I'm sitting here with a Cat 1 hurricane on course, set to hit the ol' 603 within hours. Kelley's pretty stressed about it but I welcome the storm. We haven't had a decent hurricane in New Hampshire for a few years so I say bring it Bill Gates and your evil weather machines! (It is fairly common knowledge that Mr. Microsoft controls the weather with satellites and such, right?)
I've been home for a few days now from my latest Lahey adventure, closing in on nearly four weeks. What started out as fairly routine and simple ended up being a big ol' bag of awful by the midpoint. I was initially down there to drain a fistula that developed starting from my left flank and going down to my groin. (A fistula is a long, snake-like collection of fluid rather than just a normal globular abscess.) Most people with pancreatitis have pockets of fluid that develop, get drained and that's all she wrote. In my case fluid just keeps coming and coming with no real endpoint in sight. At one point one of my doctors at Wentworth-Douglas said that I have one of the worst cases of the disease he's ever seen. I'm inclined to agree because as time goes on I don't seem to be making much headway. All told I've had nine or ten separate Jackson Pratt drains throughout my abdomen and left flank. Currently I'm only sporting one that is draining an abscess on my right side. It's awkward because the JP bulb is attached to my leg rather than its usual spot on my stomach. Why? Well that's the fun part...
A few days into my stay at Lahey I had a date with Interventional Radiology to put more JP drains in place to deal with the fistula. What they do is put me through a CT scan machine to get an accurate, real-time picture of where the fluid is so they know exactly where to cut me open and place the drain tubes. You may forget (or remember) that your organs are all more or less on top of each other in your body so you want and need to have doctors be as accurate as possible whenever they mess about in there. I trust my doctors, especially those at Lahey implicitly because I have yet to have a bad experience. Cue the chase music...
After I made it back up to my room sporting two brand spankin' new drains my stomach was really upset and I had a pretty hardcore bout of vomiting. Nothing special, right? Well, this time it was pretty special. At times when I vomit the physical process of vomiting makes my other organs and insides do crazy stuff like spit fluid out of my drain sites. This time was particularly interesting because after I got up to void (aka pee) I looked at my bed and it was covered in the nastiest fluid/junk that I've ever seen come out of me. It was pretty viscous, rusty brown color and unappetizing. The dressing around my left flank drain was soaked with this nasty fluid. I called in the nurse who immediately called in the doctors because that kind of thing shouldn't happen nor should the fluid look as it did. Dr. Babek from the transplant team immediately recognized it as fecal matter mixed in with my normal necrotic pancreas fluid. Uh oh, something is not right in Paddy's body. Another CT scan later and what do we find? Paddy's colon has been pierced/cut/sliced open and waste is leeching into my abdominal cavity. Verdict? Not good at all. One thing you never want is waste mingling where it doesn't belong because that can lead to sepsis and becoming very, very ill or even dying. I've been through enough this year that could have killed me so I'm not ready to let that happen. When we realized what happened they shipped me down a few floors back to my old home, SICU.
SICU is a world unto itself at Lahey Clinic. Visiting hours are different, you're hooked up to all sorts of monitors and machines 24/7 and the TV is free. (In the normal rooms they charge you $12.50 per 24 hours of television. I read a lot in hospitals.) I spent weeks there in January after my very messy surgery and as fate would have it they put me in the same room that I stayed in originally, with the same nurses. Needless to say there was a lot of "Hey, you look a lot better than last time" and "What are you doing back here?" Really, SICU isn't much different from the normal hospital save for the things I mentioned above though this time they gave me something new to contend with. Usually for pain meds I would get 1-2 mg of dilaudid every 2-4 hours so I wouldn't be too uncomfortable but this time they decided to switch it up by making my meds PCA or more or less under my control. They added a part to my IV setup where I would control the frequency of my pain meds which worried me at first. Would I use too much? Not enough? They assured me it's a better setup than what I was doing before and it turned out they were right. My setup was for .4 mg every ten minutes (if I chose to take it via a button press.) That dose is enough to ease the pain but not enough to make me feel loopy so I ended up agreeing that it was a better system.
To deal with this new issue I was introduced to the colo-rectal doctor team headed by Dr. Pete Marcello. It turns out he and Dr. Pomposelli are longtime friends and went to the same school, had residency at the same time, etc. He's a very straight shooter and like Dr. Pomposelli doesn't BS or gloss anything over. He laid out what happened (the IR team accidentally pierced my colon either with a needle or the drain itself when they put in my new drains, spilling waste into my abdomen) and our options to deal with it. Our first attempt at fixing the problem involved cleaning out the existing waste and seeing if my colon would heal itself. That didn't work so well. On to option B, colon reassignment surgery. Or was it realignment? I can't remember. Basically what they had to do was go in, cut out a section of my colon, clean out my cavity, and bring my colon up to the skin, meeting up with my new friend: the colostomy bag. I'm told this will be a three to six month process so for the foreseeable future I don't digest or process food normally and instead of things travelling through my colon like a normal person my waste travels into a colostomy bag. It sounds more gross than it actually is but still, for all intents and purposes I have a bag of poop hanging out of my stomach. Oddly enough I can still have bowel movements but 99% of the waste and gas ends up in the bag. Along with this new piece of equipment comes a new diet, low-res/low-fiber. It's like a fat kid's dream diet because I'm not really allowed to eat anything good like whole grains, most fresh raw vegetables and fruit, oats, nuts, beans/legumes, (all of the things that I love to eat) and instead they want me to eat garbage with little to no nutritional value. Dr. Marcello also told me that due to this current colon setup I don't process fats, cholesterol, calories, etc. like normal but in a "good" way. He wants me eating like a fat kid and even told me to eat a cheeseburger when I got out of the hospital. Again, fat kids' dream diet but not my cup of tea. I'd rather have delicious whole foods not processed garbage. Fortunately it's only for a few months.
