Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Thursday, November 3, 2011
Get your head out of the gutter
Yesterday I woke from a nap with my cell phone ringing in my ear... Indianapolis? No. It was my friend and cousin from the Seminary where I am staying. Hi, how things going... good... thanks... What?! The Rector wants to know why I have a video camera on a tripod at the end of my bed?
Funny... It's not a video camera, it's a still camera and actully it's is facing a chair. A chair which I sit in every morning while I take a picture of my face. A picture which will be in a collection of other pictures making up a slide show of how this illness is effecting my appearance and hopefully how the transplant will effect my appearance positively during recovery.
No, I'm not filming myself doing something unsavory.
Funny... It's not a video camera, it's a still camera and actully it's is facing a chair. A chair which I sit in every morning while I take a picture of my face. A picture which will be in a collection of other pictures making up a slide show of how this illness is effecting my appearance and hopefully how the transplant will effect my appearance positively during recovery.
No, I'm not filming myself doing something unsavory.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Welcome to Indiana, now go home.
Welcome to Indiana
Napping has become a past time of mine, not intentionally, I’d have to call it a symptom of having Hep C. If I never nap again it won’t be soon enough. I’ve mastered the art of napping, I can nap in completely silence, with inches of a back hull making a perfect level plane; my nieces crawling all over me and wiping witty snotty rags across my face. I’ve napped in a lot of places one my consider unnappable; pulled over on the side of the expressway, traffic whizzing by; the library as the young street hookers are going into the bathroom bartering off blow jobs to each other for ice cream sandwiches; a Starbucks I’m ashamed to say (not the napping, the admitting I’m spending time in a Starbucks) and of course my proudest napping moment on the toilet at a Biggs superstore sitting on the commode, pants down around me ankles…. Ahhh pride. All of these aren’t necessarily odd places to nap for some, but for me a person who likes his naps behind closed doors in his own bed with the slightest amount of day light flickering through.
It was a moment like this when I got the phone call. THE phone call, from Patty, PATTY, a transplant coordinator in Indianapolis. As I dug through y covers for the phone and saw that it was no particular sense of urgency hit me. I figured it was someone telling me I had to have to be drug tested or a medication change or my meld score had dropped. But no. It was Patty asking me how I felt….”We’ll I felt like getting a liver transplant of course, who wouldn’t on such a beautiful day” I was partially joking of course as she responded with “How soon can you be here?” RED ALERT!! RED ALERT!! So I hit over drive, or my version of overdrive, I should call it sloverdrive because I do move a bit slower and methodically than I used to. First things firsts call my wife in Boston and let her know I was headed to Indidie for the staple, she didn’t believe me…
“Yes… Yes I swear… I’m on my way; I hope to be there by six thirty…”
“Okay, yeah… I’ll let you know…”
Next get a ride, I called my mom. “You feel like going for a ride I said?”
“Where to?”
“Where do you think?”
“I don’t know… that’s why I said where to? You need to go to the pharmacy?”
“How about Indie I replied”… “For a new liver….!!!”
“You’re lying.”
“No Mom! Seriously, it’s time!!”
“Honestly…” she said
“Honest, I need to be there in two hours.”
My mom finally recognizes the panic and excitement in my voice and agrees that I probably am in line for a liver. She can pick me up in 20 minutes.
I hurriedly pack a bag and wait for what seems like forever out in front of the seminary. My Mom shows, I throw my gear into the back, pile into the car and the phone starts ringing as I slowly turn into a Zombie. Literally I felt like I was shutting down, suddenly numb. The time has come and all adrenalin has rushed out my body. My Mom worked the phone and the wheel, I sat there, mildly content as the miles moved below our feet. Not fast enough, always sarcastically encouraging my mother to push the pedal just a wee bit harder. Don’t worry if we get pulled over… I’m sure the Trooper will chaperon us the west of the way. Ensuring our speedy safe arrival. Didn’t happen, Mom kept it 4 miles over the posted speed limit as she read slowly read the billboards like a stack of tarot cards.
Eventually, between my mother’s heavy foot and the annoying GPS lady spouting off every five minutes we arrived at the front door of IU. I was promptly dropped off, worked my way upstairs and was introduced to my own personal nurse Janelle. Very nice and orderly and not forthcoming with information. They hadn’t “Procured” the liver from the donor body yet. I didn’t like that word, procured, at least it was better than reap, harvest or gleam. So they prepped me as my Mom worked the phones and told everyone to sit tight. Too late for my wife, she was already on a plane headed to Boston via Washington D.C.
Janelle informed us that this wait could take all night depending on when the procured the organ. She said she’d seen some patients wait as long as 12 hours before they went into the O.R. So we proceeded to make small talk as approximately 12 vials of blood where taken from me, I experienced an EKG; chest x-ray, blood pressure, temp and weight analysis. The only thing left to do was to shave my belly and undercarriage, give me some sedation and expose me to the humiliation of an enema. She said I could do the enema myself if I liked. I liked, one less piece of my dignity thrown into the bed pan. So, she stuck an IV in and we waited. My mother went and got a sandwich from the cafeteria, I listened to the chatter from the nurses’ station and waited.
Janelle buzzed around prepping for the upcoming procedure as I laid there under the harsh florescent lights wishing the doc would swing by with some info or a mild sedation to take the edge off. Neither happened. The phone rang, Janelle was called over, a brief hush conversation followed and as she hung up she said “Oh Shit!”
She came over to my gurney.” Not tonight kid, that liver wasn’t going to work for you or anyone else.” I felt the blood run completely out of my body, where it went I don’t know, but now, now I was sure I was a Zombie.
“What was wrong with it?”
“Don’t know, they don’t tell us”
“You have another back there?”
She smiled and shook her head no.
Damn I thought, all those people, waiting to come see me, damn! My wife! Flying from Boston to come see me.
I took a deep breath reassuring myself that this meant I was at the top of the list and it would be sooner than later before I was called again.
We got a hold of my wife, she got on a plane after only being in DC for seven minutes. Our children needed her more than I did. The IV was sadly taken from my arm and my mom and I gathered my things to head back.
The ride back to Cincinnati was much longer and quitter, I felt like talking even less than I did on the way up. Mom kept a positive attitude as we sped down 74 just 4 miles over the posted speed limit. She was a good sport and other than my wife I can’t think of another person in this world that I’d rather be sitting next to. We stopped and grabbed a sandwich from some roadside fast food joint which was more tasteless than usual as I thought about this experience and what the doctor said to me when I finally got to see him. “We don’t wanna put a shitta livah in ya boy… ya already got one of ‘em”.
Napping has become a past time of mine, not intentionally, I’d have to call it a symptom of having Hep C. If I never nap again it won’t be soon enough. I’ve mastered the art of napping, I can nap in completely silence, with inches of a back hull making a perfect level plane; my nieces crawling all over me and wiping witty snotty rags across my face. I’ve napped in a lot of places one my consider unnappable; pulled over on the side of the expressway, traffic whizzing by; the library as the young street hookers are going into the bathroom bartering off blow jobs to each other for ice cream sandwiches; a Starbucks I’m ashamed to say (not the napping, the admitting I’m spending time in a Starbucks) and of course my proudest napping moment on the toilet at a Biggs superstore sitting on the commode, pants down around me ankles…. Ahhh pride. All of these aren’t necessarily odd places to nap for some, but for me a person who likes his naps behind closed doors in his own bed with the slightest amount of day light flickering through.
It was a moment like this when I got the phone call. THE phone call, from Patty, PATTY, a transplant coordinator in Indianapolis. As I dug through y covers for the phone and saw that it was no particular sense of urgency hit me. I figured it was someone telling me I had to have to be drug tested or a medication change or my meld score had dropped. But no. It was Patty asking me how I felt….”We’ll I felt like getting a liver transplant of course, who wouldn’t on such a beautiful day” I was partially joking of course as she responded with “How soon can you be here?” RED ALERT!! RED ALERT!! So I hit over drive, or my version of overdrive, I should call it sloverdrive because I do move a bit slower and methodically than I used to. First things firsts call my wife in Boston and let her know I was headed to Indidie for the staple, she didn’t believe me…
“Yes… Yes I swear… I’m on my way; I hope to be there by six thirty…”
“Okay, yeah… I’ll let you know…”
Next get a ride, I called my mom. “You feel like going for a ride I said?”
“Where to?”
“Where do you think?”
“I don’t know… that’s why I said where to? You need to go to the pharmacy?”
“How about Indie I replied”… “For a new liver….!!!”
“You’re lying.”
“No Mom! Seriously, it’s time!!”
“Honestly…” she said
“Honest, I need to be there in two hours.”
My mom finally recognizes the panic and excitement in my voice and agrees that I probably am in line for a liver. She can pick me up in 20 minutes.
I hurriedly pack a bag and wait for what seems like forever out in front of the seminary. My Mom shows, I throw my gear into the back, pile into the car and the phone starts ringing as I slowly turn into a Zombie. Literally I felt like I was shutting down, suddenly numb. The time has come and all adrenalin has rushed out my body. My Mom worked the phone and the wheel, I sat there, mildly content as the miles moved below our feet. Not fast enough, always sarcastically encouraging my mother to push the pedal just a wee bit harder. Don’t worry if we get pulled over… I’m sure the Trooper will chaperon us the west of the way. Ensuring our speedy safe arrival. Didn’t happen, Mom kept it 4 miles over the posted speed limit as she read slowly read the billboards like a stack of tarot cards.
Eventually, between my mother’s heavy foot and the annoying GPS lady spouting off every five minutes we arrived at the front door of IU. I was promptly dropped off, worked my way upstairs and was introduced to my own personal nurse Janelle. Very nice and orderly and not forthcoming with information. They hadn’t “Procured” the liver from the donor body yet. I didn’t like that word, procured, at least it was better than reap, harvest or gleam. So they prepped me as my Mom worked the phones and told everyone to sit tight. Too late for my wife, she was already on a plane headed to Boston via Washington D.C.
Janelle informed us that this wait could take all night depending on when the procured the organ. She said she’d seen some patients wait as long as 12 hours before they went into the O.R. So we proceeded to make small talk as approximately 12 vials of blood where taken from me, I experienced an EKG; chest x-ray, blood pressure, temp and weight analysis. The only thing left to do was to shave my belly and undercarriage, give me some sedation and expose me to the humiliation of an enema. She said I could do the enema myself if I liked. I liked, one less piece of my dignity thrown into the bed pan. So, she stuck an IV in and we waited. My mother went and got a sandwich from the cafeteria, I listened to the chatter from the nurses’ station and waited.
Janelle buzzed around prepping for the upcoming procedure as I laid there under the harsh florescent lights wishing the doc would swing by with some info or a mild sedation to take the edge off. Neither happened. The phone rang, Janelle was called over, a brief hush conversation followed and as she hung up she said “Oh Shit!”
She came over to my gurney.” Not tonight kid, that liver wasn’t going to work for you or anyone else.” I felt the blood run completely out of my body, where it went I don’t know, but now, now I was sure I was a Zombie.
“What was wrong with it?”
“Don’t know, they don’t tell us”
“You have another back there?”
She smiled and shook her head no.
Damn I thought, all those people, waiting to come see me, damn! My wife! Flying from Boston to come see me.
I took a deep breath reassuring myself that this meant I was at the top of the list and it would be sooner than later before I was called again.
We got a hold of my wife, she got on a plane after only being in DC for seven minutes. Our children needed her more than I did. The IV was sadly taken from my arm and my mom and I gathered my things to head back.
The ride back to Cincinnati was much longer and quitter, I felt like talking even less than I did on the way up. Mom kept a positive attitude as we sped down 74 just 4 miles over the posted speed limit. She was a good sport and other than my wife I can’t think of another person in this world that I’d rather be sitting next to. We stopped and grabbed a sandwich from some roadside fast food joint which was more tasteless than usual as I thought about this experience and what the doctor said to me when I finally got to see him. “We don’t wanna put a shitta livah in ya boy… ya already got one of ‘em”.
Monday, October 31, 2011
House of the Holy
One thing I can count on when I visit Cincinnati and turning on the radio is that the play list is pretty much the same as the last time I visited and the time before that and the time before that and if I reach back far enough I can pretty much count on hearing the playlist of my senior year at high school. Flirting with disaster, something by Meatloaf, Lynard Skynard and always… always Dog and Butterfly by Heart. Not to mention something thrown in by some lesser known bands. Loverboy for example, how’d you like to be the list of bands that influenced Loberboy. Time to hang up the axe.
After a couple of weeks of crashing at someone’s home and displacing the general order of things tensions whether or not they’re recognized develop. It was time to move on and I’ve settled in Mount Saint Mary’s of the West Seminary. Yes it’s true. I have a small lovely cell of a room recently refurbished with paint and fixtures from Restoration Hardware. Not a Crucifix or praying hands adorn a wall. It is quite barren and quite comfortable. No television, no radio, very, very sporadic internet access and my only other companion on the floor are a Father Shrear who specializes in Biblical studies and scripture.
I’ve never made it a secret regarding my lack of faith and I’ve often mocked the Catholic Church and religion as a whole. I have to admit and eat some of my words; I’m getting something out of this experience. Speaking with some of the older members of the community, specifically Monsignor Lane and the previous mentioned Father Shrear, not to mention some of the young men who are going through the seminary I’m starting to buy into the concept of a higher power or a divine being. I like the structure, orderliness and symbolism offered by the church. Not to mention the familiarity of it all. I like those old Saints glaring down at me and the peacefulness of walks around the grounds and Athenaeum at three in the morning. If nothing else this experience has given me the opportunity for introspective reflection.
So as I walk the halls counting cold tiles while all the young seminarians are a sleep, I run my fingertips along the frigid walls looking for answers, waiting and hoping this new discovery will help get me to through the end, healthy, happy and a productive member of my family. Listening to the young priests and older Priests, no, no Friar Tucks, talking about their responsibility is almost metaphoric of mine. They have their flock of souls, I have my very small gaggle to take care of, share and hopefully teach write from wrong. So I sit quietly in the dark choir with the saints looking up me, wondering what I of all people am doing here. Waiting and feeling blessed to have such a peaceful place to count out the days.
After a couple of weeks of crashing at someone’s home and displacing the general order of things tensions whether or not they’re recognized develop. It was time to move on and I’ve settled in Mount Saint Mary’s of the West Seminary. Yes it’s true. I have a small lovely cell of a room recently refurbished with paint and fixtures from Restoration Hardware. Not a Crucifix or praying hands adorn a wall. It is quite barren and quite comfortable. No television, no radio, very, very sporadic internet access and my only other companion on the floor are a Father Shrear who specializes in Biblical studies and scripture.
I’ve never made it a secret regarding my lack of faith and I’ve often mocked the Catholic Church and religion as a whole. I have to admit and eat some of my words; I’m getting something out of this experience. Speaking with some of the older members of the community, specifically Monsignor Lane and the previous mentioned Father Shrear, not to mention some of the young men who are going through the seminary I’m starting to buy into the concept of a higher power or a divine being. I like the structure, orderliness and symbolism offered by the church. Not to mention the familiarity of it all. I like those old Saints glaring down at me and the peacefulness of walks around the grounds and Athenaeum at three in the morning. If nothing else this experience has given me the opportunity for introspective reflection.
So as I walk the halls counting cold tiles while all the young seminarians are a sleep, I run my fingertips along the frigid walls looking for answers, waiting and hoping this new discovery will help get me to through the end, healthy, happy and a productive member of my family. Listening to the young priests and older Priests, no, no Friar Tucks, talking about their responsibility is almost metaphoric of mine. They have their flock of souls, I have my very small gaggle to take care of, share and hopefully teach write from wrong. So I sit quietly in the dark choir with the saints looking up me, wondering what I of all people am doing here. Waiting and feeling blessed to have such a peaceful place to count out the days.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Interferon Revisited
The plan own my arrival was to jump feet first back into my interferon treatment for at least 4 weeks. After four weeks if the viral load hadn’t dropped there wasn’t any point of continuing. A double edge sword, it makes you feel worse than you may have ever felt in your life, but to get the cure, you have to keep chug, chug, chugging along.
