THANKS!

I've added another entry to this second edition, and it requires a bit of explanation to make sense. I have had a congenital heart defect from birth. At the age of nine, my doctors knew I was having issues of atrial fibrillation, where the top half of the heart stops pumping and just quivers. This problem is easily treated but left untreated; it can quickly kill you. It is what killed my father and later killed my sister as I mentioned at the beginning of this story.

In 2001, I had an aortic heart valve replaced, and it was supposed to 'last the rest of my life.' Fast forward to 2014, and I knew I was in trouble again with that valve beginning to fail. When they started to look at it, they found I also had developed an aortic aneurysm or a bubbling of the main artery coming from the heart. I was scheduled to have surgery in July of 2014, but for reasons I don't want to discuss here, I lost my insurance.

By Christmas of 2015, I knew I was dying and began to plan my funeral and put plans into place so my wife would be cared for when I passed. Out of the blue, the same doctor that had told me I was 'doing alright,' called me and wanted to see me three days before Christmas for a checkup. I went, and they did some lab work and listened to my heart. When I left, no one had said anything that made me think they were even concerned.

Exactly one month later, January 22nd of 2016, I get another call that they wanted me to visit them at their big campus in a major city about an hour away from me. They made me an appointment for January 29th, a week later. As soon as I walked into the office and registered, they quickly took me into a patient room and had me 'gowned up' within minutes. I immediately knew something was up.

The doctor walked in, took a seat across from me and said, "You are critically ill, and you need surgery immediately. I want to admit you today for more tests and decide when to do the surgery. Do you have any questions?"

I think he was a bit taken aback when I asked him, "I've known this for a year or more, and I've been to see you six times in that same period. Why did we wait until I can barely walk anymore to do this?" He brushed the question off and before long, I was in the hospital. I could spend another four thousand words telling you everything that happened from there to the point that the following story kicks in, but I'll jump to the end now.

If you've ever had a surgery of any kind, you know about the form they ask you to sign telling you of the dangers and such. I was already gowned and prepped for the surgery when they brought me the form. Oddly enough, it wasn't an office lady or even a nurse that brought me the form; it was one of my doctors.

He showed me the form, and he told me that I was in bad shape. I nodded. He leaned in close as I was very weak then. He explained to me, "You need to understand that you have only a 10% chance of surviving this surgery." Not being completely stupid, I was well aware of that fact.

I motioned him to come closer, so I didn't have to expend energy I didn't have to talk with him. When he was close enough, I whispered to him, "Never bet against the Fat Man." He pulled back, looked me straight in the face and saw I was serious. My Father had not raised a quitter. If I had just refused the surgery, my chances of living much longer were zero. With the operation, I at least had a chance to live, albeit a small one.

With that, I went to surgery. It was supposed to be a four-hour surgery that lasted over nine hours because they couldn't get my bleeding stopped. They had begun to prep my wife for the worst as they worked to stem my problems. Everything that could have gone wrong began to go wrong. I was put on a vent and other life support machines. In my mind, I started to hear noises that were not familiar to me. And then, there was this voice. A clock. Here is the story that played out in my mind as I remember it.

As I came to life, I remember taking a huge deep breath but felt a sharp pain in my chest with the effort. The room was silent save a din of voices that hit my ears like a distant babble in a language I couldn't understand. Somewhere in the background, I heard a clock's steady beat.

It took several moments, but I was finally able to open my eyes but saw nothing but a soft white fog. I tried to stand, but I found myself tethered to my bed. I remember struggling against the bonds that held me down. A violent swing of my right arm brought a sharp pain similar as if someone had stabbed me. I complied and allowed my arm to fall back so I could calculate my next move and nurse the pain in my arm.

I can't recall how long I lay quiet, several minutes or perhaps numerous hours. I just wasn't sure. I opened my eyes to the fog, but this time, I could see around the room, not well, but a lot more than my first look. I saw thick electric wires and cords around me. The steady ticking of the clock lay the background ambiance with the din of strange voices floating around me like the smell of lilac bushes in the spring.

