Nobody Reads This Page: “Going Down Slow”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-26

 

 

A recent hospital visit to check for signs of intestinal cancer put me in a sober state that seemed to linger for several days afterward. Not because I feared that the Grim Reaper was about to claim another mortal life from my bloodline, but simply as a matter of perspective. I had come upon the precipice of 65 with a measure of disability in effect, yet still felt very able to create material such as the text included on this page. A genuine offering of ruminations written with the knowledge that my product might well become invisible to the naked eye, upon being posted in cyberspace. As ever, I remained aware that the true worth of creativity is measured in doing, not in any recognition or praise bestowed after the fact.

 

“L’art pour l’art as said by the French– making art for art’s sake.”

 

But certain queries that met my ears during this medical experience offered a sharpened focus on the value of being alive, and mindful of that gift’s fragility as it tarnishes over time.

 

Before being put under anesthesia, I was poked and prodded by nursing professionals who handled their chores with care and concern. I expected to feel a probative pricking of needles, while being monitored and assessed. And to be questioned about my identity, purpose for visiting, and other relevant details in an effort to confirm full awareness of the situation. But when asked about my own mental disposition, this general calm was stirred by moments of sheer introspection and irony.

 

A young aide with a clipboard approached my bed and smiled through her checklist with a dutiful sense of detachment.

 

“Are you in pain on a regular basis, Mr. Rodney? Do you ingest OTC or prescription medications to handle that problem?”

I had to grin as my debilitated status was quite obvious.

 

“Yeah, my old bones ache, though it’s nothing out of the ordinary for someone at the point of retirement. And I almost never pop pills for a purpose of numbing the hurt...”

 

Her quiz proceeded with a deeper investigation into personal details.

 

“Are you a consumer of alcohol? Like wine, whiskey, or something else?”

 

I answered in the affirmative, so as not to be struck by lightning for having lied boldly in the presence of my doctors and Almighty God.

 

“Yes, I like to drink beer on my porch in the afternoon...”

 

The clerical steward continued checking off entries with her pen, while listening.

 

“Are you a consumer of recreational drugs?”

 

I reacted more quickly to this particular inquisition. My response was in the negative.

 

“No, not at all. As a matter of fact, on a recent day at home, one of my neighbors offered to share his stash of CBD gummies while I was sipping a round of Miller Lite. His proposition surprised me to the point of exhaling loudly, shaking my head, and declining in a polite manner. I could not be certain of his substances, or their origin, at any rate. And wondered a bit over his ability to procure such concoctions, despite struggling to pay monthly rent in our rural community. But it did not matter. As a general rule, I preferred to stay with a gentle regimen of hops and grains, instead...”

 

She was amused by this brief recollection. But persisted in finishing her paperwork.

 

“Are you plagued by thoughts of self-harm, or harming others, Mr. Rodney?”

 

I had to gasp just a little, before regaining my composure. Some might observe that a lifestyle centered on eating fried okra, potatoes, sausage, and bologna, paired with cornbread, or biscuits and gravy, might indicate a certain lack of attention to longevity. Yet I never viewed such habits as being harmful, at least in the short term. With regard to lashing out at others, I had been moved on occasion to ponder swinging one of my stability canes at neighbors who were not sufficiently respectful enough to avoid piercing the bubble of my personal space, on a quest to vent their unwelcome opinions. But a natural amount of self-restraint always kept me from engaging in physical aggression, and having to be taken away to jail.

 

“No to both of those. I am content to be quiet and alone, with my work or relaxation.”

 

The perky assistant made a broad swipe with her writing instrument, and then concluded the bedside interview.

 

“So, how do you feel about having this procedure today?”

 

I did not hesitate to answer honestly. Though my face must have reddened while thinking.

 

“Prepping for this exam is not a happy experience, of course. But I would choose it easily over what I saw my late father endure. He ended up with recurring issues, a colostomy, and a limited quality of life. None of that was pleasant to witness. I’ll stay with cold brews on my wooden bench, and an occasional handful of pork rinds...”

 

The facial expression of my taskmaster was mixed, after I had finished. She might have been wondering about my Appalachian habits, or shaggy appearance, as clues to unspoken truths. Or maybe, was just entertained to see a graybeard fellow like myself, lounging in an ill-fitting, hospital gown, while reflecting on living out a simple routine in the country. Whatever motivation was at work kept her in a cheerful mood.

 

“Very good, Mr. Rodney. The care team will be with you, shortly!”

 

I tend to have music running through my head on a regular basis. A trait closely associated with the brood into which I was born. So, while stretched out under the bedsheet, I wandered into a reflective spin of St. Louis Jimmy Oden, and his classic, Blues composition from 1941.

 

“I have had my fun

If I don’t get well, no more

I have had my fun

If I don’t get well no more

My health is failin’ me

And I’m goin’ down slow

 

Please write my mother

Tell her the shape I’m in

Please write my mother

Tell her the shape I’m in

Tell her to pray for me

Forgiveness of my sin

 

Tell her, ‘Don’t send no doctor’

Doctor can’t do no good

Tell her, ‘Don’t send no doctor’

Doctor can’t do no good

It’s all my fault

Didn’t do the things that I should

 

On the next train south

Look for my close home

On the next train south

Look for my close home

If you don’t see my body

All you can do is moan

 

Mother, please don’t worry

This is all in my prayer

Mother, please don’t worry

This is all in my prayer

Just say your son is gone

Out of this world somewhere.”

 

My own downward spiral was very much in effect, though made more comfortable by a discipline of creative minimalism. Like my departed sire, I only wanted to be well enough for laboring at the household desk, and occasional interaction with those in my isolated community. Anything else was a bonus I did not seek or expect.

 

A slow ride to oblivion, unhurried and gradual, was the prize I sought every day. Literally, ‘Going down slow.’