Comeback.

There’s the adage: when life throws you lemons…you make lemonade.

But what do you make when life throws you “sepsis with necrotizing left perianal and gluteal abscess extending up your scrotum?”

When I first sat down at my computer to write what I am about to share, I was frozen, and with the assortment of dings and pings from email, texts, social media, and whatnot it was a welcomed segue to avoidance.

As much as I wanted to escape and thinking it would be less intrusive, I tried using my Notes app, on my iPhone, a few times only to be met with the same chorus of distraction. What was I thinkin’…?

Each time, the cursor blinked like a perturbed teacher tapping their finger waiting for a response—write something, anything—there’d be a buzz, a ringtone, a sound that did more to annoy me as it prolonged the inevitable— “Frank, you gotta write this.”

Initially, I had a euphemism. But that just made it even harder to blow passed. The words stung and jolted me to tears and how was I supposed to write through them? So, I pivoted and adjusted my train of thought and here we go. Even as I process through what you are about to read, there is a hesitancy. See, it’s not that I am afraid to reveal my experiences of 2020, quite the opposite, I am relishing the opportunity to share. I was raised, “…sharing your testimony encourages the listener to hope even in the middle of their challenge.”

Given the nature of social media and depending on your current occupation, you have the potential to interact with thousands upon thousands of people daily. I don’t believe that we are fashioned to do life alone and while I am most certainly glad to have my wife, Debi, and our family, and the many friends and family I can lean on for wisdom, knowledge, love, humor, resources, etc., to make it in this world, there is one who I am supremely confident in to always be that and more and His name is Jesus.

I must warn you that this version does contain some dicey content and could be challenging to read, and for that, I do apologize. It’s not my intent to disturb you in any way, but rather to encourage and inspire you and give context to the July 8^th 2022 world-wide release of my album, COMEBACK.

Hopefully my attempt to express in some detail, gives perspective and understanding to the trauma experienced so, grab a beverage you can enjoy, cozy up in your favorite nook, as I gently walk you down my memory lane…

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Feb 26^th, 2020, fell on a Wednesday and I am flying out to southern California. When we used to live there from 2009, and then even after moving back to Western New York, I have been fortunate to be a part of an amazing group of people that collaborate with a choir full of energetic and excited kids at Campbell Hall Episcopal School, in Studio City, CA, for their annual celebration of Black History by concert.

I spent 5 days there, on a high from the singing, the fun, seeing wonderful friends and family, before it’s time for me to fly back to Buffalo.

It’s Monday, March 2nd, and the Tonawanda air still has a tinge of winter, but spring is trying to make its way through, much to my delight, with some noticeably and abnormally warm days. I can remember feeling tired, nothing out of the ordinary as I had been singing nearly 5 straight days, trekking through multiple cities to see friends and family, moving through time zones, some jetlag, and whatnot as expected so, I just chalked it up to being “rundown” and in need of some rest.

Today is Saturday, March 7^th, and I can remember playing basketball with my two sons—Landon and Jaren—before cleaning up and then taking my family out for Mexican dinner, followed by a trek to Best Buy. We got home that evening and I was feeling a low-grade fever coming on. I took some over-the-counter meds, drank lots of water, and went to install the Roku purchased.

Closing in on about 10p, I shut off the Roku, and went to the medicine pantry. I found the thermometer, whirled around, and headed to the bathroom. I’m standing there, peering in the mirror, and I can see my face is a bit pale. A few beeps revealed my temperature was about 100 degrees so, I figured a good night’s rest, the meds, and a good sweat would cure what was ailing me.

Sunday late afternoon, while in the bathroom, I noticed a “raised” area of my skin around my butt cheek. I tried my best to inspect it, using the bathroom mirror, and with Debi’s help, to see if it was nothing more than a pimple. Didn’t give it much thought after applying a small amount of topical cream so, onward the day went before it was time for bed.

Here we are, still reeling from whatever “this bug” was and despite meds, fluids, and over-the-phone consults, the illness lingered and now it was Tuesday, March 17^th. Up to this point, I had called the ECDOH and was cleared of COVID-19. I had spoken to my doctor by phone, and they felt continuing with the OTCs and fluids was a practical plan since it wasn’t the aforementioned.

