetized on the surgery table in Seattle’s Harborview Medical Center, with my skull cut open so the neurosurgeon could remove a small benign tumor, I dreamed myself in a wild grass field and saw my dead parents standing on the cliff above me. Depressed and angry most of their lives, my mother and father were magnetically joyous. They held hands. I don’t recall seeing them ever holding hands in life.
I knew I was dreaming. I have endured monstrous nightmares most of my life, so I’ve learned many strategies for consciously escaping from subconscious dreams. But I didn’t want to escape that dream of my late parents. In fact, as the sun rose behind them and above me, I felt the strong desire to climb that cliff and join them.
I would later learn, after my successful surgery, that my brain had bled so much that I’d needed four units of transfused blood and two units of platelets. I’d bled so much because the tumor had adhered to my dura mater, the tough membrane between the skull and brain. My dura mater had also adhered to my skull. And most serious, my tumor had grown into and adhered to the superior sagittal sinus, a rather large blood vessel running across the top of my brain. Despite multiple CAT and MRI scans of my skull, the doctors had not seen the extent of these adhesions. So when they’d cut into my head and removed the skull plate, usually the simplest part of any brain surgery, they were surprised to discover they’d also torn open the dura mater and sinus. It sounds terrifying, I know, but I was never in critical condition. It was relatively serious, but I was never near death. I’d only been next door to death. Or maybe even down the block and around the corner from death.
So I didn’t have a near-death experience. Even though I was unconscious, I think I knew my brain was bleeding. I think I heard and felt the increased tension in the operating room. I think I was scared. And to comfort myself, I created the image of my late parents looking at me. Or rather, I’d created alternative parents, a mother and father who offered illuminating love and support instead of fear, doubt, and sadness. It worked. I enjoyed my dream. And I feel warm now as I write about the parents I’d imagined to replace my lost ones. So, yes, when it comes down to it, I comforted myself during surgery. I’ve always been good at comforting myself.
Of course, my neurosurgeon stopped the bleeding, removed the tumor, and repaired my brain. I have small titanium plates, screws, and mesh holding it all together. The doctor told me I wouldn’t set off airport metal detectors. But I don’t know why not. I don’t know anything but the most general details about my surgery. I suppose I could do more research, but I prefer the mystery of medicine and healing. I prefer mystery in almost all things.
Near the end of my surgery, I dreamed of my parents again. This time, they were standing in that same grassy field with me. Still holding hands, they stood maybe fifty feet away. They weren’t wearing white robes. They didn’t have wings or halos. No, they were both dressed in the same clothes in which they’d been buried. My mother’s favorite turquoise suit was simply tailored and beautiful, and my father’s favorite sweatpants and Geronimo T-shirt looked comfortable and sloppy. They looked like the people I used to know. I waved hello. They smiled, waved good-bye, and walked away through the tall grass. I wasn’t sad to see them go. I knew it was time to wake. And so I did.
100.
The Only Time
FOUR DAYS AFTER brain surgery, in a private room in Harborview Medical Center, I took a sip of ice-cold water and hiccupped.
I laughed. I often hiccupped after my first drink of any icy beverage. Just like my late father did. We shared that reflex.
Ice-cubed drink. One big hiccup. Laughter. Slight embarrassment if it was a public hiccup.
That was the routine.
But, after brain surgery, I hiccupped once, twice, three times in a minute. And then I hiccupped for eight straight hours.
Despite all the pain in my life—and the large number of tragedies—that was the only time I ever seriously considered suicide.
I was almost murdered by hiccups. How hilarious is that?
101.
Scanned
TWENTY-FOUR HOURS after my brain surgery, I met my ICU neurological nurse. Well, I’d met her the day before, but I didn’t remember her because I’d been heavily medicated. I was still heavily medicated only a day after surgery, but I felt like I was mostly living in reality.
“Didn’t you say something about being a fan of mine?” I asked her, needing as much external validation as possible. I had never felt more vulnerable in my adult life, and I was probably also feeling post-traumatic effects from the brain surgeries I had in my early childhood. Yeah, my current brain surgery was reminding me of my previous brain surgeries.
