Trouble Ain't Nothin' But a Word: Conquering Fear

By Paul O. Scott

My memoir begins with a massive heart attack that leaves me in a vegetative state with no possibility of recovery, according to my doctors. What the doctors didn't know about me was I neither counted anyone in nor counted anyone out--especially me.

I lived my life overcoming multitudinous challenges, living by the adage "All I need is a tiny chance, and I'll make it work." My story is delivered from a 5'4" frame, being constantly told "I can't" or "you won't." I was a make-believe Christian with the gift of gab and full of crime.

This memoir shines a light on alcoholism, drug abuse, physical abuse, ever-present crime, and consistently circumventing all challenges.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Feb 28, 2024
• ISBN: 9798889604822

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Trouble Ain't Nothin' But a Word

Conquering Fear

Paul O. Scott

Copyright © 2024 Paul O. Scott

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2024

ISBN 979-8-88960-467-9 (pbk)

ISBN 979-8-88960-482-2 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

About the Author

Chapter 1

Hard Work Turned Upside Down

I died on Monday, July 25, 2016. I know because I shit myself. I was born Paul Orlando Scott on October 22, 1954. I was number six of eight children my mother and father raised as Christian Scientists. To everyone that knew my family, we were the ones who didn't believe in doctors. But I was a walking contradiction. I was an original OG from Chicago who was a promiscuous dog to women until I met Paula. I'd only meant to wet my feet, and seventeen years later, I was still a thug from Chicago with a bachelor of arts degree in sociology, master's degree in running game, and a doctorate in reading people for purposes of the hustle. Unwilling to resist, I surrendered to my love for her.

In consultation with my doctors, my wife, and my medical records, here is a reenactment of that day's events. Throughout this book, I've changed some names to maintain their anonymity.

What I do remember is that Monday morning was no different than any other Monday. It was a late July morning, and the clock-temperature gauge outside my bedroom window read 7:00 a.m. and eighty-five degrees. Beads of sweat forming on my face blotted my view of the tennis and basketball courts in our backyard. Waste Management trucks, their hydraulic lifts clanging as they flipped trash containers in our gated community, reminded me trash pickup the week earlier was skipped.

That was amazing, Paula whispered.

Our worn beige Egyptian sheets clung unsuccessfully to her four-foot, eleven-inch frame because I tugged them away. She was my beautiful jewel, an AKA of the Alpha Kappa Alpha women's sorority. Her rich deep brown eyes shimmered with satisfaction as I gently ran my fingernails along her chocolate brown skin, making her legs twitch again. My fingers crawled up her shaved neck to her short cut, ending with her bangs. Juicy Couture floated from her into the room, making me stretch my body lengthwise across hers. To seal my move, I squeezed her butt, making her gasp. She was mine.

Give me a minute, she said.

In seconds, dizziness swept over me and morphed into shortness of breath, followed by a tightness in my chest akin to a vice grip. Fragments of our Louis Perez paintings on the wall seesawed up and down as my hold on the bed corner fell away like I'd never held it. Seconds later, I collapsed to the floor, and Paula started chest compressions while dialing 911.

Paula kneeled beside my still body, gave me two rescue breaths, and started compressions. Fifteen compressions later, she bent over me and gave me two more rescue breaths. After five compression cycles, she began again. Two rescue breaths then my bowels began their purge.

You can't die on me, Paul, please. Don't leave me, she whispered as if I could hear her. Her compressions sped up. She spoke her counts rapidly as if to change the outcome she feared.

Hello. This is the 911 operator. What is your emergency?

My name is Paula Scott, and my husband, Paul Scott, is having a heart attack.

What is the address of the emergency?

It's 44777 Lane Court, Palmdale, California, 93554. We live in a gated community.

Her fingers stiffened from the compressions. Sweat beaded on her brow and ran down her face. She grimaced through the painful wetness engulfing her face.

What is the phone number you're calling from?

Can't you see my number? Her cell phone, lodged between her ear and neck, slipped away. We don't have time for this, she said, returning it to her perch. It's 661-555-4223.