Since the pandemic forced most of us to be at home, I called off work, crawled into bed, called my dad, and asked him to pray.

I was fatigued, no appetite, and a humiliating odor emanated from my body so that prompted me to get up and make a beeline for the bathroom. I quickly showered, put on a tee and shorts, and slumped back to bed. I struggled to sleep, much less rest, and tossing and turning provided me with nothing more than a feeling of suffocation.

Wednesday, March 18^th, and I am feeling my absolute lowest I have ever physically felt in my life. I am still burning up and was at my wits end so, I texted Debi that I was driving myself to urgent care. Funny, urgent care was never anything I knew about until living in California. These facilities built specifically to address non-fatal health challenges and now, I am going there because, you know, it’s NOT life-threatening, in my psuedo-WebMd head.

I arrived there, took a deep breath, and labored inside the place. It was empty save for the two front desk workers dressed in blue scrubs. I explained to the masked gentleman what my symptoms were. He nodded, handed me the pre-screen insurance paperwork, and I went and sat in the waiting area.

Grateful no one was nearby to smell me, I began filling it out just as the nurse came to walk me back to an empty examination room. She was welcoming and empathetic, as she apologized for the wait.

She sidestepped and allowed me to pass, and I entered the room. It was clean and bright but cold. There was a TV on, I’m guessing to distract but it did little for me as it was challenging to focus already, my brain was foggy, and my body was, unbeknownst to anyone then, shutting down.

I apologized for the ungodly scent that screamed from me and began to explain my last 2 weeks, where I was, who I was around, what I ate, and what I was taking.

She seemed genuinely concerned and after my spiel, she assisted me onto the table, checked all my vitals, requested I take off my sweatpants, put on the gown she handed me, and said the doctor would be in shortly.

I could feel the beads of sweat forming along my brow as I labored to just take down my sweatpants.

Then it hit me, “Snap…I didn’t sing happy birthday to Arionne.” I didn’t have the energy to call, much less sing so, I flipped through my song files and grabbed a birthday song I had pre-recorded a couple of days prior and texted it to her.

By then, what seemed like an eternity, the doctor came in and I filled him in just like I did with the nurse. He had me lay back and he shifted my gown and began to examine my buttocks, rectum, and scrotum. He made a few facial expressions that only amplified my concern.

“Frank, you need to go to Milliard Fillmore Suburban now and have surgery.”

My eyes grew large from the gut-punch I just got as I tried to process the words that just tumbled out of his mouth.

“Your scrotum is enlarged, and its size and color are why you are smelling this way.” He proceeded to jot down on a notepad, words I could barely comprehend, in part, because my mind was not quick enough to process with the pressing and immediate alarms of surgery blaring in my head while contemplating the impact this would have on Debi and the kids. “Hand this to the receptionist when you get to Milliard…they’ll understand.”

I was getting dressed when he added, “You can’t drive. You are in no condition to operate a vehicle. Your blood pressure says you should be dead and how you got here, is beyond me. Call someone to take you, Frank.”

I must have looked like I was going to tip over because he leapt from his chair and placed his hand on my back to steady me. I retrieved my iPhone to call Debi and said what was going on and what needed to happen next.

She arrived at urgent care, got me in on the passenger side, and off to Milliard we drove. I couldn’t tell you what the conversation was like on the car ride there. Even now, as I type this, I am choked up and moved to tears as the countdown to save my life was on.

We arrived at the emergency room entrance, I got out of the car, note in hand, and walked inside through the doors and made my way to the front desk. Wasn’t long after she had parked, Debi was seated next to me as we waited to be called.

Once I got called, I went back with this cheery nurse, sat at her desk, and rehashed it all with her. I looked at my watch and saw it was just past 11 in the morning, little did I know then, it would be the last time I would see and hold hands with Debi.

