Dead Kevin

It would be reasonable to say that I dodged death, just escaping the long nap. The cost of this narrow escape is pricey - a helicopter ride, eight days in Harborview (three of those in ICU), surgery to my pelvis and spine, some recovery days on 7 East and then the PT’s blessing for me to go home having mastered my transfers from bed to wheelchair and back again, as long as I only use my left leg and arm. Easy peasy.

I am in a timeout, self-inflicted, but a timeout nonetheless. I am restricted to the sitting and lying positions for the next nine weeks. Also restricted are showers, as in none, until my post-op appointment on June 18th. This is almost three weeks away.

This is the best of a not great situation. Even though I am restricted to a wheelchair which limits me to the smooth surfaces of this house, there is the constant, nagging thought that I could be dead. So, when presented with this alternative, my brain can’t help but slip into gratitude even though my restrictions can get the best of my day.

There’s not much I can do. I’m constantly shifting my sitting position, trying to find some angle or lean that works for my neck and tailbone. I am not frequently successful.

Most of what I am doing is passive. My body is trying to heal itself, trying to take nutrients that are given and expel what is no longer needed. For the most part this is all rather uneventful and I don’t have much say in these matters. This body just does what it knows to do.

And it is here that my Caregiver (the Sweet Wife) and I came to not be on the same page. I thought that it would be helpful, maybe even considerate, when aiding the removal of my scabs, if I were to gently place them in a pile next to me, usually the couch or the recliner. My thoughts, although brief, went like this: If I just set them in a loose pile, they will be much easier to clean up. Also, it should be noted that I haven’t yet taken up any aspect of the cleaning around this place. This “plan” feels altogether better than strewing my scabs willy-nilly around the house as I wheel about, waiting for them to naturally abscond whenever they pleased. This way, the pieces of me I no longer need, would be together, contained…sort of. This is my side of the argument.

And because the Sweet Wife doesn’t have her very own blog with her very own arguments, I will venture into what can only be considered conjecture. I think the issue became the volume, maybe, too, the size of the scabs. Or maybe it was simply because they are scabs. It’s hard to say. Either way, I am covered in hundreds of dings and dents and abrasions. Scabs cover most of my forearms, shins, knees, back, and scalp. My options for scab removal at any given moment are plentiful. In addition, my skin not covered in scabs seems to be molting, flaking off in quantities previously unknown to this body. With every transfer I seem to dump a puff of white flakes as I move from recliner to wheelchair. All of this is part of healing, but the Caregiver and the vacuum are not keeping up, both in literal cleaning as well as mentally.

Also, in the ‘Not Helping’ category, I’ve come to calling skin slough and remnants “Dead Kevin.” It’s both true and witty, maybe bordering on disturbing/morbid, depending on the audience. I would argue that this ‘Dead Kevin’ in a cup is better than the other dead Kevin in a box. It seems my scabs should be appreciated, maybe even celebrated. I don’t know.

By the second day at home home, the Caregiver’s tolerance for my remnants is nowhere to be found. I am presented with a cup. On the cup, in thick, black Sharpie scrawl, are the words: “Dead Kevin. Yuck. Don’t drink.” While the spirit of this gift feels a bit aggressive, I couldn’t be more pleased. The only thing better would be a curio cabinet to display these relics of my body.

Yeah, it's real.

This cup represents so much potential. And yet there is a twinge of grief, for what could have been, all the scabs that have come and gone the way of the vacuum. If I had started yesterday with this cup, I am confident we would have been half-full by today.

And while this cup won’t fix the desiccated skin puffs associated with my ever movement, this will limit the variety of skin parts on the floor. I am so proud of this repository, even if it means I am starting over.

With this cup comes a renewed motivation to get these scabs off and gone. And so I begin (continue) to aid in my body’s exfoliation. Everything goes in there - scabs, flaky skin, I’ve even tucked a booger in there. Why not, I ask? When I am outside and I have the hankering to pull a scab, I refrain, just so I can put it in my cup later. I am doing all I can to make this a solid collection of what was once me.

One evening, Charissa (the sister-in-law) and her kids are over. The Caregiver asked if the kids want to see her give me my enoxaparin injection (it’s so I don’t get a clot from all my sitting). They do - morbid little creatures they are. Honestly, it’s a bit anticlimactic unless she hurts me and then I really play it up.

For this injection, even Charissa wanders over out of curiosity. The shot is uneventful and so it is even more out of place when Charissa starts yelling, “I looked! I looked. I looked in the cup. I didn’t want to, but I did.” The Dead Kevin Cup is always next to me, for obvious reasons. The collection is not impressive, but it seems to be having its effects.