The protocol consisted of three different types of meds, two taken orally, daily and the other taken once a week via a shot. So my sister in law, the nurse, gave me my first shot Tuesday evening and I popped a total of five pills that evening. Nothing right off the bat, no Bruce Banner moment, no David Naughton moment morphing into a werewolf in a London flat. Nothing, quite anti-climactic thankfully. All in all I’d get one shot a week, 84 pills a week plus the 70 I was currently taking along with the occasional 120ml of liquid lactulose syrup and the often needed Ambien.
The night held nothing for me, not until at least one or two in the morning, I don’t know for sure, because sometime around that hour is when I had the onslaught of bombarding proteins and medicines. Odd how something that is supposed to help you causes so much discomfort. Those are the doctor’s words, not mine, discomfort is putting it mildly. It’s like calling an open schrapnel wound an ant bite; disembowment a mild case of dysentery and a severed head merely a flesh wound. Shit! FUCK! Piss!!!! There hasn’t been any cuss words to describe how I felt, every cell, every fiber, every last part of me was screaming out in pain, looking for some release. I could hear my self moaning and screaming or so I thought, apparently I wasn’t or at least I wasn’t loud enough to wake anyone else in the house. If you’ve ever had such a severe case of the flu where you where shivering gold and sweating one minute, feverish the next, nausea but nothing coming out; head in vice grips. My collar bone ached like it had been shattered, the muscles in my hands and hips where seized up and I could feel the roots of my teeth aching in their sockets. It reminded me of heroin withdraw if anything, only worse. I was able to doze in and out of sleep, waking up, screaming and sweating and shivering then spending the next day wrapped in layers upon layers of blankets until I felt so feverish I ran a cold shower and shivered on the tub floor until I felt I cooled off.
Friday I was to see my new Hepatologist in Indie and it couldn’t come soon enough, I was suffering from fatigue, malaise and reverse sommnia and adrenal fatigue syndrome. Jackpot was hit when Doctor Lacerda took me off the meds. His reasoning, the symptoms and suffering generally doesn’t outweigh the benefits and he suspects I’ll have a new liver soon enough and we can address the other issues then. Yippee… my hero. I’m still working out some of the symptoms of the meds, apparently they’re cyclical and I can expect them to be in my bod for a brief more couple of weeks. My next appoint with the good doctor is December 2 and he seems to think I’ll have a transplant before then. One can only hope.
When I’m not wrapped up in blankets and have enough energy to do something other than surf the television I’m spending my time, trying, and trying to be productive. Today is actually the first day where I’ve had enough energy to get out and spend some real time outside the house.
Yesterday I met with a psychologist who can hopefully help me get through this transplant process in a positive fashion, possibly help me find some faith and deal with issues that may arise in my relationships. The whole goal of suffering through this process is to come out the other end with a better quality of life.
Finding myself with enough energy this morning I was out of the house by 8 o’clock and on the expressway to Cincinnati in rush hour traffic. Nice, foggy and not bad at all by Boston standards. I found my way to Oakley Square, my old stomping grounds. Hell, how things had changed. The library was torn down and rebuilt, my old school was now a whole foodish type of joint, the movie theater I first saw Peter Pan at and later would break into and mess about in the projection room was falling apart. The butcher shop and grocery was now a bar, the square was lined with yuppie baby stores, brass fixture shops and overpriced ladies boutiques.
Fortunately some things did stay the same. St Cecelia still stood strong, Courtesy Chevrolet where my buds and I would drop through the roof and sit in the cars was (at least until we got arrested) still there. And of course the church of Christ where I got molested by the mortician that buried my Uncle Ted and Grandfather Still survived resiliently.
The protocol consisted of three different types of meds, two taken orally, daily and the other taken once a week via a shot. So my sister in law, the nurse, gave me my first shot Tuesday evening and I popped a total of five pills that evening. Nothing right off the bat, no Bruce Banner moment, no David Naughton moment morphing into a werewolf in a London flat. Nothing, quite anti-climactic thankfully. All in all I’d get one shot a week, 84 pills a week plus the 70 I was currently taking along with the occasional 120ml of liquid lactulose syrup and the often needed Ambien.
The night held nothing for me, not until at least one or two in the morning, I don’t know for sure, because sometime around that hour is when I had the onslaught of bombarding proteins and medicines. Odd how something that is supposed to help you causes so much discomfort. Those are the doctor’s words, not mine, discomfort is putting it mildly. It’s like calling an open schrapnel wound an ant bite; disembowment a mild case of dysentery and a severed head merely a flesh wound. Shit! FUCK! Piss!!!! There hasn’t been any cuss words to describe how I felt, every cell, every fiber, every last part of me was screaming out in pain, looking for some release. I could hear my self moaning and screaming or so I thought, apparently I wasn’t or at least I wasn’t loud enough to wake anyone else in the house. If you’ve ever had such a severe case of the flu where you where shivering gold and sweating one minute, feverish the next, nausea but nothing coming out; head in vice grips. My collar bone ached like it had been shattered, the muscles in my hands and hips where seized up and I could feel the roots of my teeth aching in their sockets. It reminded me of heroin withdraw if anything, only worse. I was able to doze in and out of sleep, waking up, screaming and sweating and shivering then spending the next day wrapped in layers upon layers of blankets until I felt so feverish I ran a cold shower and shivered on the tub floor until I felt I cooled off.
Friday I was to see my new Hepatologist in Indie and it couldn’t come soon enough, I was suffering from fatigue, malaise and reverse sommnia and adrenal fatigue syndrome. Jackpot was hit when Doctor Lacerda took me off the meds. His reasoning, the symptoms and suffering generally doesn’t outweigh the benefits and he suspects I’ll have a new liver soon enough and we can address the other issues then. Yippee… my hero. I’m still working out some of the symptoms of the meds, apparently they’re cyclical and I can expect them to be in my bod for a brief more couple of weeks. My next appoint with the good doctor is December 2 and he seems to think I’ll have a transplant before then. One can only hope.
When I’m not wrapped up in blankets and have enough energy to do something other than surf the television I’m spending my time, trying, and trying to be productive. Today is actually the first day where I’ve had enough energy to get out and spend some real time outside the house.
Yesterday I met with a psychologist who can hopefully help me get through this transplant process in a positive fashion, possibly help me find some faith and deal with issues that may arise in my relationships. The whole goal of suffering through this process is to come out the other end with a better quality of life.
Finding myself with enough energy this morning I was out of the house by 8 o’clock and on the expressway to Cincinnati in rush hour traffic. Nice, foggy and not bad at all by Boston standards. I found my way to Oakley Square, my old stomping grounds. Hell, how things had changed. The library was torn down and rebuilt, my old school was now a whole foodish type of joint, the movie theater I first saw Peter Pan at and later would break into and mess about in the projection room was falling apart. The butcher shop and grocery was now a bar, the square was lined with yuppie baby stores, brass fixture shops and overpriced ladies boutiques.
Fortunately some things did stay the same. St Cecelia still stood strong, Courtesy Chevrolet where my buds and I would drop through the roof and sit in the cars was (at least until we got arrested) still there. And of course the church of Christ where I got molested by the mortician that buried my Uncle Ted and Grandfather Still survived resiliently.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Oficially Ofical
Well,
As of monday it is officialy, offical, my blood work and insurance company are allowing me to be listed for a new liver.
Chics dig scars
As of monday it is officialy, offical, my blood work and insurance company are allowing me to be listed for a new liver.
Chics dig scars
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
The CIty Where Pigs Fly
Today is the first day of the rest of…. I suppose the first day of the rest of my life. Flying into Cincinnati, waiting indefinitely for a liver. The sooner I get sicker the sooner I might get a transplant. I haven’t been sleeping well, dream and thoughts of leaving my wife, kids and life behind. What will they do? What will I do without them? They’re stronger than me. I’m weak in compareision. Dreams of being a burden, how have I burdened my family with the illness over the past few months, years, please let the sun shine on us all on the other side of this experience.
As I sit on this plane, all incase in plastic, metal and rivets covered in clouds at 28,200 feet I imagine the plane unraveling and falling, not unlike I have in recent years of my life. Next to me sits a man who seems completely immersed in the corporate culture of America, I can tell he is slightly annoyed with the idea of getting to sit next to me. Sitting there fiddling with my IPod the jack isn’t plugging into the unit as snug as it should and the soothing sounds of FEARs Let’s have a war are barely audibly violating my row partners personal space. After more fiddling, I’m still failing at quieting my IPod, I turned to the man in next to me letting him know I apologize and if I couldn’t get it to work properly I’d shut it down, “I didn’t want to disturb him.” . He replied, “Too late, you already have.” With that I rudely shoved his arm from the shared arm rest and replied… “Well, if it’s any conciliation, the stench of Homogenized America reeking up the row has offended me as since I sat down.”
My plan for the next few months is pretty basic. I want to re discover the person that was me. I miss that person. He got lost in the world of alcohol and drug abuse, the world of self-absorption, with his career and for whatever reason lost sight with what he card about in the world. I liked that naïve little fucker, he wasn’t terribly strong or thought but overwhelming generous and he had a good heard
A couple of things need to happen while I’m on the stretch. First of all I need to try and get and expel this disease that is ravaging my body and consuming my mind. This in turn presents me from focusing on me. Interferon is the preferred method prescribed by my heopatologist. Hemp oil is another potion from the Fertile Crescent preached to by my cousin and last a coffee enema seems to be my business partners preferred method of detoxification and reaching a cure, even though he himself has never participated in the stinky art.
I’ve traveled through this tunnel before and I’ll stick with the advice of the PR actioners
of western medicine and re-walk down the path again. It’s a miserable road and I think I’ll begin the process tonight or tomorrow. I could come up with a thousand of reasons why another time might be better to start… but then, I’d probably never get started. My brother’s wife is a nurse, so at the very least she gets me off to a running start with my first injection.
After a few days at my brother’s house and reconnecting with some family members I’ll be moving into a seminary. Now, full heartedly begins the quest for faith from an atheist. It’s not that I don’t not believe in god, bit rather I don’t believe in him. I’m open to the possibility. I wish I did believe, the concept of faith I find reassuring. I am a man who has been presented with a series of low expectations my entire life so why should I have nay now in regards to God.
I’ll be spending time with young, hopeful seminarians, these young hopeful gentleman have
invited me to their community and have asked me to participate as much as my health will allow me. I also have a few sessions with a professor of theology a some spiritual directors who can probably lead m the direction of finding my own faith. I’d be very happy if I come out the other end of this a little less skeptical. The last leg of my journery is at Mount St Joseph. Originally a college for producing nuns of the sisters of Charity. More recently they’ve expanded their horizons and numbers and now include men in their members of their student body. My Aunt s a member of the order and sat on some board or held some high felutin job for many, many years. She a woman who knew where her home was and found contentment, if not happiness there. Not only did she assist in guiding the order but her work has taken her all over the world. I remember one incident in particular, she was so excited, and on a trip to Vatican City she was possibly granted an audience with Pope John Paul. Well, as luck would have it, while she was touring and waiting in Rome the Pope up and died. Fortunately she was abel to participate in the viewing which I understand was a very moving experience in its own rite.
So they have a little apartment out there at the mount which the nice Ladies will allow me
to set camp up until I’m called to Indianapolis for my new and improved liver. Maybe I’ll make them a pie
As I sit on this plane, all incase in plastic, metal and rivets covered in clouds at 28,200 feet I imagine the plane unraveling and falling, not unlike I have in recent years of my life. Next to me sits a man who seems completely immersed in the corporate culture of America, I can tell he is slightly annoyed with the idea of getting to sit next to me. Sitting there fiddling with my IPod the jack isn’t plugging into the unit as snug as it should and the soothing sounds of FEARs Let’s have a war are barely audibly violating my row partners personal space. After more fiddling, I’m still failing at quieting my IPod, I turned to the man in next to me letting him know I apologize and if I couldn’t get it to work properly I’d shut it down, “I didn’t want to disturb him.” . He replied, “Too late, you already have.” With that I rudely shoved his arm from the shared arm rest and replied… “Well, if it’s any conciliation, the stench of Homogenized America reeking up the row has offended me as since I sat down.”
My plan for the next few months is pretty basic. I want to re discover the person that was me. I miss that person. He got lost in the world of alcohol and drug abuse, the world of self-absorption, with his career and for whatever reason lost sight with what he card about in the world. I liked that naïve little fucker, he wasn’t terribly strong or thought but overwhelming generous and he had a good heard
A couple of things need to happen while I’m on the stretch. First of all I need to try and get and expel this disease that is ravaging my body and consuming my mind. This in turn presents me from focusing on me. Interferon is the preferred method prescribed by my heopatologist. Hemp oil is another potion from the Fertile Crescent preached to by my cousin and last a coffee enema seems to be my business partners preferred method of detoxification and reaching a cure, even though he himself has never participated in the stinky art.
I’ve traveled through this tunnel before and I’ll stick with the advice of the PR actioners
of western medicine and re-walk down the path again. It’s a miserable road and I think I’ll begin the process tonight or tomorrow. I could come up with a thousand of reasons why another time might be better to start… but then, I’d probably never get started. My brother’s wife is a nurse, so at the very least she gets me off to a running start with my first injection.
After a few days at my brother’s house and reconnecting with some family members I’ll be moving into a seminary. Now, full heartedly begins the quest for faith from an atheist. It’s not that I don’t not believe in god, bit rather I don’t believe in him. I’m open to the possibility. I wish I did believe, the concept of faith I find reassuring. I am a man who has been presented with a series of low expectations my entire life so why should I have nay now in regards to God.
I’ll be spending time with young, hopeful seminarians, these young hopeful gentleman have
invited me to their community and have asked me to participate as much as my health will allow me. I also have a few sessions with a professor of theology a some spiritual directors who can probably lead m the direction of finding my own faith. I’d be very happy if I come out the other end of this a little less skeptical. The last leg of my journery is at Mount St Joseph. Originally a college for producing nuns of the sisters of Charity. More recently they’ve expanded their horizons and numbers and now include men in their members of their student body. My Aunt s a member of the order and sat on some board or held some high felutin job for many, many years. She a woman who knew where her home was and found contentment, if not happiness there. Not only did she assist in guiding the order but her work has taken her all over the world. I remember one incident in particular, she was so excited, and on a trip to Vatican City she was possibly granted an audience with Pope John Paul. Well, as luck would have it, while she was touring and waiting in Rome the Pope up and died. Fortunately she was abel to participate in the viewing which I understand was a very moving experience in its own rite.
So they have a little apartment out there at the mount which the nice Ladies will allow me
to set camp up until I’m called to Indianapolis for my new and improved liver. Maybe I’ll make them a pie
Saturday, October 8, 2011
Not so fresh fruit and rotting vegetables
Back to My Roots. Sort of.
Recently I flew into Cincinnati to spend time with my family and jump through some hoops, err… have some medical tests done in Indianapolis. The facility there is great; one of the best in the country, actually top four and the director is shooting for number one. I like that, I find it reassuring. Better to have a liver transplant at a place that’s trying to be the best rather than one that does two or three a year. Not to mention that the wait time for a liver is significantly less than in Boston.
I had done some preliminary work before arriving in Indie by sending them all my medical records, getting tested for PPD, LTD, a chest x-ray, endoscopy and my personal favorite the ever so popular colonoscopy. Come on Doc, the least you could do is by a fellow a drink. As always with the transplant teams they’re looking for reassurance that you have the proper support to help you get through this process, so I had my mother, brother and sister accompany me though the three day grind of taking my shirt off, pressing, poking, CAT scans, MRIs, blood drawing, urinalysis, ultrasounds, echo-cardio testing, psychological profiling and a two hour Q & A with a social worker.