After being charted, almost out of thin air appeared a nurse’s aide who handed me a mask, instructed me to keep it on the entire time, took me to a changing area, where I was informed to strip down, including jewelry, and put all my belongings into a clear plastic bag.

I did as I was told then got onto the available bed. The thin gown did nothing to block the cold air and it only made my mind race even more as I laid there trembling, praying, silently singing, and waiting.

Oh, the wait. It was agony. I still didn’t know to what extent this surgical procedure would require of them to accomplish as I hadn’t seen a doctor yet.

Trying to remain calm as best as I could, I spoke, “For God has not given me a reason to be afraid. He gave me love, power, and a sound mind.”

I said that a few more times before a doctor and a different nurse aide came into my area. She was young and active, zipping along behind him like a bumblebee, probably fueled by lots of caffeine.

He was middle-aged, thinning hair, and wore glasses. He probably was on a debate team in his former life because his voice boomed as he began to articulate what was about to happen.

“We are going to perform a CT scan to get a good look of the area of your buttocks, rectum, and scrotum, Mr. Williams. Should be about ten more minutes. Try and rest and we’ll get you soon.”

I normally would have added a witty zinger but instead I simply nodded and he left, the aide in tow, and I was left alone with my excruciatingly damning thoughts and pending sense of doom. It was hard fighting all of the negative thoughts, but I still came to this, “God, I know You are bigger than this and I trust that You have this worked out but, I am scared. I don’t wanna die.”

The tears slipped down my cheeks as the ticking clock reminded me of my loneliness, and it felt like my heart was beating outside my chest.

I thought of my favorite Fred Hammond song. “I won’t be afraid,” I sang, “for in Him my hope lies.”

Not long after, the imaging tech came back with the perky nurse aide, and we were off for the scans. He spoke calmly to me as he wheeled me into this large and very cold (AGAIN) room. He assisted me inside a neutral-colored scanner, instructed me to lay very still, and the exam commenced.

Once the tests were complete, he wheeled me back into the waiting room and I was alone again, fearing the worse still hoping for the best.

The clock on the opposite wall of the surgery waiting room read 12:15p and I was starting to feel a sense of calm. The nurse returned and I asked if Debi could come and sit with me. Her eyes hit the floor before returning a shaking of her head while apologizing. I knew it was because of COVID and the way it had begun to change the world.

“It won’t be long before they come and get you for surgery.” She rubbed my shoulder, whirled around, and off she went.

“Alone again…mother-bunny,” I said. FYI, that’s my favorite curse phrase. If you know…you know.

I must have closed my eyes for just in the short time, the doctor returned and matter-of-factly rattled off the process that was to take place next. “We’re going to take you back to the OR waiting area, you’ll meet with the anesthesiologist who will go over some things, and then Dr. Fung will meet with you to discuss anything you may have questions about.”

I nodded and watched him leave just as a male orderly came, and with the same vibrant nurse aide, they wheeled me to the OR waiting area. We arrived in the room, which had a cream hue to it, a TV that hung from the wall, a bathroom, and overhead lights that dimly lit the room.

The way I had been positioned, looking out into the hallway, I could see the operating board. I was scanning it feverishly for my name. When my eyes settled on FDWilliams, I thought, “Hey at least they got the D in there.”

The anesthesiologist came in and stood to my left. She introduced herself as Dr. Filocamo. She was short, sweet, and wore light green scrubs with a few of her graying blonde hairs leaking out from her cap.

She attempted to placate my concerns with humor and then proceeded to ask me a bunch of questions which she read from her clipboard.

I answered them all and she sat the checklist down onto my bed. “Mr. Williams, I know this is not an easy time for you, but Dr. Eleanor Fung is the best in the area, and she is going to take good care of you.”

I know her intent was to be comforting and reassuring but it failed to land because I was too busy thinking about Debi and the kids to really understand the gravity of the situation. I wonder if this is how my mom felt when she died?

It wasn’t long after she pressed me on some trivial questions like, “Who the current president was? What year I was born? Where do you currently live?”

I deadpanned, “In this hospital.”

She chuckled. “Seriously, where do you live, Mr. Williams?”