Thank you, ma'am. We'll go through this quickly. Tell me exactly what happened.

We were finishing intercourse when he became dizzy, fell to the floor, and passed out. It's been three minutes since I started compressions.

How old is the patient?

Sixty-one.

Is the patient conscious?

I told you he's been out now about five minutes. Her hands, on their own, slowed compressions as fatigue crept in.

Is the patient showing any signs of breathing?

Look, I told you there is no time for these juvenile questions. Panic took over as she looked down at me. My waste oozed from my body. As I'm continuing CPR, his bowels are emptying.

Pardon me?

He's purging. In case you don't know, that's what the dying do as they die. So get me help here. Please!

We have firefighter paramedics three to five minutes away. I'll stay on the line with you until they get there.

Five minutes later, firefighter paramedics, led by firefighter sergeant, arrived, checked my pulse and breathing, and continued compressions. After six minutes of no pulse, the six-foot, six-inch firefighter said softly to Paula, I can't get a pulse. How long has he been out?

I was on the phone with 911 for three minutes. You got here five minutes later.

He continued compressions.

He's gone without oxygen for eight minutes?

More than that. I called you the first three minutes. You got here in five. It took you two minutes to clear the gate and get to our second floor.

He continued compressions, and two minutes later, he said, with exasperation, He's gone. Time of death—

In milliseconds, Paula closed the two-feet distance between the two of them, leaned over, and whispered, Don't you say that. That's not why I called you. That's my husband, the love of my life. Your job is to keep zapping him until he comes back. Do you understand?

If I'd been present, I would have shouted, That's my woman, and I have girl on my team!

The sergeant's eyes darted vertically the full height and depth of his sockets, purposely avoiding eye contact. He pressed his oversized hands deep into my chest, hoping not to crack my ribs. He felt a faint pulse and used his brief success as much to get away from Paula to race to Antelope Valley Hospital. He wasn't used to being talked to that way. To make things worse, she plunged the arrow into his manhood when she said, Do you understand?

Entering the emergency room, firefighter sergeant announced, We have a patient in V-fib. Went eight, maybe ten minutes, without oxygen.

Returning from break, Jackie, the senior nurse, asked, What are his vitals?

Temperature 90.3. Blood pressure 105 over 64. Pulse forty-five. Respirations twenty.

What is patient info?

Sixty-one-year-old African American male who has a history of coronary heart disease, myocardial infarction. He had a post coronary intervention in 2014.

My god, I know him! Jackie shouted, looking down at me on the gurney. His daughter plays girls' club volleyball with my daughter. Where's his wife?

She's in admitting, firefighter sergeant replied.

Jackie's sepia skin color went fawn in one breath. She moved her head from side to side, causing her long black braids to trail her head. Her normal professional demeanor contorted to rampant fear as she ran, clutching the sergeant's report.

Paula, Paul just came in. What happened?

We were finishing intercourse when he had a heart attack! Paula replied, her eyes tearing up.

Where are you with the admitting paperwork?

I just finished. Here, please help him!

Jackie ran back to ER, her hand brushing her braids from her face. She studied Paula's paperwork and found what she was looking for on page 2.

Where are Drs. Panoussi and Eddin? Get them! Panoussi will be admitting, Eddin attending. Take the patent to exam room 3.

Dr. Eddin pushed the blinds back and came into the exam room. Jackie spoke directly to him.

Dr. Eddin, you'll be attending. We have a sixty-one-year-old African American man in full cardiac V-fib. His BP is 85 over 61, pulse fifty-nine. I looked over his paperwork to confirm his insurance will cover whatever you decide is the proper care.

What's his status?

Urgent, life-threatening. He' gone without oxygen for ten minutes or more.

Are there any signs of brain activity?

Too soon to know.

Dr. Eddin scanned the paramedic's report.