Speaking of fat kid stuff I'm now 166.5 pounds. Craziness. That's the lightest I've been since I was 13 or so. That puts my weight loss from the start of this adventure to now at about 75 pounds, give or take a few pounds. I'm happy for the svelte physique but it was an extreme way to get it. When I start working out again I'm hoping I can get down to a trim 155 or so while 175 is my new "fattest you'll be" plateau. Shouldn't be too difficult though because my appetite is a fraction of what it once was, I no longer get the thousands of empty calories I used to get from alcohol and I eat pretty sensibly, even with the new diet. Add that to a decent workout regimen and I should be ok.
There is a lot more to write about regarding this and all of my hospital stays but I'll leave that for future posts. I'm getting things ready for the hurricane and taking some much-needed rest. Lateron.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Quick pic update!
Here are some glamour shots of my new abdominal incision. Almost identical to the first one which is probably why the pain is so exhausting and extensive.
Plus who doesn't dig staples in their stomachs?
Real posts when I get home, kiddos. Loads of stories about my latest Lahey adventure.
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Part Twelve: With Friends Like These...
As I get older I tend to reflect on things a bit more every year. This year being the great big cluster-eff it's been is cause for much of that, hence this blog in the first place, and especially since my birthday is tomorrow I'm taking stock of things a bit more. I will be 28 tomorrow. Damn. I kind of still feel like I'm in that weird post-18 pre-25 mindset. Maybe it's because Kelley is four years my junior and that keeps me feeling younger but when I was a younger lad (late teens, early 20's) I thought "Damn, 28? Almost 30? That's old." Now look at me. There's been a lot of life lived here my friends, a lot of things that maybe would have been better not happening but hey, I've always subscribed to the notion that if you're happy with where you are right now then nothing was really bad because it all forms and informs who you are. Very much a cliché, I know.
Let's see, potentially life-threatening disease? Check. Surviving it. What else you got, universe?
The systematic dismantling of my friend network over the years either deliberately or otherwise? Double check. This is a big one that really bothers me and that will probably never change. Five years ago I had a great many folks I could count on and look to and my extended family was very extended indeed. It kind of started when I got out of the music game, I think. I just checked out from everyone and landed at the bottom of a bottle for awhile. There are only so many unreturned phone calls and messages that people can take before checking you off the list I suppose. Another point for my causing my own distress. Slowly I've begun to rebuild some of those relationships and it's occurred to me that if I reconnect with people, awesome. The ones that stay on the other side of that burned bridge will just have to hang out there for awhile longer, as much as I'd like to change that. I'm a dude that doesn't like to make waves with people, contrary to what my actions in a past life may have said.
Sometimes, even when I try I get burned. Example: when I went to jail I met this dude named Kurt and we became fast friends. Both musicians, both cooks, similar sense of humor, and enrolled in the same "don't drink and drive" anymore program. When we got back to the real world we met again unexpectedly on the streets of Dover and I soon went to work for him (he was chef at a local restaurant.) Now, I was a fairly prodigious alcoholic but THIS guy had an epic drinking problem. He'd make daily trips to the liquor store, passing my apartment on the way, to get "breakfast" at 9 or 10am and would basically be wasted all day. I'd have to wake him up to get to work some days (he lived adjacent to the restaurant) and cover for him when he took pulls off the bottles of cooking wine and such in the kitchen. Not a fun set of circumstances. Anyway, finally it got to be pretty bad and I took him to the hospital with a friend of his. This friend bailed on us and I was with him all day in the ER getting sobered up and stabilized. The dude drank two nips of vodka in the triage bathroom, that's how bad off he was. Eventually one of the nurses/social work people came in and he agreed to check into a rehab facility that day. He's been in now for about a year and I'm happy to say he's been sober since December 3rd and getting things back on track. Kelley and I ran into him at Barnes and Noble not too long ago and we chatted. He said "Oh shit, you got skinny! Working out or hospital?" We can smell our own. I told him about my pancreatitis and he just said "Yup, that'll do it."
I've been asked if I feel slighted or something because here's a guy who drank much, much more than me in a shorter amount of time and is healthier than I am. Nope. I drew the short straw and it's my lot to bear. I'm happy that my friend got himself clean and didn't have to have something terrible happen to him to get that way. I'm not one to question the "fairness" of the things that happen to us. Things just happen and we either go with it or we don't and I'm happy to say I'm not done fighting just yet. Too much to live for.
Yesterday into last night and moving to today has been kind of a trial. Not sure why but my flank drain has been giving me A LOT of pain. It took me hours to fall asleep last night because any way I laid hurt. A lot. I'm used to not sleeping at this point but not sleeping due to unyielding pain isn't something I deal with every day, at least not as often as I used to. The worst part of this pain business is that it tends to keep me inside and not out actually doing things. For awhile I couldn't really go out because I was going to the hospital so often. It really was a daily battle to see if I would have to hit the ER or not so you can imagine what that does to one's social life. Hopefully I won't have any more problems today or tomorrow. Who wants to be laid up on their birthday? I'm not even planning on doing anything but it would be nice to be able to do something if I so chose. Yup.
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Might take the day off from writing tomorrow due to the specified above birthday. Or I'll finally get around to writing about my surgery. We'll see.
Let's see, potentially life-threatening disease? Check. Surviving it. What else you got, universe?
The systematic dismantling of my friend network over the years either deliberately or otherwise? Double check. This is a big one that really bothers me and that will probably never change. Five years ago I had a great many folks I could count on and look to and my extended family was very extended indeed. It kind of started when I got out of the music game, I think. I just checked out from everyone and landed at the bottom of a bottle for awhile. There are only so many unreturned phone calls and messages that people can take before checking you off the list I suppose. Another point for my causing my own distress. Slowly I've begun to rebuild some of those relationships and it's occurred to me that if I reconnect with people, awesome. The ones that stay on the other side of that burned bridge will just have to hang out there for awhile longer, as much as I'd like to change that. I'm a dude that doesn't like to make waves with people, contrary to what my actions in a past life may have said.
