2001: MIKEY’S ODYSSEY

by M.A. Ricciardi

It’s usually not until I’m two steps out of the elevator that the smell hits me. A baby powder/disinfectant tang that sinks into my stomach like a sucker punch. No matter how many times I inhale that aroma, it still stops me, if only for a millisecond. It’s the smell of Hospital: of illness, sadness, and the pain of recovery. I hate it.

They say that smell is the most powerfully evocative sense we have, triggering memory in a way that sight, touch, even sound, cannot. I have come to associate this smell with Mikey; it brings him from his ubiquitous position in the Worry Department of my mind to the forefront as I head down the carpeted hallway of Spaulding Rehab, 4 South. Before, I’d associated him with other scents: Dial soap, smoke-n-beer (eau d’club); even chicken lo mein, when he would slip into the house after midnight, and sit on the edge of the bed, feeding me a couple mouthfuls of his post-show snack. But that was Before: a long time ago, and these days it seems even longer.

It sounds strange, but I’ve been marking time over the past year not in terms of things returning, but in things being taken away. In the removal of sundry pieces of evidence of this nightmare, I see the achingly slow return of a dear friend. I’ll never forget my first sight of Mikey in the Children’s ICU. Having lied to the nurses that I was his sister, I entered the area restricted to medical personnel and immediate family. Ranged along the wall were glassed-in rooms, each housing a tiny infant surrounded by ominous-looking machinery. I found Mikey in the bow of this horseshoe, lying still on an inflatable mattress that wheezed out of time with the beeps of the monitors, and the muted huff of the ventilator tube that filled his mouth. The white surgical tape had left sticky smudges on his stubbly cheeks, and his eyes were squeezed tightly closed, as though he was willfully shutting out the room and its realities.

I studied the machines, and learned to read these oracles, taking comfort in the numeric “evidence” that Mikey was safe. I watched them surreptitiously, so as not to reveal my fear. When one began to chirp or squeal, I would say, “No worries; its just the electrowhosimawhatsis—doesn’t mean a thing.” You see, Mikey’s always been squeamish about hospitals. Occasionally his vent tube became clogged with mucus, and a nurse would come to suction it out. Try to imagine what it feels like to have the air pulled from your lungs by a force beyond your control. He needed it done in order to breathe, but each time, he was afraid he would die. I would command Mikey to look into my eyes during the procedure, and hold his sweaty hand, which clutched mine with a terror I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.

As Mikey slowly began to heal, the first bits of medical intrusion were lifted away. When the vent was removed, a tracheotomy tube was inserted into his throat. This too required the horror of suction and the fears of suffocation. When this was removed, it was covered by a gauze filter, and later, an angry red welt was all that remained. This too has faded; a pearlized scar testifying to phantoms faced and monsters beaten back into the dark under the bed.

Mikey was moved to Spaulding in March of last year, where he continues his awesome progress in rebuilding himself. His room is a madly decorated mess: walls lined with photos of Mikey and pals, cards, posters, even drawings from the children of scenesters. Following the trach victory came the Summer of Spasms. Mikey’s muscles were awakening (good); impulses flooding through his synapses caused him to stiffen into a human paper clip (bad). Many days were spent holding him in bed, drenched with sweat, praying to God (or Dr. Lang, his acupuncturist) to relieve this cruel new challenge. A subcutaneous pump was inserted to deliver anti-spasmodic medicine to his spine, which subdued the spasms and kept him from being drugged and groggy.

Mikey began to show purposeful movement—a hand squeeze, a thumbs up (which became the new form of communication), and eventually, head nods and shakes—stilted dialogue, but dialogue nonetheless. Verbal speech is still (just barely) out of reach, but active progress on all fronts: holistic medicine, yogic breathwork, ATEK, speech therapy, and Rock Therapy (of course) promise that Mikey will find his voice again. A cadre of friends has rallied round the Dee: Linda, Tina, Eleanor, T., Brian, Cat, Val, and others…a circle of strength holding tightly to a friend in need. I love these people, and feel honored to be among them. I’ve dubbed us “Family Dee,” since when new staff asks who we are, it’s hard to explain.

Want to learn more or help out?

1. Keep in touch with his progress at www.mikeydee.com, a fantastic site maintained by Eleanor Ramsay (BRO): there’s links to stroke info, Mikey stories, a recovery update posted by Family Dee, Mikey’s Trust, and an email address.

2. Send email! And cards, letters, CDs, movies, etc.

3. VISIT THE DEE! If you know Mikey on a more personal basis than buying him a beer once at T.T.’s, email me at parkdale@mindspring.com for info, guidelines, and FAQs.

4. Dig some change out from the couch cushions and send it along to the Mikey Dee Benefit Trust, a non-profit (that’s tax deductible, kids) trust set up to help Mikey defray the costs of his recovery—also intended for other ailing musicians in the future.

5. Keep Mikey in your thoughts, prayers, and wishes—and go see some local music for him!

You know he’d do it for you.