Place the patient on a cardiac monitor and an invasive blood monitor. Order a respiratory therapist, nurse tech, a neurologist, and have an ER nurse assigned exclusively to him. I want a nurse to insert an IV into site 1 and 2, both eighteen-gauge catheters. I want all proper labs completed in the next forty-five minutes. I see on the admitting forms his cardiologist is Dr. Khanal. I know him. Is he on AV Hospital duty today? If not, contact him and find out what kind of shape the patient's in. I think placing him in hypothermic protocol will give his heart a chance to recuperate. But only if he's healthy enough.

Jackie called Lead Nurse Johnson. I need Dr. Khanal's contact info. Look in the hospital directory. Seconds later, Jackie dialed the number.

Good morning. This is Jackie, senior ER nurse at Antelope Valley Hospital. Mr. Paul Scott is a patient of Dr. Khanal. He experienced a full cardiac arrest and is here at the hospital. May I speak to Dr. Khanal? It's urgent. More seconds went by, then Dr. Khanal took the call.

This is Sanjay Khanal.

Your patient Mr. Scott is here. He had a massive cardiac arrest, and Dr. Eddin wants to know if Mr. Scott can withstand hypothermal protocol.

Mr. Scott is in excellent shape. His heart ejection fraction is forty-five. I inserted three stints in 2014, and he's had no subsequent events.

Thank you, Dr. Khanal. I hate to be abrupt, but time is critical. I'll have Dr. Eddin follow up with you. Veronica rushed back to exam room 3.

Dr. Eddin, I just spoke to Dr. Khanal, and he says Mr. Scott is in excellent shape. It's his recommendation that hypothermal protocol is appropriate.

Thank you. Has the neurologist been called?

I'm contacting him now.

Where's his wife?

She's right outside. Shall I get her?

Yes.

Jackie ignored the growing twitch in her fingers and darted between waiting patients to the lobby. She fought to maintain her professionalism despite the rapid thump of her heartbeat peppering her throat.

Paula, Dr. Eddin wants to speak with you. I want you to know I'll be here at the hospital until he stabilizes. I've got this, Jackie assured Paula.

Thank you so much. Let's go.

Moments later, Jackie returned with Mrs. Scott.

How do you do, Mrs. Scott? My name is Dr. Eddin. I'll be your husband's attending physician, he said, extending his hand.

Hi. Where are we? Paula asked after shaking his.

Your husband has suffered a massive heart attack, as you know. I need to be completely honest with you. He has suffered considerable damage to his heart. I don't know if there is brain damage or to what extent it is at this point, but I'm certain there is some degree of damage. I'm recommending his heart condition be addressed at once. I'm also recommending hypothermal protocol, with self-induced coma, to allow his heart to recover and give him a chance.

Paula said, You mean you're going to freeze him? What's the plan for shivering? And are there any expected complications?

His stupefied look at her knowledge of his profession revealed his sense of superiority.

We'll give him proper medications to counter the shivering. He'll be cooled to thirty-two to thirty-four degrees Fahrenheit for approximately twenty-four hours. Mrs. Scott, this process is not routine, and there's a good chance it may not succeed. I need you to understand this is a Hail Mary. You do understand that?

That means he's going on a ventilator?

Yes. That's standard procedure. It'll allow him to be watched and his breathing controlled.

The neurologist walked in, flippantly talking to a nurse about the Dodgers' chances of making the playoffs.

Is this the patient? the neurologist asked.

Yes.

I've read his chart, and I see no sign of brain activity. Are you sure all this is necessary? Freezing the body?

Dr. Eddin is attending, and this is what he ordered, Jackie shot back.

To herself, Jackie wondered why the neurologist always had to be a prick. None of the staff liked him. Here's a thought, she allowed herself to muse. What if he came down to earth, where the rest of the population lived? Maybe he'd have a better perspective?

This patient is brain-dead, inserted the neurologist.

I'll take it under advisement, Dr. Eddin responded.