Sometimes, even when I try I get burned. Example: when I went to jail I met this dude named Kurt and we became fast friends. Both musicians, both cooks, similar sense of humor, and enrolled in the same "don't drink and drive" anymore program. When we got back to the real world we met again unexpectedly on the streets of Dover and I soon went to work for him (he was chef at a local restaurant.) Now, I was a fairly prodigious alcoholic but THIS guy had an epic drinking problem. He'd make daily trips to the liquor store, passing my apartment on the way, to get "breakfast" at 9 or 10am and would basically be wasted all day. I'd have to wake him up to get to work some days (he lived adjacent to the restaurant) and cover for him when he took pulls off the bottles of cooking wine and such in the kitchen. Not a fun set of circumstances. Anyway, finally it got to be pretty bad and I took him to the hospital with a friend of his. This friend bailed on us and I was with him all day in the ER getting sobered up and stabilized. The dude drank two nips of vodka in the triage bathroom, that's how bad off he was. Eventually one of the nurses/social work people came in and he agreed to check into a rehab facility that day. He's been in now for about a year and I'm happy to say he's been sober since December 3rd and getting things back on track. Kelley and I ran into him at Barnes and Noble not too long ago and we chatted. He said "Oh shit, you got skinny! Working out or hospital?" We can smell our own. I told him about my pancreatitis and he just said "Yup, that'll do it."
I've been asked if I feel slighted or something because here's a guy who drank much, much more than me in a shorter amount of time and is healthier than I am. Nope. I drew the short straw and it's my lot to bear. I'm happy that my friend got himself clean and didn't have to have something terrible happen to him to get that way. I'm not one to question the "fairness" of the things that happen to us. Things just happen and we either go with it or we don't and I'm happy to say I'm not done fighting just yet. Too much to live for.
Yesterday into last night and moving to today has been kind of a trial. Not sure why but my flank drain has been giving me A LOT of pain. It took me hours to fall asleep last night because any way I laid hurt. A lot. I'm used to not sleeping at this point but not sleeping due to unyielding pain isn't something I deal with every day, at least not as often as I used to. The worst part of this pain business is that it tends to keep me inside and not out actually doing things. For awhile I couldn't really go out because I was going to the hospital so often. It really was a daily battle to see if I would have to hit the ER or not so you can imagine what that does to one's social life. Hopefully I won't have any more problems today or tomorrow. Who wants to be laid up on their birthday? I'm not even planning on doing anything but it would be nice to be able to do something if I so chose. Yup.
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Might take the day off from writing tomorrow due to the specified above birthday. Or I'll finally get around to writing about my surgery. We'll see.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Part Eleven: Blessed Burden
According to various news sources Amy Winehouse was found dead in London today. A twenty-seven year old life cut short. The police say the death is currently unexplained but given her history of addictions I don't think anyone really questions what killed her. Tragic? Yes. Unexpected? Hardly. This is the gamble you play when you have self-destructive tendencies. No one forced that woman to make the choices she did regarding her addictions and call me unsympathetic but there are more tragic losses of life to mourn and empathize with the survivors. One of my friends exemplified this in a Facebook posting today regarding the overwhelming outpouring of posts about Amy Winehouse and a severe lack of posting about the atrocities committed in Oslo, Norway yesterday. He said that it was appalling and unsettling that so many ostensibly care about the death of a young lady who (pending cause of death reports) more than likely knowingly brought this on herself and are either ignorant of or uncaring about 92+ dead innocents, many of them children, in Norway at the hands of a terrorist. (Remember kids, terrorists aren't just from a sandy part of the world.) I'm not one to pass judgement on people's priorities or level of empathy about world events but I kind of agree with him. What does this have to do with pancreatitis? Absolutely nothing. It was just the first thing I thought about when I say down at the keyboard this evening.
Know what else I'm thinking about? Purple Gatorade. It's refreshing and tasty. Also, tattoos.
I'm getting a tattoo of a pancreas at some point, hopefully sooner than later. I've never been more sure of a tattoo in my life. Since I first got tattooed (never, EVER refer to it as being "inked." I will smack you.) when I was 19 to my last tattoo this past fall I've felt strongly about everything on my body but this one takes the cake. Or the real estate on my skin required to make it happen. Immediately following my surgery, or at least when I regained consciousness and could string thoughts together coherently I thought it would be the best idea ever to get a pancreas tattoo. Not over the area where my pancreas is/was mind you, but a tattoo of a pancreas. I understand it may not be the easiest thing to picture because really, the pancreas kind of looks like a log of poo. Fleshy poo.
Kelley was the first one to say "Uh...I can't picture that looking good. It's pretty gross." But I could not be swayed. What better way to commemorate my trials by getting a symbol to remind me of what I went through and what I now deal with on a daily basis? Granted, I'm not just going to get a pancreas, it will be a bit more artfully done than that, but it will be an unmistakable testament to the organ that turned on me. I've already discussed the project with my friend and tattooist extraordinaire, Christina Sardinha-Wulfe. She's a doll. She's done most of my tattoos, currently doing a great piece on Kelley and my number one choice for body art. At this point in our relationship I would trust her implicitly to tattoo anything on me without telling me what it was first. This almost happened, actually, when we started on the project of my leg tattoo. I've got six monarch butterflies on my right leg and get comments about them constantly. Pretty manly, eh? A dude with a bunch of butterflies. How did this come to pass? Whilst hanging out at her then place of business years ago she told me that she had a dream about doing a sleeve of monarch butterflies on someone and upon waking up thought of me. Not sure if that part is true or not but when she told me this I said "Ok, I'm game" or something along those lines. Later we started work on the piece sight unseen and it's probably my favorite tattoo thus far and we're still not done with it. (On the subject of manly tattoos, I am the MANLIEST. Plenty of dudes have butterflies, hearts on their sleeve, and a little boy and little girl holding hands in a field with fireflies. Maybe I need a sweet tribal armband to right my tattoo badassery wheel. Or not.)