As I moved, the pain in my right arm flared, but I realized that I had been released from my bondage. A quick look around me assured me that I was alone. I made my attempt to sit up but soon realized that I had been seriously injured somehow. My chest hurt something fierce when I tried to move. I felt something pull my neck as I moved my head. My hand discovered a tube, maybe a small hose had been inserted in my neck and was firmly taped down. It didn't hurt, but it was cumbersome. I don't know how it happened, but I wasn't going to argue with it just then.

I made my way to my feet and felt a sharp pain in my groin. An exploratory hand found that I had suffered a four-inch cut that had been expertly sutured. As I searched it, I discovered that slight pressure didn't bother much, but the move to swing my legs out of bed had made me yelp a bit. I heard the background voices get louder as I moved, but after some effort, I finally got to my feet and walked away from them and toward the ticking of the clock.

The fog enveloped me, and I felt like I had been wrapped and cocooned in a soft cotton blanket. My feet found nothing to stumble over, and thus I moved toward the ticking ever so slowly. I shuffled forward, my feet sliding to avoid falling and my fingers blindly searching for obstacles.

I had lost count of the number of my steps when the fog suddenly cleared and stopped. I looked around and found I was in a sterile white room with nothing but this huge clock. It had a white face with a royal blue colored bevel that made a face protrude about four inches from the wall.

Something about the clock was off, and I was studying it to figure out what made my mind send up alerts. Suddenly it hit me. Where a standard clock had a "12," this one had a great big red Zero, and its hands were running backward. The usual time would have been 12:04, but with the hands running in reverse, I quickly realized it was a countdown clock.

I was wondering why this clock was running as it was when I saw a face develop on it. The face was almost amusing, and I smiled. About that time, I saw the clock smile, and its eyes looked at me. "Hello, Verwayne. I've been waiting for you."

I was startled at first but found a way to smile back. "You've been waiting for me? Am I running a bit fast? Do tell!" My attempt at humor was lost on the clock. Its hands continued to tick down. The hands now read 0:03:45.

I was perplexed as while the clock was running, it wasn't keeping proper time. The hands seemed to move fast as a second hand might run and then suddenly slow its motion to that of an hour hand. "Forgive my cynicism, but it seems you are a tad syncopated. Your hands are about as steady as my legs right now."

The clock's smile fell away as it replied to my snark. "For a man whose time is about to run out, you waste your time making bad jokes. I can make my hands as fast or as slow as I wish." Suddenly, twenty seconds melted away in the blink of an eye. "Still want to be a funny man?"

I shook my head as I clasped my hands together in the act of submission and apology. "I'm sorry sir." Although it had absolutely no way of doing so, it appeared to me that the clock had nodded back to me in acceptance of my request for forgiveness. Part of me realized that nothing in this room was as it seemed.

Having apologized, I decided to ask it a question. "Sir, could you explain to me why your hands are counting down instead of running forward? I feel like I'm at a basketball game with the game clock running toward the end of the game." As odd as it seemed, I met its eyes and suddenly realized that something was wrong here.

The clock laughed as another twenty seconds disappeared. {0:03:02} "In a way, you are correct. I am counting down a game of sorts. What you see is the time remaining in your life. You are very sick, but yet, you refuse to fight. Why would a man who loved life as much as you did, just roll over and let it slip away? You puzzle me."

I remember releasing audible gasp as the words the clock had spoken hit me. {Just 0:02:59 left? How was this possible?} "No, no, no! Why is this happening? I want to live! I'm trying to fight; really I'm trying." I heard a scoff from the clock.

"I highly doubt that you are trying to live. You're not listening to them." I must have shown my ignorance of its mention of the word, 'them.' "Surely you can hear them. Listen to the voices." I didn't understand but strained to hear. I could hear a distant noise that with a little imagination could have been voices. The sound grew more persistent, but the noise still made no sense to me. I held my hands out to plead my case. "I don't understand what is happening. Help me? Please?"

