The Logan Effect (Episode Two).

April 22, 2009 - Dr. Carlson’s new office is a decent upgrade from his old spot on the other side of the hospital complex. New staff, contemporary furniture, earthtone colors, flatscreen T.V. in a spacious waiting room and multiple examination rooms. The only setback is the walls are paper thin. Creepy kind of feeling listening to other patients divulge their most personal gastrointestinal secrets. What went through the person’s mind that may have overheard Dr. Carlson’s prognosis of my untimely death if my body didn’t respond to the treatment he administered two months ago.

 His New Balance sneakers squeaking down the hallway Dr. Carlson instructs his assistant on what to do with the paperwork for the patient in the observation room next to mine. As her footsteps head away from the door to my examination room I can sense I’m next to be seen. A rapid knock on the door as is swings open. “Good afternoon, Mr. Burnett.” Dr. Carlson says in his trademark clinical voice. He props himself on the stool and flops out his laptop, queuing it up for his next medical notation. “So, tell me your current condition.” He asks with an almost anticipatory look on his face as if he were expecting my condition not to have changed since my last visit. “Any abdominal pain, bleeding?” He asked. “Zero,” I replied with an arrogant smile. “No pain, no bleeding.” I said as I rared back in my chair and crossed my legs.

“Oh really?” He said with slight disbelief. “Are you still on the Prednisone?” He said as if to suggest that the Prednisone were the reason why I have no complaint of symptoms from my crohns. “Not only am I no longer on the prednisone, I’ve gained 35 pounds.” I stated as my smile grew wider. “How is that possible?” Dr. Carlson said, almost perplexed. “It’s only been two months since your first Remicade infusion.” The look of disbelief on his face as his brain, endowed with medical experience, tries to comprehend an almost supernatural occurrence.

“Prayers, vitamins, and training.” I told him as he searched through files of my medical history on his laptop. “I don’t recall telling you to step down off of the Prednisone.” Dr. Carlson stated as he makes the realization through his notes. “Four weeks was long enough to remain on full dosage before reducing the dosage.” I said with confidence as I had been on prednisone before several times in the past 15 years. “And there’s no abdominal pain?” He asked. “It’s like I never had crohns,” I replied. “I’m stronger than ever and I have an appetite like a horse.” Dr. Carlson’s expression changed from disbelief to a look of accomplishment. “That Remicade is some good stuff.” He said with a smile as he made the notion of my response to his query.

It’s quite ironic that of all the injuries, germs and diseases my body has healed from at seemingly a superhuman rate the only thing that was stopping me from recovering from crohns is my own immune system. Little did Dr. Carlson know that I had already done research on Remicade several years ago. I had searched tirelessly through two states for a gastroenterologist that would give me the treatment outright. It was the only alternative considering that my body had promptly developed a high tolerance to every prescription drug available to treat crohns. “Hop up on the table so I can examine your abdomen.” The doctor ordered. After performing a series of poking and prodding he nodded his head. “An amazing recovery.” He said with a wide smile. “I guess since you are no longer showing any symptoms I will only need to see you every six months.” He said as he made more notions on his laptop. “Of course you will have to continue having your Remicade infusions—forever.” He stated. “Or until medical technology catches up with me.” I stated as I walked out of the examination room.

The Logan Effect (Episode One).

 March 18,1989, Downtown Birmingham—Traveling down Park Place on my 84’ Honda Nighthawk 550S at 40 miles an hour in a 25 mile an hour zone after an afternoon shower. A cab makes a left turn in front of me about 50 feet ahead. Being fairly inexperienced I instinctively lock my rear brakes in an attempt to fishtail my bike out of the path of the unsuspecting cab driver.

The motorcycle continues to slide forward with virtually the same momentum rendering braking and body language useless. The cab driver is completely unaware that I’m barreling towards him or he would have stopped in the middle of executing his turn, giving me the mere inches I need to clear his cab. Instead, he continues the execution of his left turn, which causes images to flash through my mind of being hospitalized,entangled in various life support systems and encapsulated in a body cast in care unit.

My motorcycle slams against the grill of the cab at an angle, crushing my left leg between the motorcycle engine and the chrome plated bumper. Instantaniously, my body is sent flailing forward over the hood of the car into the air. As my body rotates I watch my motorcycle instantaneously bounce off of the front of the cab, flipping violently to the into the air and crashing to the concrete, gasoline splashing from the tank.