Getting back on track, our idea for a pancreas tattoo is getting pretty cool. She thought of doing the organ itself half dead/half vibrant for the dichotomy of what's going on inside my body and to go with my ideas of rebirth and vitality and such she gave the idea of adding Japanese maple leaves and cherry blossoms. The cherry blossoms are a symbol of impermanence and taking the most out of the moments while the Japanese maple is symbolic of going with the flow and bending rather than breaking against stress. The placement we're working with is pretty fortuitous because I have adjoining tattoos in the area already, one a pair of koi fish (a symbol of courage in Buddhism) and script that reads "We are blessed, we endure." My sleeve as a whole will be a testament to going forward. I'm stoked.
Not that I need a tattoo to commemorate the experience or remind myself of it, I'm reminded of it every day and not just with pain or discomfort. I've got scars on my abdomen and other places that will forever remind me of what I went through. I can't wait to scare kids who see me shirtless by saying my scar is from where the alien poppped out or something along those lines. I hope my scars never fade or go away. They're an important reminder and testament to the biggest change in my life and not just from a medical standpoint. Pancreatitis has made me a better person in the long run and saved me from myself. Huh. The thing that nearly killed me saved my life. Speaking of my little friend illness, he's been acting up a bit today. First with a bit of nausea and sufficient drain issues. I'm getting really tired of being in pain, let me tell you.
I know I've been a little lax with the storytelling portion of the blog these past few days but rest assured more entertaining anecdotes about hospital life are coming up soon. Chronologically I'm now onto the surgery itself and what happened afterwards which is pretty heady stuff and kind of important so I'm saving it for a rainy day. Maybe it will start pouring soon.
Know what else I'm thinking about? Purple Gatorade. It's refreshing and tasty. Also, tattoos.
I'm getting a tattoo of a pancreas at some point, hopefully sooner than later. I've never been more sure of a tattoo in my life. Since I first got tattooed (never, EVER refer to it as being "inked." I will smack you.) when I was 19 to my last tattoo this past fall I've felt strongly about everything on my body but this one takes the cake. Or the real estate on my skin required to make it happen. Immediately following my surgery, or at least when I regained consciousness and could string thoughts together coherently I thought it would be the best idea ever to get a pancreas tattoo. Not over the area where my pancreas is/was mind you, but a tattoo of a pancreas. I understand it may not be the easiest thing to picture because really, the pancreas kind of looks like a log of poo. Fleshy poo.
Kelley was the first one to say "Uh...I can't picture that looking good. It's pretty gross." But I could not be swayed. What better way to commemorate my trials by getting a symbol to remind me of what I went through and what I now deal with on a daily basis? Granted, I'm not just going to get a pancreas, it will be a bit more artfully done than that, but it will be an unmistakable testament to the organ that turned on me. I've already discussed the project with my friend and tattooist extraordinaire, Christina Sardinha-Wulfe. She's a doll. She's done most of my tattoos, currently doing a great piece on Kelley and my number one choice for body art. At this point in our relationship I would trust her implicitly to tattoo anything on me without telling me what it was first. This almost happened, actually, when we started on the project of my leg tattoo. I've got six monarch butterflies on my right leg and get comments about them constantly. Pretty manly, eh? A dude with a bunch of butterflies. How did this come to pass? Whilst hanging out at her then place of business years ago she told me that she had a dream about doing a sleeve of monarch butterflies on someone and upon waking up thought of me. Not sure if that part is true or not but when she told me this I said "Ok, I'm game" or something along those lines. Later we started work on the piece sight unseen and it's probably my favorite tattoo thus far and we're still not done with it. (On the subject of manly tattoos, I am the MANLIEST. Plenty of dudes have butterflies, hearts on their sleeve, and a little boy and little girl holding hands in a field with fireflies. Maybe I need a sweet tribal armband to right my tattoo badassery wheel. Or not.)
Getting back on track, our idea for a pancreas tattoo is getting pretty cool. She thought of doing the organ itself half dead/half vibrant for the dichotomy of what's going on inside my body and to go with my ideas of rebirth and vitality and such she gave the idea of adding Japanese maple leaves and cherry blossoms. The cherry blossoms are a symbol of impermanence and taking the most out of the moments while the Japanese maple is symbolic of going with the flow and bending rather than breaking against stress. The placement we're working with is pretty fortuitous because I have adjoining tattoos in the area already, one a pair of koi fish (a symbol of courage in Buddhism) and script that reads "We are blessed, we endure." My sleeve as a whole will be a testament to going forward. I'm stoked.
Not that I need a tattoo to commemorate the experience or remind myself of it, I'm reminded of it every day and not just with pain or discomfort. I've got scars on my abdomen and other places that will forever remind me of what I went through. I can't wait to scare kids who see me shirtless by saying my scar is from where the alien poppped out or something along those lines. I hope my scars never fade or go away. They're an important reminder and testament to the biggest change in my life and not just from a medical standpoint. Pancreatitis has made me a better person in the long run and saved me from myself. Huh. The thing that nearly killed me saved my life. Speaking of my little friend illness, he's been acting up a bit today. First with a bit of nausea and sufficient drain issues. I'm getting really tired of being in pain, let me tell you.
I know I've been a little lax with the storytelling portion of the blog these past few days but rest assured more entertaining anecdotes about hospital life are coming up soon. Chronologically I'm now onto the surgery itself and what happened afterwards which is pretty heady stuff and kind of important so I'm saving it for a rainy day. Maybe it will start pouring soon.
Friday, July 22, 2011
Part Ten: The Red White and Blues
To quote Mr. Ice Cube at his most ghetto superstar, today was a good day. I didn't even have to use my AK. False. I do not own an AK nor any other firearms though I think if there were a day where I were to use such a thing it would be more on the thrilling side, or at least noteworthy. To tell the truth, I'm fairly tired right now but I'm not sure if it's due to the very short sleep I had last night or the heat and humidity. Sure, it's gross here but I'd say I'm weathering it better than most people (pun fully intended.) Why complain if you can't do anything about it? Like most things in life someone else has things much worse off than you do so suck it up and soldier on.