{0:02:54}

I wasn't sure, but I thought I saw a look of sympathy from the clock. "The voices are imploring you to wake up and open your eyes. You've been asleep for far too long, and if you don't awaken soon, you will never see your family again, at least not in this world."

A small tear escaped my left eye as the magnitude of the situation hit me. "I'm trying to open my eyes, really I am." I struggled to wake up, but my brain was heavily besotted with the effects of the anesthesia and the cold of the surgical procedure. My right arm seemed to move on its own, and I felt a warmth in my hand. The motion sent a ripple of pain down my arm, and I moaned.

The noises I had heard slowly became a single voice. The tone grew louder, but I still couldn't understand what the voice was saying to me. As I concentrated on it, the sound became more familiar. I couldn't yet place it in my memory, but it was on the verge of making sense. The clock softly whispered in my left ear. "Try harder. You must work harder."

"I am trying. I am trying! Please help me!" My tears began to flow as I realized that the clock now read 0:01:14. My life was ebbing away, and I seemed unable to stop it. "I have so much for which to live! My grandsons need me. I have so much to teach them. They need me!"

The clock looked at me with what I felt was a genuine pity. "Indeed. Your grandsons do need you, but you aren't trying yet. Life is precious and to get it back, you must prove that you deserve it." I was confused.

"I don't understand! Please help me. I don't understand!" I felt the tears streaming down my face, and I heard my moaning. I also felt the warmth in my hand, and I slowly knew it was my wife holding it. I then recognized her voice as the noise I had been hearing. She was imploring and then demanding that I open my eyes. I tried, but they refused. {0:00:58}

"Please help me! I asked God to protect me through this surgery so I could come back and be there for my family! They need me!" My 'other world' moanings got louder, and I felt the squeeze of my right hand become more intense, and I became more aware of it getting closer to me.

"You asked God? Are you worthy of His intervention?" For a moment, I felt the sneer of the clock, but then its face softened. "Why do you think I am here? You've been unresponsive for days now. Days! If you flex your hands and fingers, you'll notice that you're filling with fluids as your kidneys begin to shut down. I'm here to make you fight to save your life."

I mentally attempted to do as the clock had told me, but realized that fingers were the thickness of an excellent summer sausage. I moved my toes and found they were just as bad as my fingers. 'Verwayne! Wake up! You've got to open your eyes! NOW!' The voice was becoming frantic. 'Open your eyes, please just open your eyes!'

I heard the urgency in her voice, and I tried to do as she implored but I couldn't. {0:00:19} The face of the clock began to show genuine sympathy, and it urged me to try just a bit harder. I felt my eyes squint, but they just wouldn't open.

The voice talking to me was both loving and demanding. I wanted so badly just to go back to sleep, but her voice wouldn't be still. {0:00:09} I saw the time on the clock, and I realized that my time was almost upon me. I didn't want to die, but I was so tired and merely going back to sleep seemed more desirable.

One more time, I heard her demanding I open my eyes and wake up. The clock whispered, "You're almost there. Try harder." I couldn't open my eyes, and I couldn't talk because of the tube in my throat. I attempted to talk, but it was just nonsensical noise. {0:00:03}

I pulled my hand from hers and made a motion I wanted a pen and paper. The clock smiled and added a few seconds. {0:00:11} The voice told me to hang on a minute while she got me the paper. If she only knew exactly how long a moment could be at times. Then I realized that the clock had stalled. {Officials timeout!}

She handed me a pen and a yellow legal pad. She held the pad while I scratched a note. She looked at it and told me, "I can't read that. Print it please?" I couldn't open my eyes, but I held the pen and printed it out. *LEAVE ME ALONE.* I heard her sweet laughter as she assured the nurses in the room, "He's awake."

The fog began to lift around me, and my brain started to take in what was going on around me. My face had started to swell like the rest of my body, and I couldn't open my eyes as they wanted. In my drug-addled mind, I looked up at the clock one last time and saw the hands adding more time. At first, it was hours but slowly became days and weeks.