Paula gave her approval and signed the release of liability forms, starting the cooling process. Paula put Eddin and the neurologist on notice. She'd be monitoring my care each day. She ordered a cot be provided to her so she could remain by my side. Like firefighter sergeant, they decided their lives would be better if she got what she wanted. The next day and a half, I was frozen in a state of delay. After day 2 of freezing, Dr. Eddin arrived at my bedside to see Paula sitting on the cot, waiting for him. He ordered the cooling process to begin.

By Friday of that week, Dr. Eddin approached my wife again.

Mrs. Scott, your husband isn't responding. The neurologist agrees. It would be best if you begin to accept that fact and make final plans.

She shook her head in disbelief. You don't know this man! Give him a few more days.

Had I been there, I would've told the doctors and nurses, That's my wife, and she's no one to mess with. And the neurologist wasn't a prick. He was a dick!

Dr. Eddin reluctantly agreed. Two days later, Dr. Eddin returned with the neurologist.

Mrs. Scott, we know this is difficult for you, but he's showing no signs of brain activity. We're recommending you end this experiment.

I fully concur, chimed in the neurologist and promptly walked away.

Paula said, Take him off the ventilator, stand him up, and let's see. Stand him up!

Dr. Eddin instructed the nurse to complete the cooling process the following morning and disconnect me from the ventilator. The next day, Saturday, July 30, 2016, the nurses watched me.

Dr. Eddin warned, We should know very soon.

The following day, the nurses, under the watchful eye of Dr. Eddin, stood me up, and I stumbled and fell to the floor. The neurologist said, Lazarus is back!

I would have said, Really, Mr. neurologist? That's the best you can do with your useless ass?

The nurses, Dr. Eddin, and the neurologist, their eyes wide with disbelief, moved quickly to get me into bed. The neurologist warned that my brain had sustained too much damage, and I would have a permanent anoxic brain injury or TBI.

The definition:

Anoxic brain injury is the result of a major lack of oxygen to the brain. When the brain does not receive proper amounts of glucose and oxygen, nerves in the cortex where cells originate are permanently damaged after five minutes.

Three weeks later, I was discharged from the Antelope Valley Hospital and transferred to Henry Mayo Clinic in Santa Clarita, California, where my rehabilitation was performed until August 24. Reaching the end of that portion of my recovery, I was transferred to the Center for Neuro Skills in Bakersfield, California, where they specialized in brain injuries. To be admitted, an assessment was completed.

The findings were: Impaired memory, little to no cognitive or language functions, executive functions nonexistent, no awareness of mental and emotional deficits, no problem-solving ability, no sign of safety awareness and mental processing speed, no receptive language or pragmatics skills, and no speech intelligibility functions.

In other words, I was fucked up!

In Christian circles, Paula had mustard seed faith. It is the deepest kind of faith someone can have. It's an absolute faith in God, regardless of how terrible things may look to human eyes. God's intervention and Paula's willingness to be his conduit is why I survived. How I would respond to another of the many chances I'd been given in life was up to me. I was raised to believe that God looks out for fools and babies. Well, I was no longer a baby, but I fit the bill for a fool. In fact, I had spent most of my life playing the fool or engaged in fool's play. But to tell the full and complete story of my foolish life, I must begin well before that massive heart attack.

Chapter 2

The Titans Whose Shoulders I Stand On

My family contributed only in part to who I became. Civil rights demonstrations and fierce dog attacks on marchers created the environment swirling around my early youth. Before my eyes, the Supremes went from R&B albums we in the Black community listened to, to their breaking the color barrier in appearing on the Ed Sullivan Show. That single night, they went from R&B heroes to American mainstream music legends.

The regular nightly news showcased Vietnam atrocities perpetrated by our troops. In my bedroom, news of Martin Luther King's assassination interrupted the regular programming, blaring Lou Rawls's Lady Love on my transistor radio, making me realize how cause and effect works. Every action has an equal and opposite reaction. I don't think anyone in the civil rights movement factored in the ruthless reaction by our government to citizens marching in the streets for the rights guaranteed in the Pledge of Allegiance.