I’ve learned to forget about dignity and pride through this whole experience. Taking my shirt off and exposing my distended bloated stomach (I’m guessing the equivalent of a 5 month Prego belly) or having an ultrasound tech shoving my ball sack around and pressing her cold jelly tipped wand into my groin while looking for blood clots isn’t terribly embarrassing. In this case the end certainly justifies the means and I will suffer any indignity, humiliation and degradation the folks at Indian University Purdue University Medical Center care to throw at me. As long as I come out the other end of this process with a better quality of life I’ll smile happily as you tell me to turn my head and cough or probe my butt hole all in the name of making me well again.
I noticed a few things while driving through Indiana and spending time in Indianapolis. They grow a whole bunch of corn and soy beans; it’s very, very flat; there isn’t really a well “defined” cuisine; grown men with really big belly’s wear
overalls, proudly and everyone is really, really nice. Everything moved a bit slower than here in New England, when people asked me how I was doing, I generally got the feeling that they sort of really cared. Everyone sort of seemed to be happily moseying along, saying hi and generally being congenial. For better or worse if I found myself lying on a technicheans examination table long enough I got to learn a fair amount of their life story. It was a nice distraction from the business at hand… learning about the Pulmonologist son’s job as a restaurant expeditor at one of Indie’s “better restaurants”; talking soul food with the phlebotomist; yacking it up with the medical assistant about her cousin Garnet who married a hair lipped tattoo artist and body piercer from Valparaiso, home of the obsessed sign builder or learning the trails of the geriatric Zimbabwean Cardiologist’s efforts in the tri-athalon. I liked these people and I was happy at the thought of them cutting me open and giving me a new liver. They were solid, no frills, hardworking, easy going middle American folks.
I was hopeful and optimistic when I got back into the car to drive back to Cincinnati with my sister. The only thing that was bringing me down was the deabiliting muscle cramps I was having all over my body. Apparently the heavy dosage of diuretics I’m on makes fluid “rush” out of my remaining muscle tissue to God only knows where. Apparently it’s creating a resivoir on my belly. This fluid rushing causes cramps that are more painful than any pain I can remember. They generally start in my hands feeling like a powerful squeezing handshake to the point where my hands and fingers seize up and I can’t uncurl them. My hips, quads, neck muscles, feet and toes shortly follow suit. Occasionally whatever muscles I have on the crown of my head and the front of my shins seize up as well. It’s a really party and nothing relieved it. At least not until Nurse Ellen told me to drink tonic water. Quinine, the old malaria cure. Well, I did and it worked. I’m drinking about 18 ounces of tonic water a day and have only tingles of cramps. Thanks nurse Ellen.
The rest of my time in Cincinnati was spent hanging out with family, sleeping, eating a little and trying to apologize to my step father for possibly hurting his feelings in a previous post. It wasn’t my intention for him to read it, but he did. And I knew he was pissed, I’d be if someone portrayed me in such a negative light, even if it’s true. Actually, I went easy on him; I didn’t mention the spankings and the physical intimidation. Who the fuck spanks an eleven year old kid? Oh, an ignorant hill billy from central Ohio and a father who’s had too much to drink and not feeling too good about himself, that’s who.
I went to pay a visit to Mr. B one Saturday afternoon; he was lying on the couch, looking weak and feeble with an oxygen hose running to his nose. My first inclination was to hold him down and step on the hose, denying him of his much needed canned gas, watching him slowly turn blue as his life slowly seeped away. It would be freeing, for me, my brother and sister, my mother and him of course, from his bitter miserable scroogie existence. He would be at peace, worm fodder, pushing up daisies. I’d hold his hand gingerly as I took him to meet his maker. The sound of the golf game on TV brought me back to reality and my fantasy ended. I’m a bigger man than that so of course I didn’t follow through, instead I asked my mother to leave the room and attempted my apology.
“Listen, I have something I want to say to you…”
“I got nothing to say to you, I don’t wanna hear whatever it is you have to say any way.”
“Well, you’re going to have to, because apparently you can’t get up and walk away from me.” I said.
His face reddened, he was getting angry and I’m sure he wanted to throttle me and I’m sure he had enough strength in his hands and arms to do just that but I wasn’t planning on getting close enough. He wasn’t hearing it… “it wasn’t my intention to hurt your feelings…”; “I didn’t write it for you… I wrote it for me…”; “Listen, it was 35 years ago, neither one of us are the people we were then!?” My apology was falling on deaf ears, as far as he was concerned the stone had been cast and there wasn’t any going back. He hollered at me, letting me know that he knew how I felt about him and I should have written it in a diary and not shared it with anyone if I wanted to get if off my chest.“Well, go fuck yourself if that’s how you feel!” I shouted over his ranting as I left the house. Finding that satisfying, I turned and walked back in the room “Listen” I said “… we’re bigger than this.” . “I think you’re an idiot for writing it.” He recanted. “We’ll in that case go fuck yourself again.” Saying it felt really good. It was immature, inappropriate and certainly not in the spirit of an apology but it felt really, really good. One simple sentence, letting him know how I feel about him. I tried. Hard. But after nearly 35 years of listening to his abusive nature spill out onto my mother, brother and sister, not to mention anyone else that didn’t meet his standard of mediocrity.
Now, I just think of him as a baby-man, helpless and feeble, sitting and lying on that couch being waited upon (much to my chagrin) by my mother hand in foot. I call him Tinkerbelle, Care Bear, Tender Vittles and Strawberry shortcake. The next time I see the man it will be all too soon.
I was pissed, relieved and satisfied as I left. I was a little flustered and a little sorry I told the old man to fuck off. Should I have even tried, should I have waited? Too late, damage done.
I decided to clear my head by driving out to the old farm in Lookout Indiana. If you’ve read my previous post Utopia you got a small glimpse of it, beautiful, sylvan, hilly and just plain peaceful. Driving out 74 through the industrial neighborhoods flanking the expressway I felt the memory of my assholish step-father melting away behind me. I could forget about that old prick, my rotting liver and the fact that I may be away from my family for months. Thoughts of riding horses through the woods and sunny glades, swimming out into the pond and treading water wear the spring fed in, playing with my favorite dog Eli and napping on bales of hay in the barn loft. I know it sounds cliché, it does, but that was my childhood or part of it. Finding a quite spot on the farm or in the woods, reading a book and escaping my reality. Distracting myself with Twain, Tolkien and David Morrell, living my life through their words on the page was pure bliss.
My anticipation grew as I got off the expressway onto the highway, each turn and mile brought me closer to the old farm. The roads got progressively smaller, rougher and less traveled, farmers on tractors stopped and waved, children stopped playing and looked to see who the unfamiliar passerby was. Everyone pretty much knew everyone else out here so when an unfamiliar car passed it created a wee bit of curiosity. Finally I turned down E C Road 950 North. It hadn’t changed much, a small white trashy trailer sat at the bottom of a hill all beat’n up and accompanied by a hazardous looking rusted out swing set, couple of beater cars on cinder blocks, hoods open and windows broken out and a some malnourished mangy dogs sniffing around for half eaten scraps in trash heaps. I was sure the hold house was in much better shape, I anticipated the place looked just like we had left it. Climbing up the hill in my brother’s car I passed a grater smoothing things out and trying to fill in the ruts caused by the last several rains erosion. Cresting the hill, there she sat, the old homestead, I could see the barn, garage and our old pastures… what the fuck… our old pastures, which had apparently been turned over with a plow and planted with vegetables which subsequently had been left to rot. It was putrid! One field had rotting zucchinis and squash, another had musk melons decomposing on the vine, half eaten by the local critters. I was aghast; this wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. Where are the sunflowers, brown eyed dairy cows and blue birds singing from a fence post?! As I got closer my jaw dropped in disbelief, the place had turned into a shit hole. The new owners built a new metal shed that had no business being there, all modern, austere and completely out of place. The barn roof was filled with holes and the whole back side had rotted off. Again, beat’n up old cars and motorcycles lie in a giant heap between the garage and barn, and forget about the random giant piles of logs and cleared thicket resting around the yard. Our beautiful old front yard was all mud and slush, filthy tire tracks lead up to the porch of the old house. An old two and a half ton truck filled with card board boxes sat in the middle of the yard, pieces of paper, shreds of burlap, plastic bags and rusted busted up old tools lay thrown about. The trunks of all our beautiful trees cut down to stumps and again, piles of rotting vegetables placed haphazardly. It was distressing but when I saw our old house I sank. The front door had been ripped off, some of the windows were broken out¸ the ugly green siding was covered in rust and mold and the shingles where falling off. Someone had spray painted “paking shed” down the side of the building.
As I got out of the car and started walking around the property I was reminded of my own mortality. Spending time here as a boy, working my way thru puberty, I was young, hopeful and saw the world as a place full of promise and possibilities. Like this land fruitful land; it fed my body as well as my soul. Goat’s milk, fresh corn, tomatoes, our own pork, the peace and solitude of the woods and fields, I was so happy here as things started out that September back in 75. Now looking around, the land was tired and worn out. It looked as if its caretaker had given up on it years ago. I waked around the property, lost and wispy in memories of what was. All the fruit trees were cut down, the back lawn leading down to the pond overgrown with brush, the pond water looking murky and slimy covered with algae.
The only thing that looked the same was the industrial door-less cinder block garage. It was solid, our chickens and ducks used to take refuge in. The old nasty rooster spent his time roosting here when he wasn’t spending his time chasing children and dogs around the yard. No windows, three sides and a tin roof. Sadly, I realized the only thing that seemed to have any permanence on this property was completely inorganic, a product of the modern age. The old fence posts making our corral leaned hap hazardly in different directions, its slats taken and used for some other project or worse, thrown in a pile just to rot for some unfinished project. I walked to the back wall of the garage where the land sloped down to the pond, I remember painting a small mural of The Who’s Quadraphenia Scooter dude and I wanted to see if any remnants survived. To my surprise you could barely make out the make out the male gender sign with the faded letters w h o on back of the guys rain. I started to feel good, a wave of nostalgia swept over me, some things seemed to have some permanence. I took pleasure in remembering the cool sunny November day 35 years ago I painted that mural, I felt satisfied in seeing my bleached out old mural. I felt some things do endure. Then, content, I turned to walk down to the pond… and I saw it. The old rabbit hutch, a small free standing structure with faded red barn wood, falling apart, it’s wire mesh door hanging from a rusted out hinge. Remembering what happened here and why all feelings of joy just sort of wilted. I remembered that things weren’t mostly nice and sunny and idyllic and blissful. That rabbit hutch reminded me that things were mostly fucked up and miserable in the worse kind of way for a little kid.
Recently I flew into Cincinnati to spend time with my family and jump through some hoops, err… have some medical tests done in Indianapolis. The facility there is great; one of the best in the country, actually top four and the director is shooting for number one. I like that, I find it reassuring. Better to have a liver transplant at a place that’s trying to be the best rather than one that does two or three a year. Not to mention that the wait time for a liver is significantly less than in Boston.
I had done some preliminary work before arriving in Indie by sending them all my medical records, getting tested for PPD, LTD, a chest x-ray, endoscopy and my personal favorite the ever so popular colonoscopy. Come on Doc, the least you could do is by a fellow a drink. As always with the transplant teams they’re looking for reassurance that you have the proper support to help you get through this process, so I had my mother, brother and sister accompany me though the three day grind of taking my shirt off, pressing, poking, CAT scans, MRIs, blood drawing, urinalysis, ultrasounds, echo-cardio testing, psychological profiling and a two hour Q & A with a social worker.
I’ve learned to forget about dignity and pride through this whole experience. Taking my shirt off and exposing my distended bloated stomach (I’m guessing the equivalent of a 5 month Prego belly) or having an ultrasound tech shoving my ball sack around and pressing her cold jelly tipped wand into my groin while looking for blood clots isn’t terribly embarrassing. In this case the end certainly justifies the means and I will suffer any indignity, humiliation and degradation the folks at Indian University Purdue University Medical Center care to throw at me. As long as I come out the other end of this process with a better quality of life I’ll smile happily as you tell me to turn my head and cough or probe my butt hole all in the name of making me well again.
I noticed a few things while driving through Indiana and spending time in Indianapolis. They grow a whole bunch of corn and soy beans; it’s very, very flat; there isn’t really a well “defined” cuisine; grown men with really big belly’s wear
overalls, proudly and everyone is really, really nice. Everything moved a bit slower than here in New England, when people asked me how I was doing, I generally got the feeling that they sort of really cared. Everyone sort of seemed to be happily moseying along, saying hi and generally being congenial. For better or worse if I found myself lying on a technicheans examination table long enough I got to learn a fair amount of their life story. It was a nice distraction from the business at hand… learning about the Pulmonologist son’s job as a restaurant expeditor at one of Indie’s “better restaurants”; talking soul food with the phlebotomist; yacking it up with the medical assistant about her cousin Garnet who married a hair lipped tattoo artist and body piercer from Valparaiso, home of the obsessed sign builder or learning the trails of the geriatric Zimbabwean Cardiologist’s efforts in the tri-athalon. I liked these people and I was happy at the thought of them cutting me open and giving me a new liver. They were solid, no frills, hardworking, easy going middle American folks.
I was hopeful and optimistic when I got back into the car to drive back to Cincinnati with my sister. The only thing that was bringing me down was the deabiliting muscle cramps I was having all over my body. Apparently the heavy dosage of diuretics I’m on makes fluid “rush” out of my remaining muscle tissue to God only knows where. Apparently it’s creating a resivoir on my belly. This fluid rushing causes cramps that are more painful than any pain I can remember. They generally start in my hands feeling like a powerful squeezing handshake to the point where my hands and fingers seize up and I can’t uncurl them. My hips, quads, neck muscles, feet and toes shortly follow suit. Occasionally whatever muscles I have on the crown of my head and the front of my shins seize up as well. It’s a really party and nothing relieved it. At least not until Nurse Ellen told me to drink tonic water. Quinine, the old malaria cure. Well, I did and it worked. I’m drinking about 18 ounces of tonic water a day and have only tingles of cramps. Thanks nurse Ellen.
The rest of my time in Cincinnati was spent hanging out with family, sleeping, eating a little and trying to apologize to my step father for possibly hurting his feelings in a previous post. It wasn’t my intention for him to read it, but he did. And I knew he was pissed, I’d be if someone portrayed me in such a negative light, even if it’s true. Actually, I went easy on him; I didn’t mention the spankings and the physical intimidation. Who the fuck spanks an eleven year old kid? Oh, an ignorant hill billy from central Ohio and a father who’s had too much to drink and not feeling too good about himself, that’s who.
I went to pay a visit to Mr. B one Saturday afternoon; he was lying on the couch, looking weak and feeble with an oxygen hose running to his nose. My first inclination was to hold him down and step on the hose, denying him of his much needed canned gas, watching him slowly turn blue as his life slowly seeped away. It would be freeing, for me, my brother and sister, my mother and him of course, from his bitter miserable scroogie existence. He would be at peace, worm fodder, pushing up daisies. I’d hold his hand gingerly as I took him to meet his maker. The sound of the golf game on TV brought me back to reality and my fantasy ended. I’m a bigger man than that so of course I didn’t follow through, instead I asked my mother to leave the room and attempted my apology.
“Listen, I have something I want to say to you…”
“I got nothing to say to you, I don’t wanna hear whatever it is you have to say any way.”
“Well, you’re going to have to, because apparently you can’t get up and walk away from me.” I said.