Ok, sorry, ran a bit off track there. That and I'm full immersing myself in my latest audio acquisition, the fantastic EP Lost Ground from my favorite friend-driven hardcore band Defeater. If you care anything about majestically heavy and heartfelt music please buy their records or shirts or catch a show. Not only are they bloody brilliant but my old buddy Derek handles vocal duties and what can I say, the boy makes me proud. I'm glad one of us made it out alive.
Back to the story: despite the stifling heat, today went pretty well. Had a delicious scone for breakfast, watched some Dexter with Kelley, ventured out to have lunch with her parents in honor of my upcoming birthday, saw the new Harry Potter movie and picked up some very cheap t-shirts. This boy needs more clothes that fit now that I'm a bit smaller than I was six months ago. My pain level, on a scale of 1 to 10 was a solid 5 today. At times there were spikes but it was just your general consistent pain today. These drains are not very fun to live with, let me tell you. The fluid has a nice stank, my skin gets raw and torn up from having to constantly apply and remove tegaderm patches or tape, and they hurt, pinch, sting, whathaveyou. Especially the one in my back. Oy vey. This guy keeps me from sleeping properly and is a consistent pain in the back (literally! Ha!) Add to that the bonus points of kind of pulling out on its own so my JP doesn't drain properly and the fluid inside me is going nowhere. Great. Can't wait to visit the hospital again for that one. As used to being hospitalized as I am it doesn't make it any more fun. It's always the same: go to Wentworth-Douglas ER for intense pain, nausea, vomiting, infections, get treated and stabilized, get CT scanned and/or X-rayed, find out there's funny stuff going on inside, take an ambulance down to Lahey clinic to get stabilized some more and have Dr. Pomposelli ask why they transferred me or have new drains put in. As I've mentioned in an earlier entry I'm not terribly thrilled about CT scans (I'm going to have another scheduled for next week or so. Number 22 baby!) but that's what Jimmy wants me to do.
The pain is much more bearable these days than it has been and I'll tell you, I don't know how people get addicted to pain killers. Or rather, I know I would never get addicted to pain killers. At least PO/by mouth pain meds. IV meds, sure. There is definitely a certain loopy/rush/oooh feeling when you get IV pain meds, especially when they're something strong like dilaudid. In fact, one of the nurses this last time at Lahey told me about this whole series of YouTube videos about patients going to ERs or treatment facilities and requesting very specific doses of dilaudid and/or phenergan. For those who don't know, dilaudid is basically high test morphine and phenergan is a very potent nausea medication that has the added bonus of causing severe drowsiness. I have a script for it right now, actually. When you combine these two meds you have a very hearty cocktail that I'm often prescribed when I hit the ER when things get really bad. Sometimes they throw in a little ativan too. THAT will put me out. One time they gave me three rounds of that in the ER and sent me on my way. Let me tell you, I was fucked up. No other way to put it. Stumbled out of triage and everything. Mind you, I don't enjoy that feeling and try to avoid it as much as my pain will allow me to. Being in control of your faculties is a big plus in my book.
Back to my earlier point, I have the fortune of not really being affected by pain meds at home. I've had scripts for dilaudid, oxycodine, oxycodone, percocet, darvocet, etc. and not one has made me feel loopy or high. Thank GOD. That's all a recovering alcoholic needs, more ways to get messed up in the comfort of home. Maybe I just got lucky in the genetic lottery and I don't get hit by that stuff like other people do. I know folks that would step over their own mother for some oxycontin and I'm very happy I am not one of those people. Most of the time I try to deal with pain either naturally or with Tylenol or some other OTC pain reliever. Try to stay away from acetaminophen though, that stuff does a number on your liver.
Being as treated as I've been can be a big help sometimes, especially when I'm working with people who haven't seen me before or read my chart. Let me tell you, my chart is pretty hefty. I think the docs and nurses appreciate it that I'm pretty knowledgeable about what's going on in my body. It makes their job easier when a patient is an active participant in their treatment. It's true. If you're in the hospital or anything like that ask questions and listen. You'll be surprised how much help you can be because I'm sorry to burst some bubbles but most doctors aren't geniuses and they sometimes only work in best guess scenarios. Even basic simple stuff helps like knowing the all-too-common question "What would you rate your pain today on a scale of 0 to 10, 0 being no pain and 10 being the worst pain you've ever felt?" Louis C.K. has a bit about this saying why would anyone say anything but 10? Doc, I'm in pain. Give me meds. There is some truth in that but being able to pinpoint more accurately is better in the long run. Example, today I'm rocking about a 5. It's in the middle of the road in terms of my experiences with pain. Sometimes I'll tell them I'm at an 11 because I love Spinal Tap and those are times where it hurts so badly that I really think I could die. It happens less often now but for awhile that was the standard. I'd have to get 1-2 milligram doses of dilaudid every two hours just to stay functioning. Not cool, brah. There was one time at Wentworth-Douglas that was extraordinarily bad and I had pain meds every hour, PO percocet then IV dilaudid an hour later in two hour cycles. One. Two. One. Two. One. Two. Man, I don't want to relive that experience.
It's getting close to time for me to check out for the night so I think I'll do that. Kelley has the New Hampshire Tattoo Convention tomorrow with her friend Cammy and because I opted out of going I've got a whole lot of nothing to do tomorrow. Maybe laundry? Who knows. Hopefully my drains don't act up any more tomorrow. It's bad enough they're leaking and causing me much distress, I don't need any more lip from them. Thanks for your time, dear readers. Tomorrow!
