I'm Not Dead... Yet! (25 page)
Ahhhh…
Thank you.
After about six hours the doctor said my wound had healed, and they took the sand bag off my groin. A male nurse came in to take out my foley catheter and politely asked Karla if she’d step outside. Less than a minute later she heard an unfamiliar high-pitched scream. She ran to the door and saw it was her husband.
The young nurse was mortified, apologizing profusely. He blurted out, “I was so nervous to be taking out ‘Robby Benson’s’ catheter, I completely forgot to deflate the balloon”—prior to pulling it out of my bladder.
Valuable Life Lesson:
Ouch. Celebrity doesn’t always bring perks. Just thinking about it hurts like hell.
With a camera inside of my heart,
I began to see excerpts of my life with great clarity. I saw many people, many ‘moments in time’ as if I had an ESPN instant replay. I had an epiphany: I realized every negative feeling towards another person could’ve been avoided. Suddenly, anger seemed like such useless energy; useless and very harmful energy. I saw how many of those countless times I was wrong. All I wanted to do was apologize to… everyone. I wanted to give these people hugs and say, “I’m so very sorry for what I’ve done. Whether I die or not—I’m so sorry.”
And then I looked up at the monitor and saw my heart. Why oh why did it take a heart procedure to remind me I was mortal, and to realize how I behave towards others
matters significantly
while I’m on this planet? Why did it take a hint of death and an anesthesiologist’s cocktail to recognize the need for more tolerance in my heart? The very heart I was staring at; a heart that was physically faulty—but had no excuses when it came to compassion and understanding.
I looked at the doctors, nurses and technicians in the room. All of them were behind sterile masks, but it was a very diverse group of men and women. No matter what belief, Muslim, Jew, Christian, Hindu, Agnostic, Atheist—from that day forward I needed to
see
with tolerant eyes.
While I was being so carefully handled by men and women who spent their lives learning to heal others, it was difficult for me to understand hatred, violence, and war. (I was always a ‘hippie’ at heart, but why was my epiphany reduced to sounding insignificant, superficial and silly?) We have the ability to be a civilized beacon in this world for others to follow by seeing our light; not our darkness. I realized I needed to let love be my guiding force. Love above all.
The night before my operation,
I was pacing my hospital room, pretending I wasn’t scared, just ‘exercising.’ At 10:45 p.m. there was a knock at our door. No one came in. Odd; usually when there is a knock at a hospital room door, it is followed by the prerequisite, standard beat of 3, and then a nurse or a doctor enters the room. But no one came in—and then there was another knock. I looked at Karla, then went to the door and opened it. A well-coiffed woman, dressed in a pantsuit and carrying a clipboard, stood at the door.
“Hello, Mr. Benson. I’m from public relations here at UCLA Medical Center. NBC just called. They want a statement for the 11:00 p.m. news broadcast.”
“What?” I looked at the clock it was 10:45 p.m. “How did they find out? I was promised that no one would know I was here!”
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Benson. There are many people going in and out of this hospital—any hospital—every day, who could use extra money by revealing things to the press.”
In my career I never hired a personal P.R. firm. Press was for promoting work, not creating or preserving a persona. When asked to be a presenter at the Academy Awards before I was married, I appreciated the offer of a limo, but turned it down and drove my own crappy car, parked in a public garage, and skipped the red carpet part of the event altogether. (Best memories of the night before I went on: shaking the iconic John Wayne’s hand backstage; and the talented and beautiful Jane Fonda, whom I had never met, calling out my name, grabbing me, and French-kissing me. A much better celebrity perk than pulling my inflated foley.)
“Well,” I told the woman at my hospital door, “I don’t have a prepared statement.”
She apologized again, turned and left. I immediately got the classic aura for a migraine. A migraine the night before my open-heart surgery… oh man.
I don’t think it’s difficult for a non-performer to relate to the exigency of being revealed as damaged goods via mass media the night before your operation. This was Karla and my ‘we forgot about the flowers’ moment. We were focused on life and death issues at hand.
“Is this for real?,” I asked Karla. “Let’s turn on the 11 o’clock news and see. Maybe it was just Randy playing a practical joke.”
I was the second story on the NBC news at 11:00. I guess if I had hired a press agent I might be miffed at being story number two.
As if on cue, there was
another
knock. I went to the door, even though I couldn’t see it. The ‘electric’ aura from my migraine had reached its zenith. Aside from the excruciating pain of frequent migraines, I am a closeted fan of the aura. I have a love/hate relationship with the visual recital.
It’s… spectacular in color and vibrancy.
I opened the door and a young UCLA med student stood in the electric prism of colors generated by my migraine.
“Would it be... possible to talk with you for just a few minutes, Mr. Bbbbenson?” he asked in a quivering voice.
“Sure, come on in.” I put out my hand to shake his, trying to be as pleasant as possible, and noticed his hands were clammy; moist.
“You’re sweating, man. Are you okay?” I pulled a chair over for him to sit down before he passed out.
“I’m just a little nervous. Or scared. And nervous. Scared.”
“There’s no need to be nervous. Scared.” I tried…
“May I ask what this is about?” Karla sweetly, but pointedly inquired. “You know he needs to get to sleep. He’s having surgery in the morning.”
“That’s just it! You see, I have a heart murmur—like you. A congenital, bicuspid aortic valve—just like you!”
“Cool. Lucky for you, you work in the perfect place—”
The young almost-doctor suddenly panicked and cut me off. His body (through the aura) stiffened and he was apprehensive; distressed. He grabbed and wouldn’t let go of my hand. His grip tightened.
“No! I’ve seen what goes on ‘down there!’ It’s horrible! I’m not kidding. I wanted to talk to you cause I’m so freaked out that one day, I’m gonna need your surgery!”
It was like having Gene Wilder from the original film
The Producers
in my room. He was hyperventilating, and… somehow I found this ‘scene’ playing out in front of me to be hysterically funny. Karla didn’t.
“What?!” Karla said, her voice going from contralto to coloratura in one syllable. But that did not stop him.
“If I had to have that surgery tomorrow, I know what I’d do. I’d run! I’d pack up and run! I’m not kidding! I’ve seen what goes on down there!”
It was the kind of honest comedy anyone who studies the art of ‘the funny’ lives for: spontaneous, random—priceless. I began laughing hard enough to be incapacitated, and I couldn’t converse with the terrified kid (who was probably less than four years younger than me). I felt rude laughing, but it was a prodigious release of tension. Karla on the other hand, was furious (which made it funnier and funnier—I became her audience) as she ushered him out the door. I mean, seriously, what could I do? I could either laugh, or be scared enough to leave. And I knew I wasn’t going to leave, so why not laugh?
Later? Oh, the pain and throbbing from the migraine. I couldn’t even take an Excedrin. A cup of strong black tea would’ve helped, but no liquids before the surgery, either.
It was a long night, leaving room for deep conversations with Karla about subjects usually unspoken. I wish every night was like the night before we face our mortality; that way, there would be much more meaningful conversations with the people we love… It was a great lesson; more of a gift than a burden.
The following morning, I heard that
sound
…
the metal table with the squeaky wheels—the sound of the prep cart coming down the hallway. Its destination:
my
room
.