His face reddened, he was getting angry and I’m sure he wanted to throttle me and I’m sure he had enough strength in his hands and arms to do just that but I wasn’t planning on getting close enough. He wasn’t hearing it… “it wasn’t my intention to hurt your feelings…”; “I didn’t write it for you… I wrote it for me…”; “Listen, it was 35 years ago, neither one of us are the people we were then!?” My apology was falling on deaf ears, as far as he was concerned the stone had been cast and there wasn’t any going back. He hollered at me, letting me know that he knew how I felt about him and I should have written it in a diary and not shared it with anyone if I wanted to get if off my chest.“Well, go fuck yourself if that’s how you feel!” I shouted over his ranting as I left the house. Finding that satisfying, I turned and walked back in the room “Listen” I said “… we’re bigger than this.” . “I think you’re an idiot for writing it.” He recanted. “We’ll in that case go fuck yourself again.” Saying it felt really good. It was immature, inappropriate and certainly not in the spirit of an apology but it felt really, really good. One simple sentence, letting him know how I feel about him. I tried. Hard. But after nearly 35 years of listening to his abusive nature spill out onto my mother, brother and sister, not to mention anyone else that didn’t meet his standard of mediocrity.
Now, I just think of him as a baby-man, helpless and feeble, sitting and lying on that couch being waited upon (much to my chagrin) by my mother hand in foot. I call him Tinkerbelle, Care Bear, Tender Vittles and Strawberry shortcake. The next time I see the man it will be all too soon.
I was pissed, relieved and satisfied as I left. I was a little flustered and a little sorry I told the old man to fuck off. Should I have even tried, should I have waited? Too late, damage done.
I decided to clear my head by driving out to the old farm in Lookout Indiana. If you’ve read my previous post Utopia you got a small glimpse of it, beautiful, sylvan, hilly and just plain peaceful. Driving out 74 through the industrial neighborhoods flanking the expressway I felt the memory of my assholish step-father melting away behind me. I could forget about that old prick, my rotting liver and the fact that I may be away from my family for months. Thoughts of riding horses through the woods and sunny glades, swimming out into the pond and treading water wear the spring fed in, playing with my favorite dog Eli and napping on bales of hay in the barn loft. I know it sounds cliché, it does, but that was my childhood or part of it. Finding a quite spot on the farm or in the woods, reading a book and escaping my reality. Distracting myself with Twain, Tolkien and David Morrell, living my life through their words on the page was pure bliss.
My anticipation grew as I got off the expressway onto the highway, each turn and mile brought me closer to the old farm. The roads got progressively smaller, rougher and less traveled, farmers on tractors stopped and waved, children stopped playing and looked to see who the unfamiliar passerby was. Everyone pretty much knew everyone else out here so when an unfamiliar car passed it created a wee bit of curiosity. Finally I turned down E C Road 950 North. It hadn’t changed much, a small white trashy trailer sat at the bottom of a hill all beat’n up and accompanied by a hazardous looking rusted out swing set, couple of beater cars on cinder blocks, hoods open and windows broken out and a some malnourished mangy dogs sniffing around for half eaten scraps in trash heaps. I was sure the hold house was in much better shape, I anticipated the place looked just like we had left it. Climbing up the hill in my brother’s car I passed a grater smoothing things out and trying to fill in the ruts caused by the last several rains erosion. Cresting the hill, there she sat, the old homestead, I could see the barn, garage and our old pastures… what the fuck… our old pastures, which had apparently been turned over with a plow and planted with vegetables which subsequently had been left to rot. It was putrid! One field had rotting zucchinis and squash, another had musk melons decomposing on the vine, half eaten by the local critters. I was aghast; this wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. Where are the sunflowers, brown eyed dairy cows and blue birds singing from a fence post?! As I got closer my jaw dropped in disbelief, the place had turned into a shit hole. The new owners built a new metal shed that had no business being there, all modern, austere and completely out of place. The barn roof was filled with holes and the whole back side had rotted off. Again, beat’n up old cars and motorcycles lie in a giant heap between the garage and barn, and forget about the random giant piles of logs and cleared thicket resting around the yard. Our beautiful old front yard was all mud and slush, filthy tire tracks lead up to the porch of the old house. An old two and a half ton truck filled with card board boxes sat in the middle of the yard, pieces of paper, shreds of burlap, plastic bags and rusted busted up old tools lay thrown about. The trunks of all our beautiful trees cut down to stumps and again, piles of rotting vegetables placed haphazardly. It was distressing but when I saw our old house I sank. The front door had been ripped off, some of the windows were broken out¸ the ugly green siding was covered in rust and mold and the shingles where falling off. Someone had spray painted “paking shed” down the side of the building.
As I got out of the car and started walking around the property I was reminded of my own mortality. Spending time here as a boy, working my way thru puberty, I was young, hopeful and saw the world as a place full of promise and possibilities. Like this land fruitful land; it fed my body as well as my soul. Goat’s milk, fresh corn, tomatoes, our own pork, the peace and solitude of the woods and fields, I was so happy here as things started out that September back in 75. Now looking around, the land was tired and worn out. It looked as if its caretaker had given up on it years ago. I waked around the property, lost and wispy in memories of what was. All the fruit trees were cut down, the back lawn leading down to the pond overgrown with brush, the pond water looking murky and slimy covered with algae.
The only thing that looked the same was the industrial door-less cinder block garage. It was solid, our chickens and ducks used to take refuge in. The old nasty rooster spent his time roosting here when he wasn’t spending his time chasing children and dogs around the yard. No windows, three sides and a tin roof. Sadly, I realized the only thing that seemed to have any permanence on this property was completely inorganic, a product of the modern age. The old fence posts making our corral leaned hap hazardly in different directions, its slats taken and used for some other project or worse, thrown in a pile just to rot for some unfinished project. I walked to the back wall of the garage where the land sloped down to the pond, I remember painting a small mural of The Who’s Quadraphenia Scooter dude and I wanted to see if any remnants survived. To my surprise you could barely make out the make out the male gender sign with the faded letters w h o on back of the guys rain. I started to feel good, a wave of nostalgia swept over me, some things seemed to have some permanence. I took pleasure in remembering the cool sunny November day 35 years ago I painted that mural, I felt satisfied in seeing my bleached out old mural. I felt some things do endure. Then, content, I turned to walk down to the pond… and I saw it. The old rabbit hutch, a small free standing structure with faded red barn wood, falling apart, it’s wire mesh door hanging from a rusted out hinge. Remembering what happened here and why all feelings of joy just sort of wilted. I remembered that things weren’t mostly nice and sunny and idyllic and blissful. That rabbit hutch reminded me that things were mostly fucked up and miserable in the worse kind of way for a little kid.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
the big move
Just got listed for a transplant in Indie, bitter sweet, Will be arriving in the midwest next week.
Liverserum
Liverserum
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Double Disappointment
Today was a king shit day. Shittiest of the shitty days. Two things happened...
I didn't get listed in Indie...yet... only a matter of time. My eval paperwork didn't even go in front of the board due to some "miscommuication" or in the words of Zepplin, Communication Breakdown.
Secondly, I desperately am looking for someone to watch my kids for a couple of weeks in late October and early November. Otherwise, I'll be traveling back to New England, going off the list and potentially missing a transplant oppurtunity. If you have any ideas, please let me know.
I didn't get listed in Indie...yet... only a matter of time. My eval paperwork didn't even go in front of the board due to some "miscommuication" or in the words of Zepplin, Communication Breakdown.
Secondly, I desperately am looking for someone to watch my kids for a couple of weeks in late October and early November. Otherwise, I'll be traveling back to New England, going off the list and potentially missing a transplant oppurtunity. If you have any ideas, please let me know.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Utopia is spelled LOOKOUT INDIANA
The summer on the river camp was running down and September was just around the corner. That meant a new school, new friends, new house and a new life about an hour outside of the city. Not knowing where we were moving to and wanting to get me acquainted with our new environment we took a ride out to check out the lay of the land as it was. The house was up a dirt and gravel road, not unlike the road we’d be leaving behind; only this road had a name. East Country Road 950 North?! Jesus I was disappointed with that name and lack of originality, what would have been wrong with Deliverance Lane, Pig Slaughter Avenue, Rooster Kill Circle or Boy get ready for misery and an ass whipp’n way? All better choices than E. C. Road 950 N.
Our nearest town, a less than booming metropolis called Lookout, Indiana, USA. And it was Americana at its best. Lookout consisted of a crossroads, about 5 houses and a general store that sold nearly everything. Wanted canned meat, overalls, a shovel, ladies hats, gas (including diesel), t-shirts, spaghetti, and about a million other items. They had it, as well as functioning as the local post office. . It was a dirty little store with two small windows out front covered in gravel dust. Well lit it was not, handy it was. It was an old school convenience store and there were many times my dad was out of beer or smokes or cold cuts and he’d send me up there on the back of a horse or on my motorcycle to grab something. Back then a 12 year old could buy ‘em hassle free.
The properties were an old elderly couple that never cracked a smile or had a friendly word to say. Maybe they were afraid of adding a wrinkle to their wrinkles or maybe they just didn’t like city folk and outsiders, of which we were both. All transactions where done with as little talking as possible and never any questions asked. Eventually I started talking like a local farmer to them, just to see if I could get a reaction? “Looks like rain I’d say” and pretend to spit; "Soy Beans in the back forty ain't doing none to good this year." How about your all’s?” and I’d pretend to spit. Sometimes I’d throw in an English accent… “Care for a wee bit of squeak and giggle from the missus and a spot of tea?” nothing. CB’s were really big back then and occasionally as the old man was taking my money , counting out my change I’d turn to his old stooped over wife sitting behind the counter and lay on here…”What’s your handle? Want to see… err know mine?” and of course I’d pretend to spit. Apparently I thought a lot of farmers spitted. I suppose maybe they suspected I was the young cuss calling and doing prank calls, we had a four way party line on our phone so it was probably pretty easy to narrow down. Prince Albert in can and playing Muskrat Love by the Captain and Tenel was getting tiresome so I eventually just took to burping or making fart noises into the phone.
Of course not being able to see in the future I had no idea what the future had for me, had I known, possibly I’d of run back to my mom begging her to take me back. As it was the property was beautiful, nothing really stood out; every building was tired and beat. In that late august hazy Midwestern humidity and sunshine it looked like Utopia. The house was an exhausted looking one story with six rooms. Three bedrooms, living, dining, a kitchen and a bath. Nothing special or spectacular. The front porch was just one step up from the yard and it was a cistern, only water source. The basement was dark and dank; the builder used old termite infested locust tree trunks to support the house. There was an old barn with a tin roof and red peeling paint that had a few big open spaces for equipment and some small stalls. Chickens, ducks and assorted rusty hand tools occupied the space of our two car door less garage and finally there was an old rabbit hutch sitting down a gentle slope to a spring fed pond.
The property had multiple fields, three varieties of apple trees, peach, plum and pear trees. An asparagus patch and wild rhubarb and parsnips grew all over willy nilly. To me, this was paradise, the farm was eventually populated with seemingly wild dogs, barn cats, several cows, maybe eight horses, goats, runt pigs from down the road, chickens, ducks and one mean ass rooster that stood his ground against anybody. Dogs, larger animals and small children. I used to cackle like a mad man watching that rooster chase down my brother, sister and little cousins.
Our nearest town, a less than booming metropolis called Lookout, Indiana, USA. And it was Americana at its best. Lookout consisted of a crossroads, about 5 houses and a general store that sold nearly everything. Wanted canned meat, overalls, a shovel, ladies hats, gas (including diesel), t-shirts, spaghetti, and about a million other items. They had it, as well as functioning as the local post office. . It was a dirty little store with two small windows out front covered in gravel dust. Well lit it was not, handy it was. It was an old school convenience store and there were many times my dad was out of beer or smokes or cold cuts and he’d send me up there on the back of a horse or on my motorcycle to grab something. Back then a 12 year old could buy ‘em hassle free.
The properties were an old elderly couple that never cracked a smile or had a friendly word to say. Maybe they were afraid of adding a wrinkle to their wrinkles or maybe they just didn’t like city folk and outsiders, of which we were both. All transactions where done with as little talking as possible and never any questions asked. Eventually I started talking like a local farmer to them, just to see if I could get a reaction? “Looks like rain I’d say” and pretend to spit; "Soy Beans in the back forty ain't doing none to good this year." How about your all’s?” and I’d pretend to spit. Sometimes I’d throw in an English accent… “Care for a wee bit of squeak and giggle from the missus and a spot of tea?” nothing. CB’s were really big back then and occasionally as the old man was taking my money , counting out my change I’d turn to his old stooped over wife sitting behind the counter and lay on here…”What’s your handle? Want to see… err know mine?” and of course I’d pretend to spit. Apparently I thought a lot of farmers spitted. I suppose maybe they suspected I was the young cuss calling and doing prank calls, we had a four way party line on our phone so it was probably pretty easy to narrow down. Prince Albert in can and playing Muskrat Love by the Captain and Tenel was getting tiresome so I eventually just took to burping or making fart noises into the phone.
Of course not being able to see in the future I had no idea what the future had for me, had I known, possibly I’d of run back to my mom begging her to take me back. As it was the property was beautiful, nothing really stood out; every building was tired and beat. In that late august hazy Midwestern humidity and sunshine it looked like Utopia. The house was an exhausted looking one story with six rooms. Three bedrooms, living, dining, a kitchen and a bath. Nothing special or spectacular. The front porch was just one step up from the yard and it was a cistern, only water source. The basement was dark and dank; the builder used old termite infested locust tree trunks to support the house. There was an old barn with a tin roof and red peeling paint that had a few big open spaces for equipment and some small stalls. Chickens, ducks and assorted rusty hand tools occupied the space of our two car door less garage and finally there was an old rabbit hutch sitting down a gentle slope to a spring fed pond.
The property had multiple fields, three varieties of apple trees, peach, plum and pear trees. An asparagus patch and wild rhubarb and parsnips grew all over willy nilly. To me, this was paradise, the farm was eventually populated with seemingly wild dogs, barn cats, several cows, maybe eight horses, goats, runt pigs from down the road, chickens, ducks and one mean ass rooster that stood his ground against anybody. Dogs, larger animals and small children. I used to cackle like a mad man watching that rooster chase down my brother, sister and little cousins.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Fat Frank & the Smurfs
Fat Frank & the Smurfs
My belly keeps expanding. It’s uncomfortable, ugly, makes it difficult to breathe and I feel like I’m five or six months pregnant, approximately. I saw nurse K last week and today to see if anything can be done about. My options include muddling along as is, keeping my salt intake low, low, low. Raise my diuretics which will make me pee more; currently after taking the diuretics about an hour afterwards I have to pee every ten minutes for about an hour. That’s a lot of getting up and finding a bathroom, fortunately for me and my brood peeing up against a tree anent no problem. Lastly they could tap me. Sounds like exactly what it is. They take a big ass needle, stick it in my belly and draw out as much fluid as possible. Unfortunately, once you get tapped you generally don’t go back. Also, the fluid generally comes back like a pack of screaming howler monkeys, i.e. full force with a vengeance. Not to mention they suck out a bunch of good proteins an albumium in there as well. So the doc and the nurse decided the best course of action was to raise my diuretics “to the threshold” and see what happens. I’m generally feeling pretty fucking good right now except for this belly that keeps on getting in my way and incites all the female construction workers to cat call me. Why and try to make my life more comfortable right now?
On another note I took the kids to the drive-in Friday night to see the new smurf movie. And yes, it was an excise in suffrage with a two year old repeatedly saying…”Dad can I sit here?”, “Dad can I sit here?”, “Dad can I sit here?” Truly though it was fun, my boy enjoyed it and we had a few laughs the echoed throughout the drive-in. Even the battery dying and having to get jumped while trying to explain to my kid what function the battery performs. I don’t know, but I think sticking with “It supplies electricity to the car.” was vague and general enough that I didn’t sound like an idiot.
I didn’t grow up with the smurfs, so I didn’t know a lot of their history. I knew they were blue, pretty much dressed the same and overall they’d make pretty good neighbors. Learning that Papa smurf had 99 sons and one daughter did sort of creep me out, what do they do about procreation?
