Life after death...

I think I died.

Three Mondays ago, I was on life support in California. I even told Joyce it was OK to "let me go," and she had expectations of making the trip back home to Kansas alone. But thanks to the miracles of modern science, and the good folks who put those miracles to good use, I'm still on this good Earth, we assume healthy, or at least healing, and happy. And back home in Lawrence.

For much of the last two weeks of June and two days into July, I'd been in a California hospital recovering from what started as what I (and others) thought were sinus headaches to something called a subdural hematoma. In layman's terms, that's bleeding between two layers of the brain.

What started as one of the most beautiful drives across the Western U.S. wound up with literally the top half and right side of my skull being bored and sawed into, and medical miracle workers digging (delicately, we assume) in the folds of the brain to stop some bleeding.

That was Friday, June 17.

But let's begin almost a week earlier with my 68th birthday, June 11.

That day, we left Lawrence, Kansas, in the Mazda Miata, top down, of course, for the three-day trip to Alameda, Calif., to see our son, Ian, and his girlfriend, Andrea Garcia, and her parents. (We'd planned to drive back home along a southern route through Las Vegas to see Penn & Teller. Then, we'd planned to spend two nights at an old hotel in Williams, Ariz., with a train trip to the Grand Canyon. Finally, historical Route 66 would lead us most of the way back home to Kansas.)

The first day heading west, the drive across Kansas was uneventful (except for the guy who almost careened into us from the adjoining lane in Topeka). We headed through Denver into the high Rockies, where the Garmin found us a B&B in Empire, Colo., literally nestled at a breathtaking 9,000 feet.

That night, the headache, which had been with me off and on for a few weeks, really dug in. In the morning, our host, on request, offered some Advil, which helped a bit, so we headed across Colorado into Utah, speeding through the salt flats (where we almost ran out of gas -- literally no gas stations for what seemed a thousand miles; the Miata, which had been averaging about 29 miles per gallon on the trip, went to 32 mpg during that leg, thankfully). We made it into Nevada for the stay that night. Then, on Monday morning, we continued across Nevada, which, to our surprise, was a gorgeous mix of desert and mountains. Neither of us had expected the vistas to be so captivating.

Late that afternoon, Monday, June 13, we pulled into Alameda, headache bearable but still persistent.

The headaches droned on, to varying degrees, that week. On Friday, the pain got so intrusive that we headed to the emergency room.

That was "best decision" number one (aided by our daughter, Jennifer, a pharmacy technician, who had said the meds I was taking for sinus trouble should have knocked it -- and me -- out).

There, the ER doctor, too, thought sinus infection and was ready to prescribe a new set of meds, but then he made "best decision" two: Let's do a CAT scan just to be sure, he said.

I walked the long walk to the CAT scan room. Once the technician saw whatever he saw, that's the last time I walked for a while. Into a wheelchair for the trip back, onto a gurney, into an ambulance, IV in arm, and off to the Sutter East Bay Neuroscience Center at the Eden Medical Center in Castro Valley, Calif., about 20 miles away. (It, by the way, turns out to be one of the best places to be if you ever need brain work.)

As best remembered (with Joyce's aid):

Whisked into surgery, where they drilled, sawed, then folded back the skull to get at the brain and the bleeding.

I came out talkative, I'm told (because I don't recall much of that), awake and alert.

The next morning, Saturday, was OK, but then I began to deteriorate, especially my heart rate. By Sunday afternoon it was evident (to them, not me) that something had to be done. So another CAT scan, which revealed more or continued bleeding.

Another surgery. (Joyce and the kids were away at the time of the decision, but the doctor called Joyce -- It'll be quicker this time, he said, because they just had to remove the staples to get back in -- so they rushed back to the hospital.)

After surgery, dicey at best, with machines doing the breathing and heartbeat.

That week is a blur for me, of course, and even for Joyce, who spent most nights trying to sleep in a chair in my room.

The next weekend, my condition began to improve. By the Monday, I was a bit mobile. And with physical and occupational therapists, I began to be more like my old self, ignoring advice of therapists by walking, unattended, the halls at night (with a walker) and joking. (If this is normal, the doc said to Joyce, maybe we should go back in!)

The toughest part was convincing the therapists and doctors that we needed to get home. We finally brought them to the idea, because of my rapid progress, that we could take the train home. (They'd vetoed Joyce driving, and flying, because of air pressure issues, was out of the question until the hole in my skull had healed.)

Trying to get a room on the train during the July 4th weekend proved to be as trying as convincing the doctors to release me. Ultimately, we found the one remaining room on the #4 Amtrak leaving L.A. for Lawrence on July 3.

So, after a relaxing night in Modesto at Andrea's parent's house, Ian and Andrea drove us the six and a half hours to L.A. for the Sunday evening train that ultimately got us back home at 6:15 a.m. Tuesday morning, where Ann Brill met us with tea and coffee and Egg McMuffins.

As for the Miata, it's on its way home (on a car-carrying truck) as we speak. It should be here Monday or Tuesday.

Unfortunately, I have three (painful) bans right now because of the medication I'm on: no driving, no spicy food and, alas!, no beer.

But the need for medication will end, so life will soon be back to what it was.

And for that I am grateful beyond words, thanks to the miracles of modern science and the good folks who practice 'em so well. And, of course, all the family and friends who were there when we needed.

P.S.: More later on those good folks.

P.P.S.: A sign of my improvement -- this Sunday (tomorrow), I'm playing, with doctor's OK, less than a week after our return, in a charity golf tournament (a "scramble" so I won't have much pressure.)