Ok, sorry, ran a bit off track there. That and I'm full immersing myself in my latest audio acquisition, the fantastic EP Lost Ground from my favorite friend-driven hardcore band Defeater. If you care anything about majestically heavy and heartfelt music please buy their records or shirts or catch a show. Not only are they bloody brilliant but my old buddy Derek handles vocal duties and what can I say, the boy makes me proud. I'm glad one of us made it out alive.
Back to the story: despite the stifling heat, today went pretty well. Had a delicious scone for breakfast, watched some Dexter with Kelley, ventured out to have lunch with her parents in honor of my upcoming birthday, saw the new Harry Potter movie and picked up some very cheap t-shirts. This boy needs more clothes that fit now that I'm a bit smaller than I was six months ago. My pain level, on a scale of 1 to 10 was a solid 5 today. At times there were spikes but it was just your general consistent pain today. These drains are not very fun to live with, let me tell you. The fluid has a nice stank, my skin gets raw and torn up from having to constantly apply and remove tegaderm patches or tape, and they hurt, pinch, sting, whathaveyou. Especially the one in my back. Oy vey. This guy keeps me from sleeping properly and is a consistent pain in the back (literally! Ha!) Add to that the bonus points of kind of pulling out on its own so my JP doesn't drain properly and the fluid inside me is going nowhere. Great. Can't wait to visit the hospital again for that one. As used to being hospitalized as I am it doesn't make it any more fun. It's always the same: go to Wentworth-Douglas ER for intense pain, nausea, vomiting, infections, get treated and stabilized, get CT scanned and/or X-rayed, find out there's funny stuff going on inside, take an ambulance down to Lahey clinic to get stabilized some more and have Dr. Pomposelli ask why they transferred me or have new drains put in. As I've mentioned in an earlier entry I'm not terribly thrilled about CT scans (I'm going to have another scheduled for next week or so. Number 22 baby!) but that's what Jimmy wants me to do.
The pain is much more bearable these days than it has been and I'll tell you, I don't know how people get addicted to pain killers. Or rather, I know I would never get addicted to pain killers. At least PO/by mouth pain meds. IV meds, sure. There is definitely a certain loopy/rush/oooh feeling when you get IV pain meds, especially when they're something strong like dilaudid. In fact, one of the nurses this last time at Lahey told me about this whole series of YouTube videos about patients going to ERs or treatment facilities and requesting very specific doses of dilaudid and/or phenergan. For those who don't know, dilaudid is basically high test morphine and phenergan is a very potent nausea medication that has the added bonus of causing severe drowsiness. I have a script for it right now, actually. When you combine these two meds you have a very hearty cocktail that I'm often prescribed when I hit the ER when things get really bad. Sometimes they throw in a little ativan too. THAT will put me out. One time they gave me three rounds of that in the ER and sent me on my way. Let me tell you, I was fucked up. No other way to put it. Stumbled out of triage and everything. Mind you, I don't enjoy that feeling and try to avoid it as much as my pain will allow me to. Being in control of your faculties is a big plus in my book.
Back to my earlier point, I have the fortune of not really being affected by pain meds at home. I've had scripts for dilaudid, oxycodine, oxycodone, percocet, darvocet, etc. and not one has made me feel loopy or high. Thank GOD. That's all a recovering alcoholic needs, more ways to get messed up in the comfort of home. Maybe I just got lucky in the genetic lottery and I don't get hit by that stuff like other people do. I know folks that would step over their own mother for some oxycontin and I'm very happy I am not one of those people. Most of the time I try to deal with pain either naturally or with Tylenol or some other OTC pain reliever. Try to stay away from acetaminophen though, that stuff does a number on your liver.
Being as treated as I've been can be a big help sometimes, especially when I'm working with people who haven't seen me before or read my chart. Let me tell you, my chart is pretty hefty. I think the docs and nurses appreciate it that I'm pretty knowledgeable about what's going on in my body. It makes their job easier when a patient is an active participant in their treatment. It's true. If you're in the hospital or anything like that ask questions and listen. You'll be surprised how much help you can be because I'm sorry to burst some bubbles but most doctors aren't geniuses and they sometimes only work in best guess scenarios. Even basic simple stuff helps like knowing the all-too-common question "What would you rate your pain today on a scale of 0 to 10, 0 being no pain and 10 being the worst pain you've ever felt?" Louis C.K. has a bit about this saying why would anyone say anything but 10? Doc, I'm in pain. Give me meds. There is some truth in that but being able to pinpoint more accurately is better in the long run. Example, today I'm rocking about a 5. It's in the middle of the road in terms of my experiences with pain. Sometimes I'll tell them I'm at an 11 because I love Spinal Tap and those are times where it hurts so badly that I really think I could die. It happens less often now but for awhile that was the standard. I'd have to get 1-2 milligram doses of dilaudid every two hours just to stay functioning. Not cool, brah. There was one time at Wentworth-Douglas that was extraordinarily bad and I had pain meds every hour, PO percocet then IV dilaudid an hour later in two hour cycles. One. Two. One. Two. One. Two. Man, I don't want to relive that experience.
It's getting close to time for me to check out for the night so I think I'll do that. Kelley has the New Hampshire Tattoo Convention tomorrow with her friend Cammy and because I opted out of going I've got a whole lot of nothing to do tomorrow. Maybe laundry? Who knows. Hopefully my drains don't act up any more tomorrow. It's bad enough they're leaking and causing me much distress, I don't need any more lip from them. Thanks for your time, dear readers. Tomorrow!