Tom and Jerry whacking each other with frying pans to the back of the head, cannons going off in Yosemite Sam’s face and anything from ACME falling on, crushing, pureeing or turning the Wiley Coyote into a walking according was more my speed. I did love the Looney Toons. When I was in the USN I lived off base in beautiful Monterey California with some dude named Jim another Navy guy. Jim would go to work fix computer hardware, come home and suck on the end of a bong until he was completely annihilated. That is all he did. Occasionally I took him to a punk rock show, where he’d watch, mouth agape in a glassy eyed trance trying to stay clear of the pit.
Jim introduced me to another Navy Techie named Fat Frank. Fat Frank also off base and happened to live just down the street from us. I was about 18 and Frank was in his thirties and he had a much better command of the English language the Jim did during a cannabis self-induced stupor so Frank made much better company and I ended up hanging with him quite a bit.
Frank had a guy up in Alameda that he’d go see every month or so and bring back sheets of aqua blue window pane acid. Window pane or Clear light refers to an opaque gelatin sheet containing the LSD dosage, generally no more than a centimeter across. Frank bought a lot and he was generous with what he bought. Previously only doing mushrooms, peyote and morning glory seeds acid tripping seemingly opened some doors for me. I would tell people that eating shrooms was comparable to eating a piece of Mother Nature and eating acid was like eating a smoldering bolt of electricity. After a summer of doing it pretty frequently I thought enough was enough and encouraged folks to steer clear of the LSD, if you had to trip, go natural, but… You don’t have to trip.
Late that fall I took a bit of window pane and mosied on down to Fat Franks house to chill out for a while. The dose just started hitting as I knocked and the door was pulled open by a bare chested, red hat wearing, giant blue Smurf. What the hell, it was Frank! I’ll call him Fatty Smurf. It was Halloween and Frank stripped down to too tight white capris, silly ass white hat and an entire body painted blue. Aka, Fatty Smurf. We sat on his stoop the remainder of the night, tripping, drinking beer and giving out candy to all the kids that were brave enough to venture up to the giant smurf.
I pretty much forgot about Fat Frank the Smurf until I myself saw the Smurf movie and MY belly started to expand, so, can you guess what I might be this Halloween if the Docs can’t get my growing belly under control?
My belly keeps expanding. It’s uncomfortable, ugly, makes it difficult to breathe and I feel like I’m five or six months pregnant, approximately. I saw nurse K last week and today to see if anything can be done about. My options include muddling along as is, keeping my salt intake low, low, low. Raise my diuretics which will make me pee more; currently after taking the diuretics about an hour afterwards I have to pee every ten minutes for about an hour. That’s a lot of getting up and finding a bathroom, fortunately for me and my brood peeing up against a tree anent no problem. Lastly they could tap me. Sounds like exactly what it is. They take a big ass needle, stick it in my belly and draw out as much fluid as possible. Unfortunately, once you get tapped you generally don’t go back. Also, the fluid generally comes back like a pack of screaming howler monkeys, i.e. full force with a vengeance. Not to mention they suck out a bunch of good proteins an albumium in there as well. So the doc and the nurse decided the best course of action was to raise my diuretics “to the threshold” and see what happens. I’m generally feeling pretty fucking good right now except for this belly that keeps on getting in my way and incites all the female construction workers to cat call me. Why and try to make my life more comfortable right now?
On another note I took the kids to the drive-in Friday night to see the new smurf movie. And yes, it was an excise in suffrage with a two year old repeatedly saying…”Dad can I sit here?”, “Dad can I sit here?”, “Dad can I sit here?” Truly though it was fun, my boy enjoyed it and we had a few laughs the echoed throughout the drive-in. Even the battery dying and having to get jumped while trying to explain to my kid what function the battery performs. I don’t know, but I think sticking with “It supplies electricity to the car.” was vague and general enough that I didn’t sound like an idiot.
I didn’t grow up with the smurfs, so I didn’t know a lot of their history. I knew they were blue, pretty much dressed the same and overall they’d make pretty good neighbors. Learning that Papa smurf had 99 sons and one daughter did sort of creep me out, what do they do about procreation?
Tom and Jerry whacking each other with frying pans to the back of the head, cannons going off in Yosemite Sam’s face and anything from ACME falling on, crushing, pureeing or turning the Wiley Coyote into a walking according was more my speed. I did love the Looney Toons. When I was in the USN I lived off base in beautiful Monterey California with some dude named Jim another Navy guy. Jim would go to work fix computer hardware, come home and suck on the end of a bong until he was completely annihilated. That is all he did. Occasionally I took him to a punk rock show, where he’d watch, mouth agape in a glassy eyed trance trying to stay clear of the pit.
Jim introduced me to another Navy Techie named Fat Frank. Fat Frank also off base and happened to live just down the street from us. I was about 18 and Frank was in his thirties and he had a much better command of the English language the Jim did during a cannabis self-induced stupor so Frank made much better company and I ended up hanging with him quite a bit.
Frank had a guy up in Alameda that he’d go see every month or so and bring back sheets of aqua blue window pane acid. Window pane or Clear light refers to an opaque gelatin sheet containing the LSD dosage, generally no more than a centimeter across. Frank bought a lot and he was generous with what he bought. Previously only doing mushrooms, peyote and morning glory seeds acid tripping seemingly opened some doors for me. I would tell people that eating shrooms was comparable to eating a piece of Mother Nature and eating acid was like eating a smoldering bolt of electricity. After a summer of doing it pretty frequently I thought enough was enough and encouraged folks to steer clear of the LSD, if you had to trip, go natural, but… You don’t have to trip.
Late that fall I took a bit of window pane and mosied on down to Fat Franks house to chill out for a while. The dose just started hitting as I knocked and the door was pulled open by a bare chested, red hat wearing, giant blue Smurf. What the hell, it was Frank! I’ll call him Fatty Smurf. It was Halloween and Frank stripped down to too tight white capris, silly ass white hat and an entire body painted blue. Aka, Fatty Smurf. We sat on his stoop the remainder of the night, tripping, drinking beer and giving out candy to all the kids that were brave enough to venture up to the giant smurf.
I pretty much forgot about Fat Frank the Smurf until I myself saw the Smurf movie and MY belly started to expand, so, can you guess what I might be this Halloween if the Docs can’t get my growing belly under control?
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Ennui is not a city in France
It’s been a while since any posting and it isn’t because there hasn’t been a lot going on. From a medical standpoint, I’m in the middle of the wait. The wait for a liver, the wait to go to Indie, the wait to feel better, it’s going to be a long wait. Overall I’m feeling pretty well, tired, fatigued a general sense of malaise and ennui. Typical I suppose. My biggest hurdle currently is trying to get my Ascites (see how I take ownership) under control.
Ascites is the accumulation of fluid in the belly or abdomen, it can be slight, moderate or severe and the Doc’s use different treatments depending on the ascites. My posting called a pig in the poker details my first experience with the ABDO-Needle. Yuk. I’m probably at the moderate to severe stage, I’ll find out more tomorrow after I see Nurse K. If they can’t get the ascites under control with meds then they’ll “tap” me, no unlike a draft beer. Potentially they could pull out as much as 2 gallons of fluid which translates to 16.68 pounds. I’m slight framed and losing muscle mass so this is not an insignificant number. Two babies, an average sized New York Strip or one big fat Samoa Baby. I feel like I’m carrying someone around inside there, with all the gurgling, fluid running and shifting. If nothing else it has allowed me the opportunity to empathize more with pregos. Standing is an effort, stair walking is an effort, pretty much every fucking thing is an effort and I can’t wait to get tapped or have this fluid defused with meds. Worst case scenario they put in a catheter, so they can pull fluid out on a weekly or twice weekly basis. I suspect I won’t be going there as those folks have significantly higher meld scores than me.
A week from today I’ll be arriving in Cincinnati and I’m looking forward to it. Not having seen most of my family for a long time under different circumstances it would be a super kick ass trip. As it is, I suspect I’ll do some sleeping, eating, visiting and if I’m lucky I’ll get to cook for a few folks.
Then Sunday evening it’s up to Indie for another series of test to try and get listed up there. I’ll keep you posted and if you have any recommendations for restaurants in Cinci or Indie please comment or drop me an email.
Ascites is the accumulation of fluid in the belly or abdomen, it can be slight, moderate or severe and the Doc’s use different treatments depending on the ascites. My posting called a pig in the poker details my first experience with the ABDO-Needle. Yuk. I’m probably at the moderate to severe stage, I’ll find out more tomorrow after I see Nurse K. If they can’t get the ascites under control with meds then they’ll “tap” me, no unlike a draft beer. Potentially they could pull out as much as 2 gallons of fluid which translates to 16.68 pounds. I’m slight framed and losing muscle mass so this is not an insignificant number. Two babies, an average sized New York Strip or one big fat Samoa Baby. I feel like I’m carrying someone around inside there, with all the gurgling, fluid running and shifting. If nothing else it has allowed me the opportunity to empathize more with pregos. Standing is an effort, stair walking is an effort, pretty much every fucking thing is an effort and I can’t wait to get tapped or have this fluid defused with meds. Worst case scenario they put in a catheter, so they can pull fluid out on a weekly or twice weekly basis. I suspect I won’t be going there as those folks have significantly higher meld scores than me.
A week from today I’ll be arriving in Cincinnati and I’m looking forward to it. Not having seen most of my family for a long time under different circumstances it would be a super kick ass trip. As it is, I suspect I’ll do some sleeping, eating, visiting and if I’m lucky I’ll get to cook for a few folks.
Then Sunday evening it’s up to Indie for another series of test to try and get listed up there. I’ll keep you posted and if you have any recommendations for restaurants in Cinci or Indie please comment or drop me an email.
Friday, August 12, 2011
Lactulose Intolerent & the Strength of Little Boys
From a medical perspective it was a pretty slow week. Wednesday I had a meeting with Jennifer, my substance abuse therapist. It was our last one, I can go back if I’d like but I told her I wouldn’t be coming back, I enjoyed talking to her and if she’d like to meet me half way we could arrange something. Mostly we talked about my family and kids, it was nice, sure, she’s trained to be empathetic but I think she is especially good at it. If you didn’t know I’m officially listed with UNOS for a liver, so that’s good news and I’m headed to Indiana University in September to go through a battery of tests to see if they’ll consider putting me on their list as well. All good news.
The one hurdle of the week is dealing with the lactulose, apparently, people with liver disease sometimes have bile back up, which creates ammonia, which in turn decides to settle in the head and put pressure on the brain or somehow generally disrupt its function. People who are sick call it Brain Fog, the Meds call it dementia or confusion, either way, if I have it, I don’t have it too badly.
If you don’t like poop stories or are week of stomach you may want to stop reading right about HERE. Lactulose is evil. It puts new meaning into the word shit. Oh my god, 30mg, twice daily to induce stomach cramps, diarrahea, farting and anal seepage. Where do I start, first of all stuff tastes like really bad pancake syrup, nasty, sticky sweetly rancid. It doesn’t go down to badly though, I’m sure I’ve had worse in my mouth. About an hour or so after the dose the grumblings start. Sort of musical, like an interesting wet gurgle, liquid resettling and sloshing around a bit, no so bad. Cramps, okay, I know it is a completely different kind of cramp but I know completely sympathize with every woman on the planet that has suffered from cramps. I can feel my stomach knotting and churning and trying to twist into itself and away from itself. It feels like a cannon ball right below my sternum. In the 80’s there were rumors about gay folks taking a hamster or gerbil and shoving them up there anus. These cramps feel like a whole habitrail full of hamsters and a couple of them giving birth where living in my stomach and large intestine. The farting, well, not so bad, really, long, loud and entertaining if you allow yourself to channel the junior high school boy inside of you. The kicker, you got it, the big D, assquake, colon blow, poop smoothie, the hersey squirts and my personal favorite fireball atomic sludge. As I’m experience this sensation I have to wonder… is it on fire, it feels flammable, keep open flames at a distance please, the cramps come back, I have to clench my teeth and hold on to the nearest solid object so I won’t blow get blown away. Then there are always multiple tips back into the Lou, sometimes six an hour, sometimes less, as time goes by they sort of trail away, until the next dosage, about 12 hours later. Always something to look forward to, by the way, I was just kidding about the anal seepage and I do apologize for the grossness of this post.
They say kids know things even when they don’t know things, that they’re able to pick up on the current vibe. That being said, my wife and I felt it was important for me to have a talk with my boy, my little five year old mischievous angel, sometimes devil. I know he can be a little devil because sometimes when the light hits him just right I see little horn buds beginning to sprout off his forehead. I haven’t been procrastinating, but I wanted to make sure the timing was right and I knew what to say without freaking him out to much, yet sharing the right amount of info with him. So after talking to my wife, a couple of counselors I kind of had it figured out. Due to some coming and going of visitors, work, play time and not wanting to have a heavy conversation close to his bed time I didn’t get the opportunity to talk to him until this morning.
He was up and running around downstairs when I woke and I was determined to do it this morning before I left for work. After morning hugs and kisses I asked him to have a seat in my office and I’d be in shortly. I poked my head in, he was sitting on the floor, quietly knowing something was up, Pokémon sticker book in hand. I suggested he get Dora chair so he could be more comfortable, it’s a purple, plush, mushy children’s arm chair with Dora on the back. Perfect actually. I sat down, turned to my boy, he looked up at me with his big beautiful brown eyes he got from his mother inquisitively.
“Son, have you noticed I sleep a lot? And I’m more tired than normal?” I said.
“Do you want to do the sticker book with me?” he asked.
“Sure, when we’re done talking, this is important, you know how I’m tired a lot”
He nodded.
“Well, I’m sick son.”
“I don’t see a booboo?”
“It’s on the inside of me.”
“Are you going to get a shot?”
“Yeah, probably a lot of shots.”
“How are they going to give you a shot inside you?” he asked?
“They’re going to operate.”
“What’s that?”
“Well, they’ll cut me open and fix me.”
“Where will they cut you?”
I drew an imaginary line down my chest and over my belly. “Here.”
“Will it hurt? He asked and I nodded.
“Are you going to be dead?” he asked?
I shook my head and said no.
“Bene’s dad was sick and he’s dead.”
“I know son, I’ll be okay, I just wanted to share what was going on with me, let you know I love and ask you if you have any question.”
He shook his head no. “What’s that?” he said as he pointed to my face.
“It’s a tear son.” I replied as he touched it and rubbed it in.
He rubbed my belly, looked into my eyes and hugged me and I held him, feeling his tiny wee body and hoping the best for him in this life and hoping I’d be there to see a lot more of it.
“Why is your voice funny daddy?”
“I’m just so proud to have you as my boy son.”
“Do you want to do stickers now?” he said as he held my hand and led me into the living room. I nodded silently.
The one hurdle of the week is dealing with the lactulose, apparently, people with liver disease sometimes have bile back up, which creates ammonia, which in turn decides to settle in the head and put pressure on the brain or somehow generally disrupt its function. People who are sick call it Brain Fog, the Meds call it dementia or confusion, either way, if I have it, I don’t have it too badly.
If you don’t like poop stories or are week of stomach you may want to stop reading right about HERE. Lactulose is evil. It puts new meaning into the word shit. Oh my god, 30mg, twice daily to induce stomach cramps, diarrahea, farting and anal seepage. Where do I start, first of all stuff tastes like really bad pancake syrup, nasty, sticky sweetly rancid. It doesn’t go down to badly though, I’m sure I’ve had worse in my mouth. About an hour or so after the dose the grumblings start. Sort of musical, like an interesting wet gurgle, liquid resettling and sloshing around a bit, no so bad. Cramps, okay, I know it is a completely different kind of cramp but I know completely sympathize with every woman on the planet that has suffered from cramps. I can feel my stomach knotting and churning and trying to twist into itself and away from itself. It feels like a cannon ball right below my sternum. In the 80’s there were rumors about gay folks taking a hamster or gerbil and shoving them up there anus. These cramps feel like a whole habitrail full of hamsters and a couple of them giving birth where living in my stomach and large intestine. The farting, well, not so bad, really, long, loud and entertaining if you allow yourself to channel the junior high school boy inside of you. The kicker, you got it, the big D, assquake, colon blow, poop smoothie, the hersey squirts and my personal favorite fireball atomic sludge. As I’m experience this sensation I have to wonder… is it on fire, it feels flammable, keep open flames at a distance please, the cramps come back, I have to clench my teeth and hold on to the nearest solid object so I won’t blow get blown away. Then there are always multiple tips back into the Lou, sometimes six an hour, sometimes less, as time goes by they sort of trail away, until the next dosage, about 12 hours later. Always something to look forward to, by the way, I was just kidding about the anal seepage and I do apologize for the grossness of this post.