I smiled and answered just as the surgeon walked into the room. She introduced herself, and almost verbatim, rattled off the same questions that the anesthesiologist just asked me. Dr. Eleanor Fung looked like a doctor that was taken right out of the TV show, Grey’s Anatomy. She wore dark blue scrubs, and her cap allowed her strands of silver and jet-black hair to escape just enough, wearing a pair of perfectly rounded retro tortoise-framed glasses.

After I responded, she began to detail what was going to happen. She was my type of person “matter-of-fact, give it to me straight, don’t sugarcoat nuthin’” and I was glad to hear it spun that way. Though, I did my best to try and process what she was saying, I was resigned, to quote the title of a song by The Black-Eyed Peas “let’s get it started,” and be done with it.

“Frank, from what I can see from the scans, there is necrotizing infection that is eating you from the inside. There are several of your organs that are at risk for failure, and we obviously don’t want you to die so, we are going to move fast to save your life…okay?”

And just like that, she was out the room.

Two nurses came in and did their last cursory check on me while I laid there, bouncing between songs and reciting Bible verses, thinking about Debi, Colin and Erin, Landon, Caidyn, and Jaren. I let my mind wander a bit, as I remembered events, places, people I care about, and pondered had I left the Godly impression to those I connected with over my lifespan. Did I represent God in my 40+ years on this side of heaven…? FWIW, I still think this way.

I didn’t get too far into that when the anesthesiologist returned and said, “It’s go time, Mr. Williams.”

The large oval-shaped clock read about 2:50pm as she and another nurse raised the arms of my bed and began to transport me down the cold and sterile corridor.

I began to hum my song, “How Wonderful Is Our God,” and I could hear the unknown nurse say, “That’s good that you’re humming.”

I sang a few bars before we arrived as I sensed a measure of peace. I finished my last line of the song and the anesthesiologist said, “I am going to put this over your nose and mouth. I want you to count to zero from 10 back and inhale as you do, okay?”

I nodded, began to do what she said, and just like that, I was out, and the race to save my life was on.

Sidenote: I would later learn that because I was singing, Dr. Fung made sure the tube was not forced down my throat to avoid irreparable harm and damage to my vocal cords, throat, and larynx.

They made an incision to drain a perianal abscess and upon doing so there was concern that prompted Dr. Fung to call Urology because of the way my scrotum was swollen and misshaped due to the fluid collecting within the thin sheath that surrounded my testicle, and I was septic. With my left inguinal lymph nodes enlarged, it only added to the degree of difficulty to save me. Those lymph nodes are crucial to maintaining fluid balance for blood flow, it filters waste, and plays an integral role in immune defense. The more they cut, the malodorous smell from the tissues became apparent.

They sent the abscess fluid and excised tissues for fungal cultures. They determined, as the surgery continued, the necrotic tissue extended into the scrotum.

About seven hours later, it appeared all the diseased tissue was removed, and I was moved to ICU.

The next day, Thursday, I appeared to be recovering well. So much so, they felt there was a strong possibility that I could be released as early as that Saturday. But early Friday AM, I bottomed out. The machines I was hooked up to all showed I flatlined and they raced me back into surgery.

Now, with Dr. Chevli from Urology, along with Dr. Fung, they worked quickly to remove what they found was more of the virus and the affected tissues.

It’s now Day 3, according to the medical transcripts, in ICU, and I am slowly gaining consciousness. I am intubated, still, but not all too coherent. I saw a nurse hold a small whiteboard with the words “Don’t Talk” scribbled on it. I closed my eyes and I next opened them it was Day 5.

They removed the tube and it felt like my throat and lungs were on fire. It hurt to swallow but the ice chips were a welcomed necessity. I was weighed down by blankets and I didn’t mind because I was freezing. At this time, I'd lost 100ccs (which is why both letter Cs are red in my album title) of blood over the two surgeries and so, over the next several days, I would be regularly poked and prodded by nurses and blood techs, who would send my blood to the labs to ensure I was healing.

Finally coherent enough, I was able to get my ICU nurse to understand that I wanted to speak to Debi so, she handed me my iPhone.

