Now that I think about it, as bad as 2007 was for me, the past couple of years haven’t necessarily been outstanding either.
In April of 2011, I landed in Lyndon B. Johnson General Hospital’s intensive care unit, where I was near death for about a week. Filled with an overabundance of white blood cells, infection fighters gone crazy, my spleen was about to burst like a piñata. See, I hadn’t been taking my medicine. It cost around $10,000 a month, and not only was I no longer on the Chronicle’s insurance but my COBRA benefits had expired.
I asked my doctor if I was going to die. He said he wasn’t sure. I started whistling.
“What are you whistling for?” he asked.
“Well, I have made a career of whistling past the graveyard,” I replied. “I just thought I’d be consistent.”
Thankfully, with the help of the doctors and nurses at LBJ, a charity facility, I didn’t die. After a week or so in the intensive care unit, I rallied –– with the help of some pork tacos delivered by my dear friend Janet Meyer.
Also with the help of an LBJ pharmacy clerk –– not the pharmacy administrator, who was clueless, but a clerk –– I also learned how to acquire my meds for free from the manufacturer. Additionally, not long after my brush with death, I qualified for Medicare, a wonderful development that got me out of the chronically understaffed LBJ and into a world-class hospital, the University of Texas’ MD Anderson Cancer Center. With all due apologies to LBJ, the transition from one hospital to the other was like moving from a fleabag motel to a five-star hotel.
Unfortunately, during this transition from LBJ to MD Anderson, I had a terrible fall on my front porch while carrying two armfuls of groceries into the house. The pointy toe of my right cowboy boot got hooked on a step. With no way to brace myself, I went down hard, so hard that I that I had broken my right leg. I was in such pain I have no recollection of how I even got inside the house.
The next morning, it became clear that despite the severe bruising on my right thigh, the most severe damage had occurred to my lower back. An MRI revealed that I had ruptured several discs in my lumbar area. My surgeon determined I needed a quadruple laminectomy, in which the bulging parts of four damaged discs would be shaved away. One is common. Four is not. Clarification: Four is really not.
Plus, there was one other big obstacle. My MD Anderson oncologist had recently placed me on a new leukemia med. Before giving the green light for the surgery, the cancer doctor wanted to make sure that the new med was working. That’s because prior to surgery, I would have to stop taking the med for several days due to its tendency to increase the risk of bleeding and infection. The delay left me frustrated and in ever-increasing pain.
Finally, in the spring of 2013, my MD Anderson oncologist gave me the go-ahead for surgery. Now there was a new problem. My surgeon needed surgery on one of his hands. By now I was cursing not only my luck but greater and lesser gods. I realize that I could have chosen another surgeon, but I had a longstanding relationship with Dr. Thomas Mims, who had previously operated on me.
Over the summer, Dr. Mims’ hand healed. Slowly. My back was getting worse. I looked like a contortionist trying to get into a comfortable position. The pain never subsided and, instead, grew more intense every day.
In September, Mims finally called to say he was ready to cut on me. I was now living with my mother, younger brother, and nephew at our family home in Cleburne. My house in Houston had fallen victim to the foreclosure cancer that was sweeping the country. Cleburne was my only housing option. Due to the pain, I no longer had the ability to drive. I told Mims I had no way to get to Houston. I mean, far be it for anyone in my dysfunctional family to take me.
After pondering the situation for a few minutes, Mims told me not to go anywhere. And before I knew it, he was at my door. This brilliant surgeon had made the 500-mile roundtrip, picking me up, putting me up in his house, fixing me breakfast the next morning, and taking me to the hospital. Oh, and fixing my back. Who says doctors don’t make house calls anymore? The surgery eliminated my pain but left me with a very weak right leg and neuropathy in both feet. Oh, well. You can’t have everything.
On the bright side –– yes, there was one –– I also became an internet panhandler. I set up a GoFundMe campaign (McVicker: SOS) and began my e-begging. To my surprise, my friends responded in a very generous fashion. I didn’t raise as much money as I had hoped, but I certainly raised more than I had anticipated. It was, and continues to be, a humbling experience.
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“To paraphrase Steve Earle in his ode to the late, great Townes Van Zandt, what’s a poor Fort Worth boy to do?”
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I think it’s incorrect to say that you are paraphrasing Steve Earle when Guy Clark wrote those words. (What’s a poor Fort Worth boy to do)
Sure, Steve Earle’s Fort Worth Blues does convey a similar sentiment about Townes Van Zandt, but not those exact words which are Clark’s.
Kharma is a bitch. You stole a guys story and let him rot in prison while you made money and didn’t him a dime. Buh buy Bitch! I don’t even think Steven Russell has seen the whole movie.