They say kids know things even when they don’t know things, that they’re able to pick up on the current vibe. That being said, my wife and I felt it was important for me to have a talk with my boy, my little five year old mischievous angel, sometimes devil. I know he can be a little devil because sometimes when the light hits him just right I see little horn buds beginning to sprout off his forehead. I haven’t been procrastinating, but I wanted to make sure the timing was right and I knew what to say without freaking him out to much, yet sharing the right amount of info with him. So after talking to my wife, a couple of counselors I kind of had it figured out. Due to some coming and going of visitors, work, play time and not wanting to have a heavy conversation close to his bed time I didn’t get the opportunity to talk to him until this morning.
He was up and running around downstairs when I woke and I was determined to do it this morning before I left for work. After morning hugs and kisses I asked him to have a seat in my office and I’d be in shortly. I poked my head in, he was sitting on the floor, quietly knowing something was up, Pokémon sticker book in hand. I suggested he get Dora chair so he could be more comfortable, it’s a purple, plush, mushy children’s arm chair with Dora on the back. Perfect actually. I sat down, turned to my boy, he looked up at me with his big beautiful brown eyes he got from his mother inquisitively.
“Son, have you noticed I sleep a lot? And I’m more tired than normal?” I said.
“Do you want to do the sticker book with me?” he asked.
“Sure, when we’re done talking, this is important, you know how I’m tired a lot”
He nodded.
“Well, I’m sick son.”
“I don’t see a booboo?”
“It’s on the inside of me.”
“Are you going to get a shot?”
“Yeah, probably a lot of shots.”
“How are they going to give you a shot inside you?” he asked?
“They’re going to operate.”
“What’s that?”
“Well, they’ll cut me open and fix me.”
“Where will they cut you?”
I drew an imaginary line down my chest and over my belly. “Here.”
“Will it hurt? He asked and I nodded.
“Are you going to be dead?” he asked?
I shook my head and said no.
“Bene’s dad was sick and he’s dead.”
“I know son, I’ll be okay, I just wanted to share what was going on with me, let you know I love and ask you if you have any question.”
He shook his head no. “What’s that?” he said as he pointed to my face.
“It’s a tear son.” I replied as he touched it and rubbed it in.
He rubbed my belly, looked into my eyes and hugged me and I held him, feeling his tiny wee body and hoping the best for him in this life and hoping I’d be there to see a lot more of it.
“Why is your voice funny daddy?”
“I’m just so proud to have you as my boy son.”
“Do you want to do stickers now?” he said as he held my hand and led me into the living room. I nodded silently.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
The Wedding
My dad’s family was rather large. For a set of parents that knocked out only four kids, those four kids spawned a whole army of offspring. A party at my Grandpa’s house was an exercise in crowd management. If couldn’t handle your personal space being violated you were pretty much fucked. There was a lot of shoving, grabbing, multiple lap sitting (this is when an older cousin holds a younger cousin who holds a younger cousin too, great space usage, three bodies in what normally would only sit one), running, marching and the rest of the general mischief and antics that go along when you get the 25 kids and young adults together. Throw in boyfriends, girlfriends, neighborhood hanger owners some Burger beer and Bourbon slush and you’ve got yourself a party. And our family didn’t need an excuse to have a party, it was great; Christmas and Easter, party; Someone’s birthday, party; a dog had a litter of puppies, party, Pete Rose let a fart go around third base, party, of course.
The house itself was pretty small and kind of dark, it had a smell of Swanson's TV Turkey Dinner with the occasion waft of Salsbury steak. One thing was for sure and that was my grandmother’s commitment to vitamin C. She loved the stuff and professed it would work wonders on anything. She would have been happy to be an unpaid spokesperson for the junk. Orange juice, cranberry juice, citrus of all kinds and her personal favorite, those dusty, chewable, fake orange flavored vitamin C tablets. I still can’t get the taste out of my mouth. She shoved them down your throat like they were candy. Her intentions where good. All in all she was a cool old broad whether she was reciting her schpeel and greeting on her days as an Avon lady, doing the Louisville Lou or leading the fam around the house on a March to 76 Trombones. I’m sure it isn’t true, but I can’t ever remember ever seeing her out of a tired house dress
We were over there for some event or another and it was a big one because there was a lot of tripling up on the couch. I’d just come in from doing some porch jumping. You know, when you climb over the railing, shuffle along, pretending there’s sharks or something down below, but the Injuns are coming so you have to jump down and try not to drop your shield or dog. If you’ve never porch jumped I suggest you try it. It’s a blast.
My hair was plastered to my head when with sweat when I went in the house. Everyone was planted around the TV in the living room. There wasn’t a seat to be had; floor space was taken up with kids sitting Indian style, no couch space, nothing. We were celebrating the airing of the Wizard of Oz, a big event, because you couldn’t watch it anytime you wanted, VCR’s and DVD’s hadn’t been invented yet. There was once spot, on my grandmother’s lap and I crawled up with her permission, got comfortable and only got to see the last scene where Dorothy wakes back up in Kansas with all the goofy farmhands. Oh well, porch jumping was much more intense and I’d seen the movie before anyway.
Cousins, aunts and uncles dispersed a little bit as the news came on; I was comfortably planted in my Grandmother’s lap so I wasn’t going anywhere. We sat there, idly talking about her glass menagerie on the mantel that was kind of eerie in a fascinating sort of way. She’d rarely let anyone hold on for fear that you might break off a dolphin tail or butterfly wing. There were a couple of pieces that had appendages broken off and had to be glued together by my grandpa, but mostly the set was in pristine condition.
The television droned away in the background as 60 minutes came on and featured a story of the hippie and yippie movement. I was memorized, of course it in black and white but the crazy sloppy get ups were the coolest. I was more interested in watching the TV than what my grandmother had to say. I remember it sounded like she was talking to me through a card board paper towel tube when I realized she was badgering me about what I wanted to be when I grew up? She was suggesting the typical bull shit, doctor, lawyer, the president? I looked at her, looked at the TV, back at her and said
“Hippie. I want to be a hippie!”
She looked at me with disgust. “Oh… you can’t do that, they don’t bathe… they’re dirty pigs.”
Confused I replied “…yeah… that’s the point.”
She picked me up, moved me off her lap, stood up, rearranged her house dress and shuffled off into the kitchen in disgust throwing me one look of revulsion over her shoulder. I knew I made the right choice and was committed to trying to become a hippie over the next few six to eight years. Or at least until 79 when I discovered the Sex Pistols.
Weddings where big in our family and cause for great celebration. There was always a long drawn out mass in a stone church with no air conditioning with the sound of the priest’s voice humming along in the background about love, commitment and God. I always found it odd that a dude who hadn’t been (supposedly) with a woman talking about love and commitment. Granted he was obviously an expert when it came to God. He was standing at the middle of the stage… err altar after all.
So when I heard the news that I’d be going to Dennis and Barb’s wedding I was ecstatic. I knew it be a real kick ass hippie affair because Dennis and Barb where a real kick ass hippie couple. Barb was a cool, easy, sun-shiny kind of a hippie chick, always nice and happy and ready with a slice of banana bread or carrot cake. But no, you can’t eat the brownies, “they’re burnt.” Right. Dennis was just a cool dude, seemed perfectly comfortable in his own skin, bell bottoms, raggedy army jacket and just enough worn out t’s. Also, always nice and always could make time to make a little shit running under foot feel welcome. The thing that was coolest about Dennis was his mustache, I thought of it as sort of a cowboy or swashbuckler stache, but today one might call it the Pancho Villa or Wilfred Brimley. They were groovy.
I don’t know how they made their way into our group, but they did and as I said, I liked them. They’d come over to the house for parties, my dad and K would go out with them or over there house for dinner, I tag along even though there was nothing really for me to do other than eat, get a contact high, and generally be underfoot. One evening when we were chilling out at their place, the old lady next door knocked feigning the need for salt or sugar or something, Dennis let her in. The room was a bit hazy from smoke and she looked around suspiciously. As Barb got her the sugar or whatever the old broad scanned the room, there were rolling papers and a stash box on the coffee table, incense burned and the remnants of our the crappy barley soup and home made seven grain cardboard bread on the kitchen table. She looked doubtfully at the plants in the corner saying she’d never seen anything like them before…
“What are they? Some sort of spider plants…”
Responding quickly, Dennis said “Err... no, they’re Mexican tomato plants…”
Nodding with approval the old busy body took her sugar, walked toward the door and said “Well, let me know when you get some fruit, I’d love to try one.”
I thought that was the awesomest! Clever, fun, whimsical deceit, no one got in trouble, no one got hurt. After all, people where going to jail for less. It was a life lesson learning moment for me.
Dennis became my dad’s best friend, I don’t know if it was reciprocal or not, but I know my old man got him a job and he must of felt indebted, as well as generally liking him, after all my dad was a pretty likable guy. After a stint of living in sin Dennis and Barb decided to tie the knot and my dad got asked to be the best man, so, I of course in my feeble mind I was the best boy, which I eventually learned didn’t really exist but I still felt lucky to be going to my first hippy wedding.
I knew it was going to be a cool time when Barb dropped off some ponchos for the groomsmen to wear. Bitch’n, I was psyched, even I was contemplating getting a little mini poncho for me, jumping around, throwing streamers, spraying silly string and drawing peace signs on the side of cop cars… until I saw it come out of the box. It was robin egg blue, why? ARG! The disappointment, didn’t they see Clint Eastwood in the Good, the Bad, and the Ugly?! What about Billy Jack?! Out of all the cool ass, kick ass coolers had to pick something that came out of a kid’s story? Why not army green, dark purple or everyone’s favorite fall back, tie-dyed. I even knew robin egg, baby blue or tiffany blue as it’s called today wasn’t cool. It was gay and not in the cool 70’s porn sort of gay, bawl chic a bow wow. Apparently Barb liked the color robin egg blue but she obviously didn’t have respect for the poncho! Someone should of told her about the poncho‘s long history as a garment for the native speaking populations of the Americas or the poncho protecting service men of the Civil, Spanish American and WWI from the elements. She tried to cool it up by having the wives of the groomsmen needle point zodiac signs but it only succeeded in making those wives bitch and moan about having to needle point. Kind of like giving someone work as a gift, like a vacuum cleaner.
Finally the day of the wedding arrived, the ceremony and reception were to be held in a woodsy park. It was at the end of a turn around and our party was set up under a cast concrete pavilion decorated with cheap streamers and unfolding paper wedding bells. There was a stereo set up in the corner and card tables lining one side of the open pavilion filled with deviled eggs, paper bowls of chips and pretzels, assorted jello molds, trays of sliced olive and pepper loaf, dried out salami with a crock of mustard drying out and getting crusty on top. It all looked so appetizing as the flies flew from one slowly cooling casserole dish to another, one little fucker seemed to stuck in some sort of mayo or chip dip. I watched him struggle for a couple minutes, trying to free himself of the sticky emulsified, saturated fat of a an onion dip before I took my index finger and forced him down under the surface of the dip for no one to see. After all, a lot of these hippies liked to eat alternatively.
Looking around in disappointment, trying to find a way to distract myself from what clearly wasn’t a hippy wedding I perused the guests. Typical, I’ve been to weddings like this, the only hipster’s were the wedding party with their baby blue ponchos and hippy loose fitting Stevie Nicks hippy dresses. One nit wit, a “special friend of the family” was wondering around wearing swashbuckler boots, a purple velvet cape and a crazy ass wide brimmed hat with feathers in it. Apparently he was the photographer and was complaining about his get up and couldn’t wait to take it off. I thought he looked cool, even though he was sweating everywhere and had to dry his equipment every time he took a picture. I had to wonder though, if he was so unhappy and miserable in his get up, why didn’t he just take it off. Everyone else looked like they walked off the pages of a J.C. Penny catalog. Unstylish, uptight, pouchy middle American sheep. No kids to play with, no skittish uncle back from Viet Nam to torment, no drunken old men, I don’t even think there was beer.
After a disappointing service on a hill side accompanied by some out of key third cousin playing the Wedding Song, an acapella version of Paul William’s “We’ve only just begun” and the photograph taking pirate clicking around it was time to call it a day. If that wasn’t the most disappointing wedding, let alone hippy wedding I’ve ever been too, I don’t know what was. The only blessing about the whole experience was that we we’re only there for an hour and a half before we piled back into my dad’s pick up and drove off. I sulked and pouted in the back seat as we rumbled along thinking about what a waste of time the whole experience was, too think I could of spent my day trying to filch the latest issue of MAD magazine.
Bouncing and veering down our dirt word my dad told to saddle up one of the horses. It was nearly dusk, asking him where he was going, he replied nowhere, I was. Mysterious, I liked that. Getting out my dad dropped the tail gate of the truck revealing about a dozen cases of beer, he started unloading and icing them down as he told me some people from the wedding where coming over and I was to ride to the end of the road and sit there on a horse, waiting for people to drive up and give them directions down our barely visible, sign less road.
Cool, I grabbed Sunfighter, a red roanish and white paint who I wasn’t particularly crazy about, he was skittish, hard to catch and not always the most reliable horse, he’d been beat’n at some point before we got him but he was spirited AND he was the coolest looking horse we had. If I was going to be standing at the end of the road, pointing people in the right direction I had to look good. I got Sun, threw a bridle on him, didn’t feel the need for a saddle so I mounted him bareback and asked my dad how long I had to be down there. Bout an hour he said.
It took about 15 minutes to walk a horse at a fair clip to where our road met the highway, I was in a hurry so we galloped down in a matter of minutes, I crossed the highway, turned the horse around and sat there. A car would come by, I’d wave, it’d honk, Sunfighter would flinch and the car would drive on, then nothing. Being excited I’m sure that time was passing slower than it really was; nearly every car just kept driving by me. I waved at everyone; nearly everyone honked and kept on going. Finally, one of the cars that passed me squealed to a stop, reversed way to fast, pulled up in front of me and jumpy Sunfighter and asked if I knew the way to the reception. Of course I did, it’s at my house, I pointed them in the down our road as they flipped me the bird, flashed peace signs and a blue smoke trailed off behind them. Suddenly it was like Grand Central, every car that drove by was going to my house, I happily pointed them in the right direction and couldn’t wait til my hour was done so I could go down and join the action. It was like a gypsy parade, crazy VW Busses and Bugs, old beat’n up Sedans and Thunderbirds, a splattering of bearded bikers. Barb and Dennis drove by, waved, honked and turned down the road. Sometimes a car would pull up, let some people out and drive off; those folks had to hoof it down the mile or so to the house. My hour had come and gone but cars where still coming so I did my duty and gave them directions.
After a dry spell of about 10 minutes without anyone stopping I crossed the road on Sun and started my quick trek back to the house. Suddenly a car stopped, a hippy chic got out carrying a duffle, is this the way to the party? Sure was, climb up and I’ll give you a ride. I’d never had a lady on the back of my horse and I admit it was a bit of a thrill for me. She was scared, never having been on a horse herself before and she held on really tight. I didn’t mind, I liked it actually. Once I got comfortable I’d gallop and get make sure Sunfighter wasn’t running in a comfortable gate, I could feel that hippy chic boobs bouncing up and down against my back, then once I got really comfortable I’d get a good hard gallop going and suddenly stop, feeling her press her body against me as we slowed down. Dirty little bastard I was, she didn’t seem to mind and I suspect she guessed my motivation.