That hypocritical promise was carried out by fierce dogs unleashed on citizens seeking justice for all. Marin Luther King, Malcolm X, Fred Hampton, and Mark Clark were murdered while seeking justice for all. Only a few, like Angela Davis, remain in this land of the living called the United States. But the leaders of the civil rights movement, as well as my family, are the Titans on whose shoulders I stand today.

But this chapter is about my family. My grandmother, Arnette Scales, was a unicorn. I view her as a female first, a progressive woman second (secretly, to me, she way my suffragette), and a Black Christian Scientist third. In my parents' home, early pictures of a sassy Grammer with a tiny waist filled out in the places men coveted adorned our living room walls, forcing me to reconcile later pictures of an older Grammar. During the Great Depression, she worked as a housemaid for a doctor and his wife, and as a result, her four children never experienced the poverty and homelessness many faced. Grammar divorced my grandfather and remarried, something unknown for women to do at that time in our country, and worked singularly to raise her four children.

My grandfather, Hank Scales, had no formal training but was a plumber if the need arose, construction if he had to, and a Baptist preacher who rose to the chairmanship of the Chicago Counsel of Baptist Ministers. The real Hank Scales, the one he displayed to his congregants, could charm people into paying for the air they breathed.

Grandma and Grandpa named Momma, their firstborn, Rhoda. Her siblings called her DA. She had remarkable wit with no tolerance for people who didn't take care of business, didn't keep their word, liars, and monkey blacks. Monkey blacks, a vastly derogatory term today, were Black people who performed outrageous stints in front of White people to make them laugh or be entertained.

Interestingly, I suspect she coined that term because it was so derogatory that perhaps the purveyors of the behavior would change their ways. It was her way of guilting them into pride in who they were. Neither did she abide Stepin Fetchit or Uncle Toms. I'll not honor those terms any further. If you don't know them, look them up. From Momma, I learned what kind of man to be.

My father, Claude Scott Sr., had a difficult upbringing. He was born in Okmulgee, Oklahoma. In 1907, Oklahoma transitioned from a territory to full statehood. In the transition, my grandfather was removed from his sheriff's duties, arrested for selling moonshine, charged and found guilty. As a result of him going to prison, his wife, my grandmother, moved to Arkansas and remarried. Her new husband used the belt often on my father, and he ran away. At some point, he connected with his brother, Orlando Scott. That period of their lives remains unrevealed as it was common among Black families not to pass on those aspects of their history.

My father and Uncle Orlando, at my Uncle Orlando's apartment, told me jokingly that survival taught them switchblades, petty crimes, bar fights, drunken nights, and arrests, ultimately landing them in a chain gang.

Momma and Daddy gave me his brother's name, Orlando, as my middle name. That decision ensured the generational curse of drinking, fighting, and living on the fringes of criminal activity would pass to me, and I fully embraced the curse. From Daddy, I learned to work hard and provide for my family, even though I also learned what kind of man not to be.

After my father returned from the war, my father's family told him he needed to marry and sent him to Arnette Scales's daughter, my mother. After a brief courtship, he proposed, and she accepted. They were married in 1946. John was born first, then Alice, Dickie, Helen, Mary, me, then Peter, and Mark—the baby.

Today, I muse about reporters and prognosticators telling their stories about not seeing anyone who looked like them and who they could pattern themselves after. For me and my brothers and sisters, there were strong African Americans, female and male, who served as role models we could strive to emulate. My grandfather, grandmother, father, mother, aunts, and uncles showed me what I could achieve. Momma was a writer. My second cousin, Margaret Danner, was poetess; my aunt Mowie was a teacher; and her former husband was a principal. In addition, Margaret's sister was a teacher, and her husband a college professor. Finally, my uncle was a successful businessman whose wife, like Momma, didn't work. I chose another path.

I pause the action and take a point of privilege.

I preface this chapter as it sheds a negative light on my father. Today our society knows more about PTSD (or shell shock, which we called it at that time) involving men returning from war.

My father served his country, returned home, worked every day, and provided for his family. We children and my mother lacked for no material thing. We owned a vacation home in addition to our homes in Chicago. Speaking for myself, I owe him a debt of gratitude as I still love him and will always love him.