ANOTHER SIDENOTE: All of my ICU nurses and regular nurses and aides at Milliard Fillmore Suburban are the best. I was truly cared for. When I struggled to eat because my stomach was upset, they'd get me handfuls of graham and saltine crackers. Those were some awesome snacks for me at around 2AM. Getting to know them, their families, their backstories, was a tremendous blessing for my pschye, too. I cannot name them all but boy those folk really performed their job and I am very glad they did. Even when I had multiple drug-induced hallucinations where I was seeing things that clearly weren't there, they laughed. And if you know me, I can be funny but I am not that funny. I remember vividly seeing the characters from the Disney movie Hercules dancing around the room. Claude...

Ok, back to the story.

I was grateful that my iPhone was off, as it were, and I powered it on, and it was pretty close to having a full charge. I was overcome with emotions as the tears were instant as I could finally FaceTime and see Debi. I don’t recall what was said but it didn’t matter—I was seeing her beautiful deep dimples, again.

Soon after, I was able to see and talk to my kids. It was such a joy to see Landon’s face. I could see he was worried, but he was doing his best to be brave for me, and for him, I suspect. Seeing Caidyn and Jaren’s faces was such a treat. I was surprised at just how much more hair Jaren had. By now, all learning was remote, and I knew the kids were okay with that since they were home-schooled in California.

I talked with Colin while he was beginning his initial round of chemotherapy, we chatted about that and BBQ, as we often did. I remember we spent a good amount of time talking about the pain we both were in and how much the meds weren’t helping and some of the hallucinations I was experiencing.

He had the audacity to make fun of me and I loved every minute of it.

Slowly, I was able to call and let more people know where I was and how I was doing.

Over the next few days, I saw a few more doctors, nutritionists, my personal doctors, physical therapists, and other medical personnel that would chart out my recovery. It was explained to me that the amount of damage I suffered and the severity of the type of surgery I went through, there would be about 8 more surgeries and my life that I once knew was never going to be. I was told to prepare myself for living with a colostomy bag for the rest of my days, no sex, limited activities but I could live a decent life thereafter with these changes.

I had already had 2 surgeries that saved my life but now there would be even more to make this new life sustainable. “God…help!”

They left the room, and I was crestfallen. “Lord, I cannot have that life…I just can’t.”

I called Debi and told her what had been told me, as best as I could, and she was supportive, comforting, and encouraging. As she prayed, it was hard to concentrate. Here I am replaying the words the doctors spoke and I’m caught between fear and faith. I had to make a determination in my faith walk that their diagnosis wasn’t going to be my lot, my legacy. I believed my life belong to Jesus.

But man, I was broken.

She prayed things like "that there wouldn’t be more surgeries, that I would have a life full of activity and vigor, that my **ahem** “manhood performance and capabilities” would not be negatively affected, and that I could function better than ever." Look, as a man, I am already concerned with being able to provide for myself and my family, not to mention, being able to function in that area, if you get my drift, and whatnot. At one point, while in ICU, I had Debi bring to the hospital my laptop, iPad, and charging cables, because I wasn't getting away. I knew I had to edit some manuscripts for my publisher at KP Publishing. I had a few conversations assuring her that I could work.

By now, I had spoken to my dad, pastors, and my inner circle, bringing them up to speed on what had happened and asking them to join their faith with ours. Debi, too, reached out to more of our family and friends for prayer.

I still was struggling to understand what happened, mainly how and why, but I knew I didn’t want my life to end, and I wanted to be purposeful with the time I had been given.

The days moved on and the heavy medications and grind was taking its toll. I was attached to a wound-Vac machine, as the pain was ongoing, my mind constantly dwelling on the potential of “8 more surgeries”, my family, and physical therapy. I was sad, angry, confused, a lot of the time. I was on pain medications like Dilaudid and Oxycontin. COVID made familial isolation such a dominant reminder of its widely spreading impact. My human interactions were with doctors, nurses, aides, therapists, orderlies, and cleaning crew members.

Don’t get me wrong, I loved them.