At the house, she dismounted and disappeared into the crowd; I freed Sun into the coral and started wondering around.
NOW this is what I was talking about! I don’t know how many people where there, it could have been 50 it could have been 200, it was a lot and it seemed everywhere I turned there was something going on, a little story unfolding. A hippy couple sitting in the hanging chair making out; two guys swapping pills in the corner, people dancing on and around the big jim; guys outside playing guitar, folks grilling sausages on the weber. Outside some dudes started a fire pit and they started shooting bottle rockets, evidently they decided that I’d make a good target and started shooting them at me, thankfully I was nimble and managed to evade a direct hit. Later I got my revenge by waiting on the roof over the back door and dumping a five gallon bucket of manure water I’d made over the main culprits head. He was too drunk or stoned to climb the roof but later that night when he got his hands on me he was throttling me good until some long hairs came to my rescue and dragged him down to the river. All in all I’d say it was a pretty good wedding party and I my wish was coming through. It seemed everyone was represented, afroed black militants; flamboyant boa wearing Elton John gay wannabes, your general GI issue Army jacketed hippy, ladies with flowers in their hair, halter tops and bell bottoms. It was heavenly, but also wearisome so I decided to sneak away to my room and hopefully fall asleep through the loud music, whooping up of the party and the general buzz and smokiness.
I didn’t bother to say good night to anyone and I’m sure no one cared as I made my way to the back room. I opened up the door, took a couple of steps in and stopped dead in my tracks. Oh my. Nothing could prepare me for what I saw; it was a multi-limbed, multi-genitaliaed mess of a flesh writhing together as a constantly moving and changing sweaty, hairy, pinkish colored monster. It took a few seconds to see what I was witnessing, these were people, doing together what I thought only two people did, obviously that wasn’t the case here, I couldn’t tell how many people where there, where there equal parts men to women? I didn’t know. I just stood there, mouth agape, dumbfounded, trying to digest a what I was seeing. Yikes, after a couple of minutes or seconds one of the men saw me, picked up a pillow and threw it at me, I took a step back, still staring as one of the girls looked at me, smiled and gestured to me with her index finger in a come hither sort of way. Panicked I turned and ran not even bothering to shut the door behind me. I hurriedly found a sleeping bag, climbed up to the roof, got myself comfortable, starred up at the stars and felt if I never went to another hippy wedding it’d be too soon.
The house itself was pretty small and kind of dark, it had a smell of Swanson's TV Turkey Dinner with the occasion waft of Salsbury steak. One thing was for sure and that was my grandmother’s commitment to vitamin C. She loved the stuff and professed it would work wonders on anything. She would have been happy to be an unpaid spokesperson for the junk. Orange juice, cranberry juice, citrus of all kinds and her personal favorite, those dusty, chewable, fake orange flavored vitamin C tablets. I still can’t get the taste out of my mouth. She shoved them down your throat like they were candy. Her intentions where good. All in all she was a cool old broad whether she was reciting her schpeel and greeting on her days as an Avon lady, doing the Louisville Lou or leading the fam around the house on a March to 76 Trombones. I’m sure it isn’t true, but I can’t ever remember ever seeing her out of a tired house dress
We were over there for some event or another and it was a big one because there was a lot of tripling up on the couch. I’d just come in from doing some porch jumping. You know, when you climb over the railing, shuffle along, pretending there’s sharks or something down below, but the Injuns are coming so you have to jump down and try not to drop your shield or dog. If you’ve never porch jumped I suggest you try it. It’s a blast.
My hair was plastered to my head when with sweat when I went in the house. Everyone was planted around the TV in the living room. There wasn’t a seat to be had; floor space was taken up with kids sitting Indian style, no couch space, nothing. We were celebrating the airing of the Wizard of Oz, a big event, because you couldn’t watch it anytime you wanted, VCR’s and DVD’s hadn’t been invented yet. There was once spot, on my grandmother’s lap and I crawled up with her permission, got comfortable and only got to see the last scene where Dorothy wakes back up in Kansas with all the goofy farmhands. Oh well, porch jumping was much more intense and I’d seen the movie before anyway.
Cousins, aunts and uncles dispersed a little bit as the news came on; I was comfortably planted in my Grandmother’s lap so I wasn’t going anywhere. We sat there, idly talking about her glass menagerie on the mantel that was kind of eerie in a fascinating sort of way. She’d rarely let anyone hold on for fear that you might break off a dolphin tail or butterfly wing. There were a couple of pieces that had appendages broken off and had to be glued together by my grandpa, but mostly the set was in pristine condition.
The television droned away in the background as 60 minutes came on and featured a story of the hippie and yippie movement. I was memorized, of course it in black and white but the crazy sloppy get ups were the coolest. I was more interested in watching the TV than what my grandmother had to say. I remember it sounded like she was talking to me through a card board paper towel tube when I realized she was badgering me about what I wanted to be when I grew up? She was suggesting the typical bull shit, doctor, lawyer, the president? I looked at her, looked at the TV, back at her and said
“Hippie. I want to be a hippie!”
She looked at me with disgust. “Oh… you can’t do that, they don’t bathe… they’re dirty pigs.”
Confused I replied “…yeah… that’s the point.”
She picked me up, moved me off her lap, stood up, rearranged her house dress and shuffled off into the kitchen in disgust throwing me one look of revulsion over her shoulder. I knew I made the right choice and was committed to trying to become a hippie over the next few six to eight years. Or at least until 79 when I discovered the Sex Pistols.
Weddings where big in our family and cause for great celebration. There was always a long drawn out mass in a stone church with no air conditioning with the sound of the priest’s voice humming along in the background about love, commitment and God. I always found it odd that a dude who hadn’t been (supposedly) with a woman talking about love and commitment. Granted he was obviously an expert when it came to God. He was standing at the middle of the stage… err altar after all.
So when I heard the news that I’d be going to Dennis and Barb’s wedding I was ecstatic. I knew it be a real kick ass hippie affair because Dennis and Barb where a real kick ass hippie couple. Barb was a cool, easy, sun-shiny kind of a hippie chick, always nice and happy and ready with a slice of banana bread or carrot cake. But no, you can’t eat the brownies, “they’re burnt.” Right. Dennis was just a cool dude, seemed perfectly comfortable in his own skin, bell bottoms, raggedy army jacket and just enough worn out t’s. Also, always nice and always could make time to make a little shit running under foot feel welcome. The thing that was coolest about Dennis was his mustache, I thought of it as sort of a cowboy or swashbuckler stache, but today one might call it the Pancho Villa or Wilfred Brimley. They were groovy.
I don’t know how they made their way into our group, but they did and as I said, I liked them. They’d come over to the house for parties, my dad and K would go out with them or over there house for dinner, I tag along even though there was nothing really for me to do other than eat, get a contact high, and generally be underfoot. One evening when we were chilling out at their place, the old lady next door knocked feigning the need for salt or sugar or something, Dennis let her in. The room was a bit hazy from smoke and she looked around suspiciously. As Barb got her the sugar or whatever the old broad scanned the room, there were rolling papers and a stash box on the coffee table, incense burned and the remnants of our the crappy barley soup and home made seven grain cardboard bread on the kitchen table. She looked doubtfully at the plants in the corner saying she’d never seen anything like them before…
“What are they? Some sort of spider plants…”
Responding quickly, Dennis said “Err... no, they’re Mexican tomato plants…”
Nodding with approval the old busy body took her sugar, walked toward the door and said “Well, let me know when you get some fruit, I’d love to try one.”
I thought that was the awesomest! Clever, fun, whimsical deceit, no one got in trouble, no one got hurt. After all, people where going to jail for less. It was a life lesson learning moment for me.
Dennis became my dad’s best friend, I don’t know if it was reciprocal or not, but I know my old man got him a job and he must of felt indebted, as well as generally liking him, after all my dad was a pretty likable guy. After a stint of living in sin Dennis and Barb decided to tie the knot and my dad got asked to be the best man, so, I of course in my feeble mind I was the best boy, which I eventually learned didn’t really exist but I still felt lucky to be going to my first hippy wedding.
I knew it was going to be a cool time when Barb dropped off some ponchos for the groomsmen to wear. Bitch’n, I was psyched, even I was contemplating getting a little mini poncho for me, jumping around, throwing streamers, spraying silly string and drawing peace signs on the side of cop cars… until I saw it come out of the box. It was robin egg blue, why? ARG! The disappointment, didn’t they see Clint Eastwood in the Good, the Bad, and the Ugly?! What about Billy Jack?! Out of all the cool ass, kick ass coolers had to pick something that came out of a kid’s story? Why not army green, dark purple or everyone’s favorite fall back, tie-dyed. I even knew robin egg, baby blue or tiffany blue as it’s called today wasn’t cool. It was gay and not in the cool 70’s porn sort of gay, bawl chic a bow wow. Apparently Barb liked the color robin egg blue but she obviously didn’t have respect for the poncho! Someone should of told her about the poncho‘s long history as a garment for the native speaking populations of the Americas or the poncho protecting service men of the Civil, Spanish American and WWI from the elements. She tried to cool it up by having the wives of the groomsmen needle point zodiac signs but it only succeeded in making those wives bitch and moan about having to needle point. Kind of like giving someone work as a gift, like a vacuum cleaner.
Finally the day of the wedding arrived, the ceremony and reception were to be held in a woodsy park. It was at the end of a turn around and our party was set up under a cast concrete pavilion decorated with cheap streamers and unfolding paper wedding bells. There was a stereo set up in the corner and card tables lining one side of the open pavilion filled with deviled eggs, paper bowls of chips and pretzels, assorted jello molds, trays of sliced olive and pepper loaf, dried out salami with a crock of mustard drying out and getting crusty on top. It all looked so appetizing as the flies flew from one slowly cooling casserole dish to another, one little fucker seemed to stuck in some sort of mayo or chip dip. I watched him struggle for a couple minutes, trying to free himself of the sticky emulsified, saturated fat of a an onion dip before I took my index finger and forced him down under the surface of the dip for no one to see. After all, a lot of these hippies liked to eat alternatively.
Looking around in disappointment, trying to find a way to distract myself from what clearly wasn’t a hippy wedding I perused the guests. Typical, I’ve been to weddings like this, the only hipster’s were the wedding party with their baby blue ponchos and hippy loose fitting Stevie Nicks hippy dresses. One nit wit, a “special friend of the family” was wondering around wearing swashbuckler boots, a purple velvet cape and a crazy ass wide brimmed hat with feathers in it. Apparently he was the photographer and was complaining about his get up and couldn’t wait to take it off. I thought he looked cool, even though he was sweating everywhere and had to dry his equipment every time he took a picture. I had to wonder though, if he was so unhappy and miserable in his get up, why didn’t he just take it off. Everyone else looked like they walked off the pages of a J.C. Penny catalog. Unstylish, uptight, pouchy middle American sheep. No kids to play with, no skittish uncle back from Viet Nam to torment, no drunken old men, I don’t even think there was beer.
After a disappointing service on a hill side accompanied by some out of key third cousin playing the Wedding Song, an acapella version of Paul William’s “We’ve only just begun” and the photograph taking pirate clicking around it was time to call it a day. If that wasn’t the most disappointing wedding, let alone hippy wedding I’ve ever been too, I don’t know what was. The only blessing about the whole experience was that we we’re only there for an hour and a half before we piled back into my dad’s pick up and drove off. I sulked and pouted in the back seat as we rumbled along thinking about what a waste of time the whole experience was, too think I could of spent my day trying to filch the latest issue of MAD magazine.
Bouncing and veering down our dirt word my dad told to saddle up one of the horses. It was nearly dusk, asking him where he was going, he replied nowhere, I was. Mysterious, I liked that. Getting out my dad dropped the tail gate of the truck revealing about a dozen cases of beer, he started unloading and icing them down as he told me some people from the wedding where coming over and I was to ride to the end of the road and sit there on a horse, waiting for people to drive up and give them directions down our barely visible, sign less road.
Cool, I grabbed Sunfighter, a red roanish and white paint who I wasn’t particularly crazy about, he was skittish, hard to catch and not always the most reliable horse, he’d been beat’n at some point before we got him but he was spirited AND he was the coolest looking horse we had. If I was going to be standing at the end of the road, pointing people in the right direction I had to look good. I got Sun, threw a bridle on him, didn’t feel the need for a saddle so I mounted him bareback and asked my dad how long I had to be down there. Bout an hour he said.
It took about 15 minutes to walk a horse at a fair clip to where our road met the highway, I was in a hurry so we galloped down in a matter of minutes, I crossed the highway, turned the horse around and sat there. A car would come by, I’d wave, it’d honk, Sunfighter would flinch and the car would drive on, then nothing. Being excited I’m sure that time was passing slower than it really was; nearly every car just kept driving by me. I waved at everyone; nearly everyone honked and kept on going. Finally, one of the cars that passed me squealed to a stop, reversed way to fast, pulled up in front of me and jumpy Sunfighter and asked if I knew the way to the reception. Of course I did, it’s at my house, I pointed them in the down our road as they flipped me the bird, flashed peace signs and a blue smoke trailed off behind them. Suddenly it was like Grand Central, every car that drove by was going to my house, I happily pointed them in the right direction and couldn’t wait til my hour was done so I could go down and join the action. It was like a gypsy parade, crazy VW Busses and Bugs, old beat’n up Sedans and Thunderbirds, a splattering of bearded bikers. Barb and Dennis drove by, waved, honked and turned down the road. Sometimes a car would pull up, let some people out and drive off; those folks had to hoof it down the mile or so to the house. My hour had come and gone but cars where still coming so I did my duty and gave them directions.
After a dry spell of about 10 minutes without anyone stopping I crossed the road on Sun and started my quick trek back to the house. Suddenly a car stopped, a hippy chic got out carrying a duffle, is this the way to the party? Sure was, climb up and I’ll give you a ride. I’d never had a lady on the back of my horse and I admit it was a bit of a thrill for me. She was scared, never having been on a horse herself before and she held on really tight. I didn’t mind, I liked it actually. Once I got comfortable I’d gallop and get make sure Sunfighter wasn’t running in a comfortable gate, I could feel that hippy chic boobs bouncing up and down against my back, then once I got really comfortable I’d get a good hard gallop going and suddenly stop, feeling her press her body against me as we slowed down. Dirty little bastard I was, she didn’t seem to mind and I suspect she guessed my motivation.
At the house, she dismounted and disappeared into the crowd; I freed Sun into the coral and started wondering around.
NOW this is what I was talking about! I don’t know how many people where there, it could have been 50 it could have been 200, it was a lot and it seemed everywhere I turned there was something going on, a little story unfolding. A hippy couple sitting in the hanging chair making out; two guys swapping pills in the corner, people dancing on and around the big jim; guys outside playing guitar, folks grilling sausages on the weber. Outside some dudes started a fire pit and they started shooting bottle rockets, evidently they decided that I’d make a good target and started shooting them at me, thankfully I was nimble and managed to evade a direct hit. Later I got my revenge by waiting on the roof over the back door and dumping a five gallon bucket of manure water I’d made over the main culprits head. He was too drunk or stoned to climb the roof but later that night when he got his hands on me he was throttling me good until some long hairs came to my rescue and dragged him down to the river. All in all I’d say it was a pretty good wedding party and I my wish was coming through. It seemed everyone was represented, afroed black militants; flamboyant boa wearing Elton John gay wannabes, your general GI issue Army jacketed hippy, ladies with flowers in their hair, halter tops and bell bottoms. It was heavenly, but also wearisome so I decided to sneak away to my room and hopefully fall asleep through the loud music, whooping up of the party and the general buzz and smokiness.