 |
| Attempting to be clever with my plushy pancreas. Get it?! |
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Part Nine: Thnks Fr Th Mmrs
First off, thank you to everyone who has read and will read this little blog in the future. This isn't therapy for me and it isn't meant to make sense of what's happening in my life. I don't need to write any of this down for closure or sanity, I do it because enough people have asked about what went on when I got sick that I'm dealing with the tedium of telling the same story over and over in one fell swoop. Enough of my life this year has been interesting and or entertaining enough that maybe, just maybe it'll be a good diversion for people other than me and my family; those whom witnessed all of the awful things that went on especially during the times I can't remember. Y'know what, maybe I'm writing this for them. Yes. I'll go with that. This blog is for my family. And not just those people I share genetic ties to but those whom I love and gave me a reason to pull through and not let my disease get the best of me. My parents spent a lot of gas and money (Lahey takes in a considerable amount in parking fees you know) making the trek to Burlington day after day and it makes me feel bad. Seeing me laid out fighting to stay alive at times was not a pleasant experience for Kelley and I know it messed her up a bit to see me like that. Hell, after I posted that series of pictures the other day she came downstairs after I had taken a shower, wrapped her arms around me and balled her eyes out because she can't handle thinking about those days. I've only let myself really get upset about my situation once since I left the hospital. One of the two of us has to soldier on through all of this and if I let things get to me I won't be able to function. Her lovely parents and sister got to see me when I was pretty bad off and I'm pretty sure they've taken a shine to me so that couldn't have been fun for them to watch. My brother Seamus came to visit me but I don't remember. Sorry dude. My brothers, my gang came to see me. Twice. This is after being disconnected from them for a good long while. Still, bonds run deep and how many people can say they've had the same friends for their whole lives? Then there was Angel, who made Christmas that much more merry. That dude would do anything I'd ask of him and that's not lost on me. These people saw me at my worst and I apologize to all of them for putting them through uncomfortable situations.
Also, thanks to everyone who sent cards and well-wishes. It means a lot to have people in your corner. Extra special thanks to everyone who has helped out financially, I wouldn't be able to live without help and it's much appreciated. Family, friends, well-wishers and strangers have donated to keep me afloat and it means the world to me and to Kelley. I'm eternally grateful and indebted to all of you.
Alright, enough of this love-in. Let's get to some meat and potatoes storytelling, eh?!
C'mon, I thought it was funny.
I'm feeling a bit scatterbrained tonight so I'll leave the history and stories for the next post. I'll just leave this as a thankful post and take it easy for now. So again, thank you. Readers, well-wishers, family, friends, long-losts and never-lefts. There's more to come and hopefully people will be entertained, moved, and maybe even inspired by what goes on here. I promise some juicy bits coming up.
Also, thanks to everyone who sent cards and well-wishes. It means a lot to have people in your corner. Extra special thanks to everyone who has helped out financially, I wouldn't be able to live without help and it's much appreciated. Family, friends, well-wishers and strangers have donated to keep me afloat and it means the world to me and to Kelley. I'm eternally grateful and indebted to all of you.
Alright, enough of this love-in. Let's get to some meat and potatoes storytelling, eh?!
C'mon, I thought it was funny.
I'm feeling a bit scatterbrained tonight so I'll leave the history and stories for the next post. I'll just leave this as a thankful post and take it easy for now. So again, thank you. Readers, well-wishers, family, friends, long-losts and never-lefts. There's more to come and hopefully people will be entertained, moved, and maybe even inspired by what goes on here. I promise some juicy bits coming up.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Part Eight: What Dreams May Come vol. 1
I'm riding the wave of another sleepless night while my dearly beloved snoozes rather soundly a few feet from me. It's a bit discouraging when I do everything in my power to go to sleep and I can't make it work, or if I do sleep it's fairly restless and for not very long. At this point unfortunately I'm used to a lack of sleep but that doesn't make it any more comfortable to deal with. What to do with this extra time on my hands? I dunno dude, why not write about some of the crazy stuff you dreamed about while in your little coma? Spoon.
I forget the name of the specific drug(s) I was given but around the time of my surgery I was given a cocktail to make me sleep through the whole experience. I went into surgery on January 7th, I think, and wasn't conscious again until the week of the 21st-28th. It was a little jarring to wake up and not know what day it was or what happened. The nurses would routinely ask me what day it was and where I was and when I woke up I had no idea. Freaky stuff. I've told some of my nurses that at some point I want to undergo hypnosis to remember not only the things going on in my head at this time but to see if I can remember anything going on around me as well. Fun fact: people in comas, medically-induced or otherwise can and do hear what goes on around them. They may never recall any of it but they do register what's going on.
There are A LOT of things that I remember dreaming/I believed happened and not all of it was very pleasant. Here I attempt to recall a few things, hence the vol. 1 in the title.
My mother told me that I kept talking about "the old sailor" I was talking to that would leave through the walls. She didn't tell me anything specific I said about this sailor or anything we talked about but we've come to collectively believe I was talking to my Grandfather who passed away a few years ago and who was a Navy man. It's entirely possible, though I don't tend to put stock into ghost encounters or anything like that.
I believed I was in a Japanese hospital of the future and was being cognitively and mentally tested. Why Japanese? Who knows. Through these tests I believed my captors (yes, I was being held against my will) had malicious intent and were scheming to take over the world or something to that effect. At this realization I somehow managed to rig explosives in the hospital, which was apparently the most important building in Japan, and destroy it. I remember seeing the place fall apart around me and even though I knew it almost certainly meant my own doom I was happy for thwarting their plan. Unfortunately for me, I slept and re-awoke to find that the Japanese manipulated space-time so that I never actually blew up anything and I was back to square one in my hospital bed. None of my nurses were Japanese in this dream, oddly enough.
So sure was I that this actually happened that I convinced the real life Lahey nurses that I had in fact been to Japan and I very seriously asked my parents not to think badly on me because I blew up a building in Japan. That's right, I was out of my coma enough to grab hold of my parents and tearfully tell them I did a bad thing by blowing up this building and for them not to be mad at me. They assured me that this didn't actually happen and back to sleep I went. Sometimes I can recall telling them this but again, it was all so jumbled I don't know where dreams and reality went astray.
Piggy-backing on this gem of a drug fantasy was one of the most uncomfortable things I've ever felt and probably will ever feel. Why? I know that this was one of the times that I felt myself dying. I know beyond the shadow of a doubt that I looked into the void and it scared the shit out of me. There is no way to possibly describe exactly how it felt but I know it was real.