For the most part, the collecting of Dead Kevin is done quietly, on my own time. Sometimes I forget what I am doing and who is in the room and the collecting of Dead Kevin becomes a thing. One afternoon, my attention is loosely on what I am doing and not on the people in the room, and there were people present, and I cover myself in with my old-person afghan and the corner flings a bit farther than I intend. It is enough of a fling so that the corner gently caresses the Dead Kevin cup, and, not being known for their weight, the cup and the scabs tumble off its side-table perch. Fortuitously, the cup lands on its side. Scabs hit the floor, but not all of them.

I am not quick or agile. I can only watch. If I were quick, I would have handled this problem without my Caregiver getting involved. Instead, amidst “Keviiiiiiinnnn!” and “I can’t believe you did that” she breaks out the broom and dust pan and starts sweeping up the remnants of me. I beg her to return my remnants to my cup instead of the rubbish bin. There is disgust on her face. She refuses. This is a loss I will not soon forget. My collection takes a hit and I have no one to blame but myself…and my uncooperative Caregiver.

Later this same week, I believe a scab is ready for the Dead Kevin cup. It is the last of the big ones, the holdout from my knee laceration that had to be sutured. The Caregiver is out in the garden. This is ideal scab-pulling time. With scabs, one has to go gently. There is no aggression in this process. It is all try and see.

In the midst of my caution, one side of the scab pulls up but it is obvious that the top half of the scab is not ready. It is still very much Alive Kevin. The lifting of the bottom half is sufficient. Being on a blood thinner, Alive Kevin is about to show me who is in charge.

Since I have been home and in my wheelchair, I have adopted a motto: Don’t make it worse. It could also be stated, don’t make it harder than it already is. I’m already in a wheelchair. I cannot clean up after myself. I’m like a toddler who leaves a wake of destruction wherever I choose to go. For the most part, I have abided by my motto.

Tonight, part connected to what is alive and part already moved onto the next life, this scab starts to bleed, bordering on a hemorrhage. It is a singular stream of bright, red blood and it is in a hurry, the Usain Bolt of bleeding. Thankfully, I’m already in my wheelchair and I start wheeling myself to the bathroom as fast as my shoulder separation will allow. I am not even halfway there when blood starts dripping off my ankle onto the floor. Drip, drip. Drop. Drip, drip. I am making it all worse.

I make into the bathroom and pull some toilet paper off the roll and apply pressure to the living Kevin’s knee. The first crisis is over - I will not bleed out tonight. The second crisis, the one where I violated my motto to not make things worse, is just at its beginning. In addition to the trail of drip-dropped blood I have left on the floor, my ankle, resting on the toilet seat, is smearing around this red liquid in a large swath.

This is a conundrum. I’m not sure I have the time or the ability to clean this up before the Caregiver returns to the house. There are no good options. I decide to call her, to own what I have done and the predicament in which I now find myself.

The phone rings once. “Why are you calling me?” As I hear these words, I hear the door open from the garage, just mere feet from the bathroom where I am recuperating from my hemorrhage. Her dad, Greg, is with her. This timing is not ideal.

“I tried to pick Dead Kevin but it wasn’t ready.” I repeat this at least three times, laughing, the kind that is nervous. We’re no longer on the phone. My Caregiver quickly assesses the situation and knows I’ve broken my one cardinal rule. In the meantime, Greg is asking, “Who is Dead Kevin?” No one is answering Greg.

My Caregiver squeezes between my wheelchair and the bathroom door to start cleaning up my mess. I am sheepish now, but the laughter continues. I am still unsure of how this is going to go. Greg is outside the bathroom, “There’s blood on the floor out here.” We still haven’t caught him up, although I think he is getting there.

The Caregiver cleans up my leg and toilet seat and shoos me out of the bathroom. I am careful to miss the bloody drops on the floor. The second crisis wasn’t averted, but it is over. All is well in the world. I resolve to let the last of almost-Dead Kevin to sit for a few more days.

The Dead Kevin Cup remains, although my scabs are shrinking, vanishing before my eyes, a slow march of healing. It appears my molting is almost complete. I have threatened to turn my scabs into a necklace. What a piece to commemorate this moment in time, this living winning out over the long nap.

Things have settled. The Dead Kevin cup’s progress has waned. Only one scab to go before my collection is complete. And so I wait. I do wish I had the Dead Kevin cup from the start. I can only imagine how impressive that collection might have been. I’ll take what I get, both with my moderate scab collection and this living. It’s all there is. And for now, I continue doing my best to not make things worse.

If you’re in the market for a unique necklace of valuable scabs, I may be interested in selling for the right price. You won’t regret it.

You're welcome!