They brought the outside world to me with musings of their lives, the weather, and how the world was dealing with COVID's brutal assault. Some of these men and women were the funniest, kindest, most thoughtful people I had come to meet. When I couldn’t care for myself yet and had to be bathed, a nurse aide joked, “Frank, I am only gunna do this a couple more times but you gotta do it ‘cause I ain’t married to you...I gotta man.”

Heck, my wound-Vac specialist, Dr. Kathy Scherer, brought me oranges and chewing gum because I wanted some. Along with Dr. Fung, she left an indelible mark on my heart. I saw her nearly every day, from ICU to when I was moved to a regular room, Dr. Scherer and her staff worked tirelessly to create a wound vacuum application to fit my size, height-wise. Because of the intricacies of my surgery encompassing the rectum and scrotum area, they had to pivot and re-adjust what their normal standard operating procedures were for an average height male and do something for a taller male such as myself. The device allows for negative pressure wound therapy. Its application is to decrease air pressure on the wound to augment the speed of healing. The gases in the air around us puts pressure on the surface of our bodies and the wound-Vac removes that pressure. It will gently remove fluid from the area, which reduces swelling and helps clean the wound and remove bacteria, and even stimulate new growth of tissue.

In the beginning, I cannot tell you the number of times the alarms on it went off because of my improper movements due to forgetting it was attached to me. Blame it on the drugs, I say.

Her wisdom, knowledge, and ingenuity were key factors in my recovery. She was always welcoming to allowing me to pray for her as she helped me. Understanding that my faith was and is always in God, it amazes me, still, the people who give of their time and talents to save lives daily.

One and a half weeks in ICU and I was getting better and not long after, they moved me into my own regular room. That day, they took me down to do X-rays to see how I was healing. The procedure simply was to check out the surgically repaired area and how I was progressing. After they wheeled me in the room and scanned me, the nurse pressed on the area that had been surgically repaired and I felt instant sensation.

I yelped, “That hurts.”

She was surprised by my outburst and did it again.

I said it again. “That hurts.”

She was bewildered and apologized and sent me back up to my room. “We’ll do this one more time tomorrow.”

Tomorrow came and we went through the same rigmarole and the reaction from me was the same— “that hurts.” I know that I wasn't the best of patients at the time of day but, c'mon man, ya killin' me, Smalls.

She was caught off guard, excused herself, and got a doctor and he did the same thing. He pressed and prodded, each time asking me if I felt it.

“Yessir,” I snapped. Although there were more colorful words I wanted to say, I composed myself and didn't.

He finished the scans and they sent me off to my room. He later returned to my room with some interesting news.

“You are healing better than we expected. Most people that have had your type of surgery don’t feel anything for a while and you have sensation sooner than we anticipated.

Bless the Lord.

I still had been bed-ridden and I was getting antsy, to put it mildly. Mind you, I had NOT seen my wounds as I have been covered in bed sheets as far as I could remember. My second day in the regular room, the morning sun was beaming brightly. I needed to change my disposition. I wanted to sit up and dangle my legs onto the side of the bed. If I could do that, I could probably stand up. Keep in mind, I haven’t been on my feet for thirteen days. I had surgeries, I lost some brain activity, my body had been altered, and I’m thinkin’ I can walk.

I moved the covers back and followed the tubes that connected me to the machines. I used my fingers to trace the one tube that was draining cloudy brownish-looking fluids. I methodically placed my right hand on the bed’s arm and used my left arm to steady me as I slowly turned my feet and I felt the cold floor underneath.

As I turned my head to look down, I saw escaping from myself the same color fluid and I panicked, went to stand up, and collapsed.

Hard!

The sound reverberated throughout the room and out into the hallway as every staff member assigned to my case, and more, rushed towards the beeps, whistles, and alarms that filled the atmosphere.

I could see their faces. Some were aghast, others seemed annoyed, a few were empathetic towards me.

They got me back into bed and soon I was alone again—ashamed, angry, and embarrassed.

I wasn’t strong Frank.

I wasn’t lively Frank.

I was needy Frank.