I didn’t bother to say good night to anyone and I’m sure no one cared as I made my way to the back room. I opened up the door, took a couple of steps in and stopped dead in my tracks. Oh my. Nothing could prepare me for what I saw; it was a multi-limbed, multi-genitaliaed mess of a flesh writhing together as a constantly moving and changing sweaty, hairy, pinkish colored monster. It took a few seconds to see what I was witnessing, these were people, doing together what I thought only two people did, obviously that wasn’t the case here, I couldn’t tell how many people where there, where there equal parts men to women? I didn’t know. I just stood there, mouth agape, dumbfounded, trying to digest a what I was seeing. Yikes, after a couple of minutes or seconds one of the men saw me, picked up a pillow and threw it at me, I took a step back, still staring as one of the girls looked at me, smiled and gestured to me with her index finger in a come hither sort of way. Panicked I turned and ran not even bothering to shut the door behind me. I hurriedly found a sleeping bag, climbed up to the roof, got myself comfortable, starred up at the stars and felt if I never went to another hippy wedding it’d be too soon.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
It is officially official.
I just got the call. I'm listed along with 72,381 other people waiting for a liver. My region, officially called region 1 is New England. Wait times are longer here than the national average because of our concentrated demographics. I'm also trying to get listed in region 10, Ohio, Indiana and Michigan. The waitlist is usually shorter there, I have family there the medical center I'm looking at has a great rep for survival rates.
Here is the rub; my Hepatologist doesn't want me to get a liver until I've started Interferon treatment. Apparently studies suggest that survival rate is remarkably better on a transplant patient that doesn't have Hep C. I have a 14% chance of a cure until I hit the 4 week stage of the protocol, if my viral load has changed, meaning subsided my cure percentage jumps to 59%. Not bad odds if that happens. The dilemma is what do I do if I get offered a liver two weeks into my interferon treatment? Do I turn it down and hope to get a liver later? Do I take it, hope for the best and hope the cure will take after the transplant? What would you do? What would you suggest?
On another note, I'll be in Indie the week of the 12th and I'll need a chaperone while I'm the hospital just in case something happens and to show the staff that I have the proper support during recovery. If you could spare a day, sitting around a hospital waiting room, possibly going to a couple of seminars holding my hand while I have my prostate examined... Oh, wait. Wrong tests. Anyway, if you can help, you know how to get a hold of me.
Best,
Liver Serum
Here is the rub; my Hepatologist doesn't want me to get a liver until I've started Interferon treatment. Apparently studies suggest that survival rate is remarkably better on a transplant patient that doesn't have Hep C. I have a 14% chance of a cure until I hit the 4 week stage of the protocol, if my viral load has changed, meaning subsided my cure percentage jumps to 59%. Not bad odds if that happens. The dilemma is what do I do if I get offered a liver two weeks into my interferon treatment? Do I turn it down and hope to get a liver later? Do I take it, hope for the best and hope the cure will take after the transplant? What would you do? What would you suggest?
On another note, I'll be in Indie the week of the 12th and I'll need a chaperone while I'm the hospital just in case something happens and to show the staff that I have the proper support during recovery. If you could spare a day, sitting around a hospital waiting room, possibly going to a couple of seminars holding my hand while I have my prostate examined... Oh, wait. Wrong tests. Anyway, if you can help, you know how to get a hold of me.
Best,
Liver Serum
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Miamiville Tavern
As soon as I moved in Dad decided to move us out to Indiana, I don’t know why, I think possibly the township was buying up the land, I know they wanted to live a homesteading life style, maybe that was it. We had about eight weeks til we moved, so I had the days at river house to myself, everyone was gone to work and I didn’t really need a baby sitter, I don’t think we could find one close enough anyway. There was lots to do, reading, I was big into reading, there wasn’t a library around so I read the same books over and over again. Of course there was Jonathon Livingston Seagull, or JLS as it was known in our circles, then there was “The Day of the Jackall, “Open Marriage” “the French Lieutenants Woman” and of course the Sears and Roebuck catalog that I’d peruse on the roof of the house for hours. Once I was done with our small steak of chewed up paperbacks, I’d start all over. I built a raft out of some oil drums with my cousin that was always fun for an hour, floating down the river haphazardly. Unfortunately dragging it back up river really sucked, getting stuck on rocks and sand banks, I could ride horses, my motorcycle, hike in the woods, play with the dogs or listen to music. Sometimes I’d ride over to the gravel pits and just sit on a hill watching the trucks come and go, conveyors convey and machinery do whatever it was designed to do.
It really wasn’t a bad little life style at all except for the fact that I was alone until about five o’clock every day. Typically I’d meet my dad over at the Miamiville Tavern. Probably a mile and a half down our old dirt road, over the car bridge and into the sleepy little town. I’d ride a horse if I knew there might be people over there I wanted to show off in front of, but that always meant I had to ride back. If I walked, I could drive back with my dad, but it made me feel especially cool sitting on top of a huge mare clippity clopping down Center Street. There wasn’t much to that town, a post office, deli-grocery store, a few auto repair shops, junkers all cluttering their yards and a clinical research lab that tested products on animals, back in the 70’s no one seemed to mind the occasional screeching of the chimps. Odd place to hear primates in the night, south western Ohio.
We spent most of our time in at the Tavern, it was actually an old federalist colonial revival style house built sometime in the 19th century. A beaten up Hudephol sign hung off the front of the building. The only illumination in town at night, it seemed sort of
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| WTF?! |
The bartenders didn’t mind when I hung out inside if I got there before my dad. No one really cared about a kid spinning on a bar stool, trying to figure out the dirty jokes printed on cheesy cocktail napkins while drinking pops and eating Vienna sausages. Other seats where taken up by tired old men spending their social security checks, nursing their watered down drinks or warm beer, mumbling about their glory days or telling the same worn-out jokes they told yesterday. There would be a couple of bikers out for a ride and a couple of hippie hipsters “gett’n out of the city man”, all of 35 minutes away. The hippies pitched tents where they could, smoked their pot, played out of tune guitars then spend those sticky Miami Valley afternoons in the stale air conditioning air of the Miamiville Tavern. Every once in a while my dad would befriend one or six of them and they’d end up at our place for beers and food.
As soon as my dad arrived, he’d order a gimlet and we’d head into the back room where the worn out pool table sat. Another characterless room with over flowing plastic ash trays, last night’s cocktail glasses with half smoked cigarette butts and chewed up straws all floating together in a liquidy discolored mess. The dirty window panes lined with nearly empty beer bottles a half-eaten sandwich, empty chip bags and overall just a general mess. The reminders of last nights, or the night before, or who knows when partying.
If there was a game going on my dad would line up his quarters for his turn and wander around the Tavern chatting it up, telling jokes and doing card tricks for drinks. Once he got on the table he pretty much owned it, unless he ended up playing doubles with someone that really sucked. Money would change hands, I’d run for scratched cue balls and rack them for the boys for cokes and pickled eggs. We knew everyone that came into that dark little pool room. Assorted carpenters, mechanics, quarrymen and the occasional suit from the research lab, if a stranger came in my dad and the locals would generally try to pull a hustle on them, at least I think they did. I can remember several altercations but nothing ever came to blows.
One super-hot July day the house phone rang, it was my dad and he was planning on cutting out of work early… did I want to meet him in at the Tavern? Of course I did! Anything was better than scanning though the latest issue of Mother Earth News, reading about the newest composting technology, how to make a worm bin or how solar power is going to take the country by storm over the next 5 years. I hurried my little ass over there, bought a coke and some Grippos and planted myself in the pool room watching my dad sink ball after ball with three other guys. Shortly some long haired, goateed, Jesus looking dude darted into the room. I’d seen him before, didn’t know his name so I always thought of him as the Gypsy in my head. He made an impression because he wore an ear ring. I didn’t know many men with ear rings. I thought they were either pirates, gypsies or sissies. This guy didn’t look like a sissy though; he looked pretty tough, short and stout. He was always covered in grey dust from working in one of the quarries. A pack of Viceroys 
folded back into the sleeve of his t-shirt exposing the head of a man smoking a cigarette. I liked this guy and thought he was cool. He wasn’t today though, he seemed really nervous and jittery, looking around, pacing, going into the main bar and poking his head out the door. The other men in the room gave him a greeting in the form of a nod and that was about it.
folded back into the sleeve of his t-shirt exposing the head of a man smoking a cigarette. I liked this guy and thought he was cool. He wasn’t today though, he seemed really nervous and jittery, looking around, pacing, going into the main bar and poking his head out the door. The other men in the room gave him a greeting in the form of a nod and that was about it. He started to calm down after about 20 minutes, sitting on a stool, sipping a beer. That’s when it happened. A man came in the room with a determined stride wearing a leather jacket, gloves and a full face motorcycle helmet. Gypsy dude looked panicked and lunged for the door, leather jacket man tripped him up, grabbed a pool stick and cracked him on the left side of his head with the thick end, and dragging him back in the room by his t he flipped him over and gave him one hard smart crack right in the middle of face. Blood spurted out of the gypsy’s nose and it looked like his front teeth were bent up and bleeding too. It happened all so fast, my dad and the boys dropped their pool game and started to come to the gypsy’s defense when motorcycle dude pulled off his helmet throwing it at gypsy as he laid there whining and whimpering “Don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me…. I’m sorry man…” Motorcycle man was Cody from Camp Denison; he’d been to the river house a lot. I liked Cody; he had an ear ring bigger and golder than gypsy dude. He was always super nice to me, loaning me records and bringing me candy.
“This mother fucker just drove by our place and yelled “What’s going on niggers!!??” flipped us the bird when we were sitting on the porch!” Cody had his boot on the dude’s leg, hurting him and holding him down at the same time. “My cousin’s kids where sitting on that porch, they don’t need to hear that shit!!” Cody gestured with the pool stick which had now been broken on the gypsy man’s face. He flinched and whimpered as he pressed his foot into him harder.
“Don’t hurt me man, don’t hurt me I’m sorry, I’m fucked up, I fucked up, I’ve been drinking all day I’m stoned…” he sniveled though his hands as he gingerly clutched and cupped his mouth. He was pathetic and scared, it was pitiful to watch but I was mesmerized.
“You’re lucky my cousin wasn’t there or you’d be looking down the end of a shotgun right now Motherfucker!” Cody gestured for him to be quiet, my dad said “Do what you got to do; I won’t try to stop you.” Then my dad drug a stool in front of the open door and sat there, twirling his pool cue from hand to hand sort of absentminded like.
Cody pulled the man to his feet and held him against the wall with his forearm, he grabbed the cue ball, gypsy whimpered as Cody pressed it into his mouth bending his teeth back further into his head, and I could hear his teeth squeak or I imagine I could. I winced as Cody backed off a little as gypsy man clutched his teeth, begging Cody not to hurt him, apologizing for being such an ass hole.
Cody let the dude slide down the wall to floor and started walking around the pool room gathering glasses and beer bottles, emptying their contents into a tall pint glass, butts, beer and cocktails from who knows when. He stirred it up with a straw as he started to hack and wheeze until he coughed up a slimy greasy loogie. Cody looked wildly at the gypsy who was slouched over and crying a bit. Cody passed the glass around, every one spit into except my dad, Cody gestured at me, and my dad shook his head signaling that that might be inappropriate. Gypsy dude was dragged to his feet and Cody forced the glass to his lips. “You got two choices boy, either drink this or we go outside and you getting whopped to an inch of your life.” Gypsy begged to be let go, promised never to do use the word again, Cody just stood there stoically, motioning the glass closer to his lips. “Your choice boy.” Gypsy was trapped and he resigned, all fight went out of him as he took a sip, gagged and spit. Cody held the white cue ball up to his mouth, threatening, smiling, and looking wild eyed and a bit crazy. I really liked Cody, he took no shit. “Drink it!” Gypsy opened up his mouth wide, though back the “cocktail” all in one swoop, gagging and spitting and hacking. Like a trapped animal, he looked around the room; he gagged, clutched his mouth, choked and threw up all over the pool table as my Dad dragged me out of the bar and into his truck.
I was scared for gypsy dude and was afraid to see him get hurt more, but I didn’t like him anymore either. I didn’t like him at all. Everything I thought was cool about him faded away with a blink. I didn’t care if he got hurt, I just didn’t want to see it and I was happy we were on our way home. I felt he was probably getting what he deserved. My dad didn’t look very phased so I calmed down a bit. I didn’t like that word he used either. I had experience with it; I heard it a lot at school, in the neighborhood and heard it inside my grandfather’s house. We’d be watching the news, footage would come on about some civil rights march, or riots somewhere around the country and I’d hear my grandfather say nigger this or nigger that, I knew it was a bad word, a word used to make people mad or hurt their feelings so I was surprised when I heard my Irish Granddad use it. I asked my dad about it, if it was right to call those folks nigger? He told me it wasn’t right and the people that used that word where afraid, weak and untrusting. “What should I call those people then dad?” “Negro” he said. I shrugged and walked away more confused than ever. The next day at school I went up to some black kid in the yard and said “What do you want me to call you… nigger or negro?” He just sort of looked at me kind of puzzled and said “Why don’t you just call me Johnny.” And I did.
That’s pretty much who I thought about on that ride down the dirt road. The lesson I learned that day in the school yard with Johnny and the lesson I learned in the bar room with Cody.
Liver Transplant List
Ellen my transplant advocate called and the eval board reviewed my case today. Tomorrow, I'll be offically on the transplant list. The wait to start waiting has begun. Still processing.
Best,
LSD
Best,
LSD
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Indiana want me...
Just got word that I can go to Indie the week of September 12 to get evaled for a new liver. Yippee!
Monday, August 1, 2011
A poke near the prick.
The Pulmonologist and his team were able to get me scheduled today to have a cardiac catheter procedure which was super awesome because it was the last step (hopefully) in getting listed. If it wasn't today, it might have been weeks before they could have gotten me in or there was a cancelation.
So I arrived at two 0'clock and was briefed with everything that could go wrong and signed consent. I had the option of left or right groin or possibly the neck. The plan was to put an IV in me and run a thin tube up the artery to the right chamber of my heart at which point they'd blow up a small balloon and test for oxygen levels. Sounds easy enough, hell, isn't there an APP for that? Doc didn't like doing the neck because apparently there is a higher risk for bleeding. I get called into the back fairly quickly; change into my Johnnie, wrong, back to rechange. Didn’t realize one could commit a Johnny Faux Pas. I imagined all the nurses and techies laughing at my expense as I sashayed though the room. I'm probably the only person that could put a Johnny on incorrectly.
I was led to a gurney, got an IV, some more talking to and wheeled into the procedure room where there are about 6 or 8 people in scrubs milling about waiting to help pretending to prep equipment.
Of course why allow me to leave with any shred of dignity so they decide to go into the right groin with the wiring. They begin to unwrap all the sterilized tools of their trade and special sheets and coverings and what not and then everyone gathers around for the ritual "unveiling". And by unveiling me mean exposing of the penis, the unit, the baby maker, the gristle missile... and let the shaving begin. Of course the left side has to be cleaned up too, just in case things don't work out on the right. Admittedly it was an odd sensation having a young man perform the task of shaving me below the belt but all in the name of getting a new liver.
Sedative of some sort went into the IV and the rest was a bit blurry, nothing like the experience the previous week with the 8" needle. It all went quickly and without a hitch. Apparently Doctor C had had the skill of a journeyman electrician in running that wire though my body up to my heart. Hardly felt a thing and was told afterward that I mindlessly sang Brittney Spears tunes. They patched me up, covered me up and sent me into recovery.
After my wife arrive Doctor C came out and told us I didn't have Pulmonary Hypertension and that he'd be letting the board know ASAP and if everything went right I could get listed for a new liver on Wednesday. Relief. I called Ellen, my transplant coordinator, asked her to put my paperwork in front of the board on Wednesday then had the best sleep I had for months.
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