I lost count of the time on its face as the clock faded away and became my heart monitor. The rhythmic ticking was clock-like, and the numbers changed as my heart rate moved up and down. I studied it for a minute, but the face that had talked me through my crisis was gone. It was a machine and nothing more.

Over the next few hours and days, the medication they gave me began to reduce the fluids from me, and I was able to open my eyes properly. I was still very sleepy, but they could now arouse me when they needed me to be awake. I don't recall much of at least eight days but I can remember them waking me out of my fog to do certain things, and I even went for a small walk.

All told, I spent 23 days in the hospital. I was released to go home and later that night; I realized that I had a bloody nose, and that scared me something terrible. If my nose was bleeding, couldn't that mean my internal cardiac sutures could be bleeding? I did not want to talk about that clock again.

As I mentally assessed my condition as I sat quietly, I realized I couldn't swallow fluids properly. The left side of my throat wanted to retain the liquid. My left leg and hand began to lose both strength and use. I went to the emergency room and underwent a CAT scan with and without contrast. I was having a small stroke.

I was taken by ambulance back to the hospital that had done the original surgery and stayed another couple weeks or more. It all blended and I'm still having 'time' issues, but every day, I feel stronger. My ability to recall words is slow, and I find huge holes in my day sometimes. It will pass.

I feel no real pain and take nothing more than the occasional aspirin or ibuprofen. The only actual problem I have is my endurance is very low. You figure out I spent about 23 days in bed, and it's understandable. I'm slowly building back up, but I know it will take a while.

I still have problems swallowing anything. My left hand and left leg are uncooperative most of the time and walking is a significant issue. I've fallen several times. Talk about, "Help, I've fallen and can't get up!" My activities for the next year or so will be severely affected. For those that know me well, I haven't written anything of substance since mid-January. Compare that to my usual habit of writing 1500 words a day.

I've been through a lot, but then again, I'm still alive. I'll trade a little pain for the chance to keep living. Since this was originally written in April of 2016, I've completely recovered and am feeling better than I've felt in thirty years. I still think of that clock and have adjusted my life accordingly.

As you might have expected, I wrote the foreword at the beginning of this project, and I am writing the prologue at its completion. As I have gone back and read what I’ve written, I realize that the process of writing this story has changed me.

I’ve written stories since I was about five or six. Growing up with my Father and my Grandfather, it was part of my life. As both of them used to tell me, it was a 'tradition.' It seemed that they all could tell a story and fib a bit in the right spots to make the story flow better and have people smile.

When I think back, I guess I understood the concept of telling stories almost from the time I could talk. My Grandfather, a master at telling 'whoppers,' always told me, I grew up around ‘storytellers and liars,’ and I think he was right. I would hang around the back porch on a Saturday night while they regaled the other neighborhood men with stories with a small fire in the drive. I listened and learned their method and patter and I learned to put it on paper.

So how has this story changed me? I’ve finally figured out that my mortality was not only a possibility, but it is also an inevitability. It is odd how humans know they are going to die at some point, but they live their entire life denying it will happen. Since I first started this story, I have four different bouts of cancer. I have had several major surgeries, but the last one I detailed in the story of "The Clock" really hit home.

In "The Wizard of Oz," the ‘Good Witch of the North’ asks Dorothy what she has learned while in Oz. She responds that “she needed to learn for herself that she did not have to run away to find her heart's desire for it was always right there at home.” I have learned something valuable from my travails as well. The prospect of Death makes you understand just how precious Life can be. As I wrote and relived each section of my story and dealt with yet another health problem, I began to realize that there is a much bigger picture.

As I put the final touches on the story, I’ve found myself sitting and remembering the moments I've shared with you. There were many good times in my life and quite a few bad times, but as I pondered them all, I realized one more thing. Sadness and happiness are sometimes things of the moment, disappearing as fast as a wave recedes into the sea. Remember the good moments, and you’ll remember your life.