I was weakened Frank.

I was angrily useless Frank.

One of the nurses returned and said, “You know physical therapy is coming tomorrow. Why didn’t you just wait for them?”

I didn’t answer her. I simply turned towards the windows and wept.

I was miserable.

For me, I was agonizing and languishing in the healing process. I wanted it to be done, quick, and over with. Day in and day out, I was always in my head, concerned about finances and family, would I be let go from my job and lemme just say experiencing insomnia now just accentuated the alarms in my head. Then you have the nurses who dutifully were performing their jobs, testing me, drawing blood, checking my wounds at varying hours of the night, and having to take meds but, then I'd go down the rabbit hole of WHAT IF I get addicted to them, the rigors of physical therapy and asking WHY IS this taking so long, why isn’t my body bouncing back faster, why couldn’t they make an exception and at least allow Debi to come and just be with me? Could I be the dad that my children needed? Was I going to be any good to Debi? Would she want me? For better or for worse, but what was life going to be like now?

I was spiraling, focusing too much on the grief, and that was only making the depression and anxiety worse.

But one day, after PT, while reading Romans 12, verse 12 was a nice little “postcard” from heaven,” Be happy because of the hope you have. Be patient when you have troubles. Pray all the time.”

Because of my faith, that resonated. My hope is in Christ. I trusted Him to enable those that went to medical school and sacrificing a boatload of money, time, and studying in their field of expertise, to perform above and beyond their capabilities, and help me get back to health.

I had to force my view from the “woe-is-me” to being grateful that I was still alive. I soon began to cry and a moment of worship ensued, and I began to sing, “My heart and mind is subject to change…these mental games are driving me insane…I realize the road has twists and turns…but it’s never too late to learn…to put my faith in You who knows the plan…designed for me, I understand…it’s important that I hold onto Your hand, because I’m subject to change."

I had to make the focus less about me and more about Him.

Having a brother-in-law as a physical therapist, I had an inkling as to what I was in store for. But that couldn’t prepare me for the most grueling and arduous tasks I would physically have to endure.

It’s April and we’re closing in a milestone date—April 11—my birthday. Every day when any doctor entered my room, “When can I go home?” Their answers were all over the place never being able to settle my uneasiness.

Even though she was kind and had a good sense of humor, Christine—my physical therapist—was annoyed at me because I kept angrily repeating “I'm leaving,” every time we walked.

Oh, yeah, I had to re-learn how to walk by using a walker to assist me. Day after day, we did two 30-minute sessions and just walked. She would make me walk to the large windows on the 2^nd floor where I would stop and look out and see boys playing basketball on the playground. I saw the mowers cutting the grass at the church on the west side of the hospital.

Seeing that made me long for the outdoors but I knew it wasn’t happening anytime soon.

She jerked me from my daydreams and back to work we went. We did two stairs up and two stairs down as well as lateral steps and I came back to my room sweating profusely.

I remember one day being so spent, I came back to bed, closed my eyes, and was knocked out. I woke up to the words that you will hear in the song titled "Robora (Encourage)." It was God saying He was there with me.

The stronger I got, the more I could feel my mental capacities returning. Every day, the nurse would scrawl on my room’s whiteboard, the date, the doctor and nurse and aide on my service, and my vitals. It was a nagging reminder that I was NOT going to be home for my birthday even though I was doing remarkably well but not well enough.

I was reading and writing more. I slowly began to care for myself like bathing and that made me feel triumphant. Though I was feeling better, sleeping was hard. I was grateful for FaceTime to see Debi and the kids, but I knew me being up all hours of the night doesn’t help them and I hated the guilty feeling of stealing their rest.

Debi was doing so much to maintain and keep stability. I was glad though, on one hand, I could call any of my West Coast people and talk with them but on the other, it only exacerbated my desire to be home with them.

It's now April 5^th and around 8am was when the nurses came to administer meds right around the time breakfast trays were being delivered. I didn’t stray too far my usual—bacon, cereal, milk, an apple, yogurt, coffee, an English muffin, and cranberry juice. I just finished adding a pat of butter to the toasted muffin when in walked Dr. Devon. She was dressed in her light blue scrubs and sporting a red and white cap and dazzling me with her teethy-white smile.