With that said, let me continue.

Momma and Daddy bought their first home, a one-hundred-acre farm in Bangor, Michigan, in 1960. An apple orchard, woods excellent for hunting in the rear of the property, a barn and chicken coop area, an outlying building, and a woodshed greeted us children.

They agreed he would keep his job as a janitor with the Chicago Public Library, stay at Uncle Orland's apartment during the week, and come home on weekends. That agreement broke down as fast as it was entered. Weekend after weekend, he was a no-show. Momma called Uncle Orland's number and was told the message would be given to my father, but he never called. The excuses piled up. First, he had to work overtime. Then he missed the train. And it continued. We never knew if he was coming until he showed up. When he did, it was always late on a Friday night, and he brought the stench of bourbon in the door with him.

Unaware of a broken agreement, Dickie and I began mowing lawns and any odd jobs we could get. When we finished our work, we biked to Breedsville, a small town a mile and a half from home to shop for food and necessities. The grateful and hungry looks on my brothers' and sisters' faces made the coming manhood in my little body convince me I saw Mr. Clean when I looked in my cracked mirror. On days when exhaustion set in, Dickie would ride with me on the back of his bike downhill to Breedsville, and we, too tired to bike, walked back up the hill together. Our efforts became our rite of passage into the men we would become. But everyone played their part. During the summers, we children picked apples, blueberries, strawberries, and watermelons from morning to dusk.

Dickie took on man-of-the-house duties. He was the lead, and I was his happy sidekick. He woke at 5:00 a.m., lit the furnace, milked the cows, and fed the pigs and chickens.

Late one Saturday, a yellow cab appeared on the road at the end of our driveway. Its bright headlights commanded we stop what we were doing, and we gathered at the picture windows to squint, trying to make out the vehicle through the black night sky. The driver got out, retrieved a suitcase from the trunk, and carried it around to the rear passenger door. He stopped and opened the door, and a man fell getting out the back seat, righting himself before he hit the ground.

H reached awkwardly into his pocket and gave the driver what we assumed was cab fare. He straightened the part of his hat that clung limply to his ear. He slowly started up our driveway, waiting a full minute between steps, each leg crossing the other as if to create balance. The closer he came, the more his balance flitted away. Once we recognized it was Daddy, we rushed out to help him inside.

Hey, baby. I'm home, just for you, he slurred in a drunk man's gargle.

You mean for me and the kids?

You know what I mean.

He rested his single travel bag just inside the door, and it came to rest sideways, mimicking him.

Look what I have. For all of you.

This ain't Christmas, I smirked, holding my nose as too much Brill Cream rushed me.

Momma led him to their bedroom, and he stumbled behind her. Once in the room, his energy stopped propping him up, and he sank to the bed. I followed Momma to the edge of the door, peeking in. Unlike my brothers and sisters, I was inquisitive to the point that my protective instincts ruled me. I had no idea what to look for. I just needed to look.

Momma pushed him back onto the bed, stooping down to remove his shoes. He leaned over, unable to right himself, and dug in his back pocket, his frustration growing with each attempt. Finally, he found it. He handed Momma a wad. A wad is a small wallet for holding money. A twenty-dollar bill was visible. Momma opened it and saw singles in the middle. She flipped the wad over and saw another twenty on the back side. Her mouth fell open when she realized the singles were hidden between the twenties.

I said that knucklehead wasn't worth what the bird left on the tree! he stammered as if what he was saying worth hearing.

Momma dropped the wad on the bed and walked out. I followed her down the hall.

I didn't realize the significance of what I'd seen. My siblings weren't there, but I knew Momma was unhappy, so I was unhappy.

The next day, Alice remarked, Daddy's running game.

What do you mean? I asked.

Running game is offering bullcrap as if it's the real thing.

I know I'm not supposed to curse, but what is bullcrap?

It's crap. It's an untruth spoken as if it's true.

How do you know what crap is?

She looked down at me and smiled.