As my body completes its final rotation the sidewalk in front of the Tutwiller Hotel comes into view. The crunching sound of my helmet against the concrete is repeated several times as my body tumbles across the sidewalk like a burlap sack full of potatoes. As I stand up from my tumble a crowd of bystanders rush toward me from all directions—scampering across the street, coming from the hotel, and jumping out of their cars. “Don’t move, sir!” someone yelled frantically as they grabbed my arm. “You were just in a terrible accident!! You must have been thrown 30 or 40 feet from that cab!!” The witness said as he scanned my body looking for blood. The only thought that crossed my mind was my motorcycle crushed, mangled and bleeding oil and gas all over the driveway in front of the hotel.

“Well, Mr. Burnett, looks like you have no broken bones from that motorcycle accident.” The doctor stated as he viewed the x-ray of my leg against the fluorescent light. “Not even a hairline fracture. You only have a small dent right here on the tibia.” He said as he pointed at an area of my leg just above my ankle. He grabbed my leg and twisted it fairly vigorously.  “What the hell are you doing that for!?!?” I yelled as he continued to jar my leg around. “Just making sure there isn’t a hairline somewhere else on your leg.” He said with a hint of arrogance as if he didn’t believe what he saw in the x-ray. “Maybe I’m superhuman.” I replied with a slight grovel while baring the pain.

Surviving a Recession.

Several years ago, I ended  my career as a graphic designer and embarked on a new journey to become an educator. Whether it was God speaking to me or my instincts or a combination of both, I felt it wasn’t enough just to become certified.  

After being accepted to the Masters of Education program at Alabama A&M University, I gave up everything and moved into a dorm room. With having no job, a car with a dead battery due to a bone chilling Huntsville cold snap, no money, and no food I looked forward to completing the Masters of Education program and a more rewarding career.  

After having taught in five schools in two different states—after having overcome crohn’s disease, blindness, and a racist, two-faced art instructor that came between me and successful completion of the Masters program, I became a highly qualified, certified, educator with a masters degree. Yes, I would say I have the will to survive in the face of adversity.

I probably wouldn’t have made the first step without the unyeilding support and encouragement of my mom. Her unyeilding support and encouragement were two of countless reasons why I gave up everything once again to come back home and take care of her at her darkest hour. The massive stroke my mom had several months ago proved to be more than she could overcome. She suffered tremendous brain damage causing left side neglect, which means even though her body suffered no nerve damage her brain does not acknowledge the left side of her body.

The brain damage has rendered her to a point where she will need constant care for the remainder of her life. Words cannot express the shock I’ve endured since being her primary caregiver. My mom was a pillar of the community. She is and was an iconic figure—a highly intelligent, independent, selfless, tireless woman full of love, laughter, ingenuity, and life. She had the ability to actually protect her family from the pitfalls of society.

There was nothing she couldn’t repair, improve, create or change. Her will and her mind were her prize. Now it is all taken away from her and she’s reduced to near helplessness. The emotional burden of watching her deteriorate before my eyes rips away at my soul like vulchers on a corpse.

Through positive reinforcement and with the help of a stellar rehabilitation center my sister and I managed to get her to walk with assistance making 51 steps. I assisted with art therapy and my sister assisted with throwing and catching balls to help restore her fine motor skills and encourage her brain to acknowledge her left side again. She was making enormous progress until she had what the doctor called muscle spasms, which set her all the way back from where she started.

It wasn’t until she was discharged and came back home that I realized how much of a daunting task I had before me. Her day-to-day care was a mind altering experience. Before she arrived I dismantled everything in her dining room and converted it into a makeshift hospice care-type facility. Her insurance covered all of her necessary equipment such as the wheelchair, the lift, a hydrolic hospital bed and other necessities.

I learned how to care for her from changing her to feeding her and moving her from her bed to her wheelchair when necessary. I had a sitter during the day while I was at work and my sister came over on the weekends to help but being her primary caregiver there is little time for anything else. How I could work all day, relieve the sitter in the afternoon to take care of her for the rest of the day and complete my doctorate classes seemed more and more impossible as time went on.

Matters went from bad to worse when my mom suffered a heart attack three days ago. Once again I had to save her life. That night she complained of being nauseated from eating a bowl of chili. My instincts told me I should sleep by her side instead of going to my room as usual. She aspirated over and over for the remainder of the night until 12am. It was then that I dialed 911 for an ambulance. If I had decided to go to sleep in my bedroom instead of sleeping by her side she would have certainly aspirated to death as she wouldn’t have been able to move to better position herself from doing so.

By the way, yes, I was accepted to complete my Doctorate in Organizational Leadership. The news was bittersweet as I had to read my acceptance letter to her. Veronica has been at my side since day one and never waivered or complained since. During my mom’s stay at the rehabilitation facilities she shipped a sheepskin, a pair of sheepskin booties, a box set of CD’s featuring the bible narrated by James Earl Jones, and a clicker that replaces a conventional Television remote.

Veronica is a priceless woman with the heart of a saint. She’s currently in New Zealand with her family but when she returns she will fly here to Birmingham so we can enjoy the new year together in a secluded little cabin in the mountains.