There is something to be said about a genuine smile. I think God built that in as something we can give one and all to help brighten up the day. Didn’t matter what doctor or nurse or aide I encountered, when we greeted each other, they all said, “I am going to miss your smile when you leave, Frank.”

Wish that was today, Dr. Devon.

I acknowledge her and she went on with her usual monologue. She checked my chart, my vitals, breathing, bandages, and the report from the wound-Vac.

Things checked out to her pleasure before she added, “Dr. Fung will be here around 11am and I will see you then.”

We said our goodbyes and I was about to take a bite of the English muffin when I stopped and thought about her sentence.

Dr. Fung is coming at 11?

It’s now 11:20am and in comes Dr. Fung followed by the five doctors who worked on me in some capacity. I greeted them all, fist bumped Dr. Mirchel (that became our routine ever since I was coherent enough in ICU) and shifted my weight because my interest was piqued by their presence.

“Frank, the labs have been progressing super well and I like how you are healing. We still must do another surgery, the skin graft, but it does appear that will be the very last surgery you will need. I know you’ve been wanting to go home and we'll remove the catheter in a moment and I am signing off on your release for tomorrow if you promise me that you will come back on the 10^th of April so Dr. Schultz can do the skin graft.”

I was grinning, ear to ear, as I listened intently while she went through everything that was going to happen leading up to tomorrow’s discharge and nodded emphatically throughout. You could see in their faces they all were equally excited for me.

I knew the catheter removal was going to be a mother-bunny but hey I was finally going home even if it meant for a few days.

“We all are going to miss you, Frank. You’re one of the nicest patients we’ve ever had,” they said in unison. One by one, they all smiled, tapped my toe, and exited.

The last was Dr. Mirchel 'cause y'all already knew we fist-bumped.

This being alone was okay.

I leaned back, turned my head, and looked out the window and I welcomed the flow of tears. God…You are awesome.

I did return, 4 days later, on what would have been my mother’s 77^th birthday, April 10, for the skin graft. Because of the wound-Vac I was still attached to, Dr. Schultz made sure to thoroughly explain all the potential complications that could happened during, post-op, and recovering.

But I had seen the hand of God at work these last 3 weeks and I was okay with the direction we were headed.

The “mesh” as they termed it, included the excisional prepping and splitting off my inner thigh’s skin, approximately 250 cm2, roughly the size and length of an iPhone 11 Pro was used for the skin graft. The edges and tissue were debrided to healthy viable tissue, and after the surgery the grafted area measured 7cmx15cm, the wound-Vac was reattached to me, and I was back in a recovery ward for 6 more days.

***

Y'all still hangin' with me? I know this was a long read and I am glad you made it this far.

Some nights when I can't sleep, my mind will flashback and replay the many good things since then and it blows my mind the favor we experienced like what should have been a six-figure medical bill turned into being an out-of-pocket cost that equates to four tickets to a Cowboys' home football game, or the outpouring of love and genorosity that so many people showed us from around the country.

Lemme wrap this up, today is July 1st and I am physically healed. The scars I possess are minimal. I always shake my head when I shower, when I lotion, when I see it.

But I am always thinking, "Lord, You’ve been so good."

Now as I move forward, God only knows what lies ahead as there are some emotional hurdles that still require therapy and intervention, but I am glad to have a supporting cast to help me work through with them.

I wouldn't have enough space to name folk but I am truly thankful for EVERYONE that prayed for me and my family during this time, for reaching out, for showing us that we matter.

There are some ill effects that remain like cold-intolerance, uncomfortable sitting, and sometimes I do have phantom pains, but I can walk unassaisted, jump, move around freely, play sports again, sing, write, shovel snow—y'all livin' in WNY will make you do that and Lord knows I hate to—but I get to enjoy a full and regular life without a colostomy bag.

Without limitations.

I am grateful to God that I get to comeback and that my life didn't turn out like they said.

John 3:16