“I read your first book of poems my freshman year of college,” the nurse said. “And I have read everything since.”
“That’s cool,” I said. “Thank you.”
I felt happy. Safer. I figured that a person who loved my words would, by association, also love my brain, and would therefore pay special attention to me.
“I’ll never tell anybody you are my patient,” she said.
“Doesn’t the law require you to protect my privacy?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. “HIPAA. The Health Insurance Port
ability and Accountability Act. But I won’t even tell my husband you are my patient. I won’t tell my dogs.”
“HIPAA protects me,” I said. “But I’m a writer. And I don’t think there’s anything that protects you from me. You’re going to appear in my poems and stories. Well, the real you and the fictional version of you.”
“Just make me awesome,” she said.
“In some future book, I’m going to blend you with another fan,” I said. “She loved my movie Smoke Signals and wouldn’t date any guy who didn’t love it as much as she did.”
“I don’t like that movie that much,” she said. “It’s so much tamer than your books. Too tame.”
“See there,” I said. “You’re already becoming fictional.”
“But based on real events,” she said.
“Inspired by something resembling the truth,” I said.
“Sounds like we’re both protected,” she said.
“Yes,” I said. “But can I ask a favor?”
“What favor?”
“I’m going to be stoned on painkillers and other drugs for days and days, right?”
“Yes.”
“And I have brain trauma from the surgery, right? No matter how well everything went?”
“Yes.”
“So with all the pain and painkillers, and all the damage, I am going to forget things I say and do.”
“Yes.”
“So if I say something really good—something sad or funny or smart—then can you write it down—remember it—in case I can’t?”
“Wow,” she said. “I don’t know if I can write it down.”
“HIPAA rules?”
“Yes, HIPAA.”
“But isn’t monitoring my behavior part of your job?” I asked.
“Yes, it is,” she said, and smiled.
“Why are you smiling?” I asked.
“Something funny happened right after surgery yesterday.”
“What? What?” I asked. “Tell me. I need you to tell me the story so I can tell the story later.”
“Okay, okay,” she said. “Right after surgery, we took you into the MRI to check that everything looked good in your brain.”
“Did it look okay?” I asked.
“Yes, everything was cool,” she said. “And you were talking and—”
She hesitated.
“What? What?” I asked.
“You were being funny and smart right away,” she said. “You were verbally coherent even though you were still so drugged up.”
“What did I say?”
“You were flirting with everybody,” she said. “Calling everybody beautiful and hot.”
“Oh, no,” I said. “I wasn’t being a creep, was I?”
“No, no, you were very sweet. You were also talking about your beautiful wife. And you were flirting with the men and the women. I think you flirted with yourself and with the MRI machine, too.”
“Oh, God, that’s so embarrassing.”
“There’s more,” she said. “There’s more.”
“I don’t know if I want to hear anything else,” I said. “No, I lied. I want to hear all of it.”
“Okay, so when we lifted you from your gurney onto the MRI machine, your operating gown slipped off, and you were completely naked.”
I laughed at the nude predicament that I could not remember being in.
“So you were naked,” she said. “And you were apologizing. You kept saying sorry to all of us—”
“Wait, how many people were there?”
“Eight of us.”
I laughed and laughed.
“So many people,” I said. “It was like I was putting on a show.”
“Yeah, you wouldn’t stop apologizing and we’re all trying to calm you down, saying it’s okay, it’s okay, we’ve seen it all before. And then you said, you said—”
“Oh, no, what, what, what?” I asked.
“You pointed at me,” she said. “Then you told everybody I was a big fan of your books. And then you pointed at your...nudity...and said you didn’t want to disappoint your loyal reader, me. You wanted to make sure we all knew you were a grower and not a show-er.”
My nurse and I laughed together. I had worried about the size of my dick only an hour after brain surgery! Of course I did!
“Then you got all quiet,” she said. “And put your hands over your privates and yelled, ‘HIPAA! HIPAA! HIPAA!’”