Driving and Crying.

We last left off where I met Veronica in South Beach and basically lived happily ever after—or so I thought. My relationship with Veronica flurished as we experienced one adventure after another. Back at wok, my boss recommended me for advanced training, which meant he wanted me for the long haul just as some of my co-workers were being given a pink slip. I moved into a fabulous aparment overlooking a lake and decided to take one more trip before going back to work—it was then that everything started falling apart.

Somehow I had decided to visit my mom back up in Birmingham instead of going to a training session at my job. In retrospect it was really a sixth sense kind of feeling to want to drive over 800 miles to see my mom instead of going on another great adventure with Veronica. My mom had already traveled to several other places over the summer—after having visited my great aunt in Cleveland I felt maybe she would have been a little more worn out than usual.

Mom of course was her usual happy go lucky, hospitable self when I arrived with Veronica, seeing as this was their first time meeting. But somehow I could see through her strong fascade and sense her mental and physical exhaustion. At 70 years old, being a diabetic, a breast cancer survivor, and hving hypertensio I’ve lived the last few years of my life waking up in a cold sweat after having had a nightmare of standing helpless before my mom’s lifeless body. A gracious host to the end, mom entertained Veronica while I slept away in my bed—tired from having driven 12 hours from Palm Beach to Birmingham.

Mama seemed well—from time to time as I drifted in and out of sleep I could hear them laughing and talking in the kitchen. The next day I cut the grass and performed other chores around the house as Veronica peacefully read the newspaper while watching T.V. I walked in my mom’s room to see how she was doing after being done with the chores—-I noticed she was slumped in the bed—not resting necessarily but slumped.

For a milisecond I thought I should leave her alone and close the door but after years of looking in on my mom to see how she was doing my instincts told me something more was wrong than just fatigue.  As I walked around to her side of the bed a deeper feeling of concern began to set in. She would always come to attention whenever I came in her room—her way of letting me know she was okay but this time there was no reaction. She just layed there, slumped over to the side.

When I got closer I quickly noticed the right side of her face was contorted. I called to her but she just layed there silent and motionless. I quickly sat her up and continued calling her nameas I shook her. Her left arm just fell to her side—her eyelids closed tight. lt was right then and there that I knew she had had a stroke. For a few seconds I was paralysed with fear. Is she dead? Should I just sit here and give her a chance to come around on her own? Should I go downstairs and alert Veronica?

“What do you think is going on?” Mama said—barely conscious, eyes still tightly closed. “Nothing’s going on mama,” I said while nearly collapsing from the fear of my mom nearly dying. “You’re just a little tired mama. Everything will be alright.” I told her as I clammered for my cellphone.

“You have to come over here!” I told my sister, Tori. “What are you talking about?” My sister said with a slight agitation. I didn’t want to alert mom so I said the first thing that came to mind that I felt was the best thing to say. “Just come over here to mama’s house.” I hung up and called 911 but just as the phone was ringing I realized I couldn’t describe mom’s condition in front of her or she would panic. I ran downstairs and told Veronica to take care of my mom while I talked to the operator. From that point on my life began to fall apart.

A few days had passed before my sister finally called and told me I would have to leave Florida and come back home to Birmingham to help take care of mama. Apparently, the doctors must have told Tori mama may not fully recover. Weeks had passed and she was still paralyzed on the left side of her body.  I knew right then and there that I would have to quit a job that I had put a lot of blood, sweat, and tears into, break the lease on an apartment that I hadn’t even paid first month’s rent on yet, and possibly lose Veronica in one fell swoop.

The whole ordeal seemed surreal from the moment my mom had the stroke. Did it really happen? Is this just one of those many nightmares that  I can’t seem to wake up from? On the one hand I felt extraordinarily blessed almost on a supernatural level to have saved my mom’s life—had I not been there she would have died alone that day. On the other hand I felt betrayed. Why would this happen just when I was beginning to see a little stability in my life—a stability I fought so hard for, for over 15 years—switching careers and following jobs from state to state —struggling to finish my masters degree while suffering one nearly fatal crohns flair up after the next?

So, the last few days of my time here in Florida have been spent driving and crying back and forth between Palm Beach and Birmingham—putting the final touches on a job transfer, working out my final two weeks here in Florida, saying my goodbyes to my co-workers, and—yes—prematurely closing the door on my fabulous relationship with Veronica.

Veronica.

You know that scene in one of those romantic  movies where a guy gazes across a room full of people and lays his eyes on the woman of his dreams, and some angelic track plays in the background? That same track is played in a scene where they’re being silly at the park or having a funny conversation over a cup of cappuccino at a coffee house? Yeah, that’s what it was like when I met Veronica.

