BILL CADY Word Count: 149,227 - At My Friend's Place

Bill Cady, The Early Years … by Bill Cady 170
Everything, with no exception of any kind, was perfect.
Now, multiply that imagined feeling by the largest number you can concoct, and
you won‟t even be close. It‟s much better than whatever you came up with.
Everything is perfect. In fact, we‟ll have no emotions. Those are only needed to
be human, to deal with other humans. To survive in this weakened state as we exist in an
imperfect world. What we have awaiting us is that perfect world we use as a figure of
speech.
I swear to you, the idea of coming back sure as hell wasn‟t mine. If it‟d been left
up to me, instead of a street address in Oceanside, California, I‟d have a lot number in St.
Vincent‟s Cemetery. I was right where I wanted to be, and saw no reason under the sun
to come back to what I had. Even if I‟d known a happy life, which was far from the case
for me, I wouldn‟t‟ve wanted to return to it. Not if it meant leaving what I‟d found in
death. Not a chance. Unfortunately, that wasn‟t my call. The Big Guy was running
things at that point, as always, and He decided to grant my old man‟s fervent prayers, for
some reason. I was whisked from true heavenly bliss to, “Damn, that hurts like hell!”
As a measurement, I‟d‟ve been elated and joyful beyond description to return to
mere agony. It hurt much worse than that. The pain was, and will always be, beyond any
descriptive abilities I, or any other mortal being, might create. It was intolerable, but I
had to tolerate it. To endure. To suffer such as I‟ve never suffered before or since.
Over the next six weeks, I received 270 pain injections. That comes out to around
six and a half per day. The first ten days it was morphine every two hours. Blessedly,
they kept me stoned as could be in an effort to numb the raging pain. My drug was soon
changed to Demerol. They gradually moved the shots to three hours apart, then four.
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