My nurse and I laughed harder and harder, until I thought I might bust the stitchings in my skull.
“And that’s when we started calling you the Unicorn,” she said.
“Because of—”
“No, no, no, no, not because of your penis,” she said. “Because you were talking so well after surgery. Because you recovered so fast. Because you and your brain were magical like a unicorn.”
“So my dick isn’t magical?” I asked.
“Oh, God, no,” she said. “I’m a nurse, Sherman. There is nothing magical about anybody’s dick.”
My nurse and I laughed often during my three days in the ICU. I didn’t know if I would ever see her again. Considering the state of my brain at the time, I didn’t think I would recognize her again. But I thought she would read this book. I hoped she would read this book.
Dear Nurse, thank you for your honesty and humor. Thank you for taking care of me. Thank you for doing your job so gracefully. Thank you for remembering my stories when I could not.
102.
Brain Surgery Ping-Pong
Three months after brain surgery, I played Ping-Pong
And found myself unable to adjust to the speed
Of the game. I could only follow the ball for one shot
At a time and couldn’t anticipate my next move
Or where my opponent might hit it next. I wondered
What that might mean about my brain and its new
Normal. I had noticed those gaps in other ways, how
I forgot an interviewer’s question five seconds after
I began to answer. How I stood onstage in front of 3,000 people
In Minneapolis and, for a brief terrifying moment, forgot
Why I was there. In the neurosurgery ICU, the nurse told me
They had to be extra diligent when assessing the brain health
Of imaginative people like me. She said, “You’re the ones
Who can talk your way around your deficiencies.” And I said,
“I’ve been talking my way around my deficiencies since I was born.”
So, playing Ping-Pong, I tried to work around my sudden deficiencies
But I missed and lost and missed and lost. I didn’t tell my friends
What I was feeling because I didn’t want to ruin the fun
Or make excuses. My friends would have beaten me even if my brain
Were fully healthy. And I was in no danger. My neurologist said
It would take at least a year for my brain to fully heal.
So this is who I am now: a lesser Ping-Pong player.
That’s hardly a tragedy. I played as well as I could.
And I sometimes hit good shots. And I was having fun,
Even as I recognized that I had lost a little
Of that connection between my eyes and hands.
But haven’t I been losing shit all along? As we age,
Don’t we all deteriorate? If I can’t hit as many smashes
In table tennis or swish as many jump shots in basketball
Or write as many poems as I did before brain surgery,
Then so be it. I am alive! I am alive! I am alive!
And felt even more alive when my friends and I switched
From Ping-Pong singles to doubles. Playing with a teammate,
We alternated hits, and I was fucking overjoyed to realize
That I had enough time—another second or two—between shots
To recharge—to refresh, refresh, refresh—and put my paddle
On the ball with more accurac
y and power. But I still didn’t say
Anything about my Ping-Pong dilemma or my Ping-Pong epiphany
To my friends. I knew I would tell them later through a poem.
And this is their poem. Dear friends, I am often a lonely man,
Even in a room full of people who love me. Dear friends, my brain—
Unpredictable as it was—is even more unpredictable now.
But thank God for all of the ways in which we compensate
For our deficiencies. In order to play Ping-Pong—in order to make it
Through this crazy life—I needed somebody to step in and take
The next shot. So let’s call this a Ping-Pong prayer. Let’s call it
A Ping-Pong jubilation. I am not alone in this world. I am not
Alone in this world. I am not alone in this world. I am not alone
In this world. I will never be alone, my friends, and as long as I am
Alive to be your teammate, neither will any of you.
103.
Clarification
LET ME REPEAT.
Yes, I have repeated myself. Yes, I have been repetitious. That’s what grief is.
Grief and repeat were sitting on the fence. Grief jumped off. Who was left?
Repeat.
Grief and repeat were sitting on the fence. Grief jumped off. Who was left?
Let me repeat the chorus.
Let me make things clear.
Five months after my mother died of cancerous tumors, I underwent surgery to remove a benign tumor from my brain.