There I am at the bar enjoying a Mojito in a tall, fairly robust glass in a swank, cozy, secluded bar at the Pelican Hotel on Colins Avenue in South Beach late Saturday night—it’s peak time for the ladies to come pouring through the hotel lobby and out to the awaiting cabs, ready to take them out into Miami’s eclectic night life. 

“That’s a great sport coat, man” a white dude tells me while he’s ordering a drink from the bartender for his date. His girl smiles confirming her boyfriend’s comment as she gives a friendly gaze at my deep purplish blue blazer and stark white Havana slacks with matching white loafers. “Thanks man.” I responded with a friendly smile. I swiveled around on my bar stool to have a little privacy while making a call on my cellphone when—there she was. We  both turned to each other making eye contact at precisely the same time. Whoever I was talking to—whoever I was going to call I completely forgot about when she smiled.

Her eyes gleaned along with her friendly smile that revealed  brilliantly straight, white teeth. Her long, deep, maroon hair sheened under the studio  track lighting of the bar. I’m just sitting there struck by this woman’s big screen beauty—my mouth open and my cellphone still to my ear, hearing someone’s voicemail chime in but being too distracted by this alluring redhead to leave a message. Her aura  tricked my senses. “Do I know you?” I asked her. “No but I wish you did.” She responded with a confident, charming, witty, warm, thick New Zealand accent. Okay, that’s it. Put the cellphone up. “My name is Romulus.” I told her as we shook hands. “Veronica,” She responded. “Nice to meet you.”

“Would you like a Mojito?” I asked her as I gave up my seat and offered it to her. “I don’t drink.” She responded as I was about to get the bartender’s attention. I looked back at her with an assured smile and returned my attention to the bartender. “Perrier in a glass.” I said to the bartender. “Very good.” She said, opting not to have the seat I offered her and maintaining her penetrating eye contact where she stood. “Very good indeed. You must be a professional at picking up women.” She chimed wittingly. “Not really,” I said. “Actually, it was the look in your eyes that tipped me off.”

The bartender placed a slender glass of sparkling water at my elbow and quickly started on his next drink order. “So, where are you from?” I asked her. “I live in the Bahamas.” She responded boldly after sipping her sparkling water. “What brings you here to Miami?” I asked. “Business,” She responded, slightly cocking her head to the side. “I’m here to check on inventory for my company.” As she finished her glass she eased closer to make way for another couple as they sat down next to us at the bar. She was pleasantly at ease with coming into my personal space and looked upward into my eyes. She was wearing a shimmering midnight gown that had a diamond shaped opening just below her navel that mesmerized me further into a euphoric haze.

“And you?” She said sharply as she noticed my fleeting observation. “I live in Palm Beach,” I said after taking a quick sip from my glass. “I come to Miami from time to time for dancing.” In all this time she never turned her eyes away from me and maintained her brilliant smile. “We would be doing each other a great disservice not to get to know each other a little better.” I said as I widened my smile. “That we would,” She replied. “So what do you propose we do about it?”

Her response was filled with such confidence and coyness that I was forced to laugh. “Do you want to do something stupid?” I asked. “Sure!” She said with a bold, adventurous flair. “Let’s go take a ride on a motorcycle.” I suggested—fully expecting her to laugh and turn down the offer. “Tomorrow afternoon of course.” I added. “Sure,” She said with confidence. “Just tell me when and where!” Her eyes squinted as she widened her smile for a moment, then she grabbed my hand. “Come on.” She said in a playful, motherly tone. “Where are we going?” I asked, my mind on full tilt from taking in all of her exuberance. “Upstairs.” She said. “I can’t go walking on the beach in this gown now can I?” She said as if I were already hip to her subliminal suggestion not to waste any time in getting to know one another.

As the elevator doors open to her floor and we walk toward her room she opens her purse to get the pass card to her room. “Now you have to promise to be good while I change.” She said with the most playful little voice as the door opened and she whisked to the bathroom. While she changed I scanned the Caribbean decor of the room and walked over to the large bay windows that looked out onto a courtyard full of tropical greenery and a loud waterfall below. While I stood at the window taking in the skyline an invisible cloud of sumptuously fruity perfume overtook my olfactory senses. “Okay, let’s go.” She said as she whisked out of the bathroom wearing a white silk blouse with a pinkish, reddish floral pattern and loose white Bermuda pants with matching white sandals. As we came to the door I grabbed her hand and gently turned her around, our noses only inches away from each other. “I have this, umm itching desire.” I told her. “Desire to do what?” She said, her friendly smile changing to a flirtatious glance. “To do this.” I don’t know where it came from but I kissed her as if I had known her for years—and surprisingly she returned my energy with the same fervor.