(disclaimer: This was a very FUBAR dream so my sentence structure is probably going to be terrible.)
Not sure how this particular dreamscape began but I was in Burlington, but not the actual Burlington. This Burlington was centered around a massive hill and a dense forest. There were leagues of serpentine streets and I was trying to navigate them to make it back to the hospital. I don't know how I knew it but I was being followed by people meaning to do me harm. I happened across a family of hillbilly cannibals that were tied to the people that tried to extort money from me on the ambulance ride down (as I wrote in an earlier post.) They produced these kind of CKY/ICP videos of themselves butchering and maiming and eating other people. They told me I had to join them in these pursuits and I said there was no way I could do that and tried to escape. I managed to run and make it to a stranger's house close by who hated these monsters. From there we plotted to attack them and end their reign of terror in the community. We devised a plan to bomb their house and kill their elders, thereby scattering the younger of the family. We managed to attack them under cover of darkness, set fire to their house and kill some of the family but we couldn't completely overtake them. We fled into these fields adjacent to their house and waited for the police to come and finish the job for us but that didn't happen either. When we finally found the police we were arrested for disturbing the peace and trying to destroy this family. I pleaded with the police that they were evil, butchering and eating people but the police just said it was their right and we had no business trying to destroy them. There's a lot more to this dream but I can't recall it right now. I don't remember how it ended exactly but I couldn't defeat the cannibal hillbillies.
I was going to write about one of my experiences of knowing I was going to die but to actually put it down right now it would probably take me an hour to write and take twice as long to read. So I'll leave the full story for another post but I'll give up a little bit now, uncomfortable as it is.
One of my very lengthy dreams involved living in a "virtual" computer world where you had to know the most minute detail about computer programming to exist. Example: You couldn't just walk around and interact with things, you had to know the specifics of physics and moving bodies in space to even stand up and walk. There became camps of people of varying levels of skill at programming this reality trying to build reality to what they believed it should be. For some reason I was terrible at programming and could barely do the simplest task. Kelley and her sister Liza were in this reality and they were both geniuses. Liza and her boyfriend Mike were part of a group that were trying to build reality simply and directly and more like the physical world was. They would learn to do simple things like move an object backwards and forwards in space in order to make it possible for there to be gravity and planets and stars. This doesn't make a whole lot of sense, I know. Anyway, to get to the meat of it, their camp was at ideological war with the remainder of the world who rushed into programming reality and turned everything into a big game with no thought to the mechanics of physics or how to sustain their reality. Because of this their reality was being torn apart at the seams. That's when I knew I saw death. I was standing at the edge of a cliff and just saw blackness. Endless, cold blackness. I tried to turn away but was almost being sucked in or drawn to the dark and it scared me more than I've ever felt before because I couldn't see anything in the darkness. Eventually I did fall into the void and I could feel myself being covered by this cold emptiness but I kept thinking of physics things I learned from the other programmers and started to see miniscule points of light forming shapes and acting in logical ways in terms of gravity, attraction, flow, etc. From there I realized I could use these principles to make it back to the cliff and I did. From there I manifested a way back to the Kelley/Liza/Mike's group and told them I figured out how gravity worked in empty space so we could all be saved. There's a lot more to this but I'll stop there for now.
It's a little weird writing about it and I wish I could convey how achingly empty it felt to experience that. I knew that I was going to die. This was happening in my head while I was either being operated on or post recovery. According to the doctors I nearly died on the operating table and due to complications from my surgery almost died in SICU. I 100% believe this particular dream was my brain knowing it was going to die and fighting against it. It gives me the shakes just thinking about it. More on that later.
I'm done for the night. Maybe more later kiddos.
I forget the name of the specific drug(s) I was given but around the time of my surgery I was given a cocktail to make me sleep through the whole experience. I went into surgery on January 7th, I think, and wasn't conscious again until the week of the 21st-28th. It was a little jarring to wake up and not know what day it was or what happened. The nurses would routinely ask me what day it was and where I was and when I woke up I had no idea. Freaky stuff. I've told some of my nurses that at some point I want to undergo hypnosis to remember not only the things going on in my head at this time but to see if I can remember anything going on around me as well. Fun fact: people in comas, medically-induced or otherwise can and do hear what goes on around them. They may never recall any of it but they do register what's going on.
There are A LOT of things that I remember dreaming/I believed happened and not all of it was very pleasant. Here I attempt to recall a few things, hence the vol. 1 in the title.
My mother told me that I kept talking about "the old sailor" I was talking to that would leave through the walls. She didn't tell me anything specific I said about this sailor or anything we talked about but we've come to collectively believe I was talking to my Grandfather who passed away a few years ago and who was a Navy man. It's entirely possible, though I don't tend to put stock into ghost encounters or anything like that.
I believed I was in a Japanese hospital of the future and was being cognitively and mentally tested. Why Japanese? Who knows. Through these tests I believed my captors (yes, I was being held against my will) had malicious intent and were scheming to take over the world or something to that effect. At this realization I somehow managed to rig explosives in the hospital, which was apparently the most important building in Japan, and destroy it. I remember seeing the place fall apart around me and even though I knew it almost certainly meant my own doom I was happy for thwarting their plan. Unfortunately for me, I slept and re-awoke to find that the Japanese manipulated space-time so that I never actually blew up anything and I was back to square one in my hospital bed. None of my nurses were Japanese in this dream, oddly enough.
So sure was I that this actually happened that I convinced the real life Lahey nurses that I had in fact been to Japan and I very seriously asked my parents not to think badly on me because I blew up a building in Japan. That's right, I was out of my coma enough to grab hold of my parents and tearfully tell them I did a bad thing by blowing up this building and for them not to be mad at me. They assured me that this didn't actually happen and back to sleep I went. Sometimes I can recall telling them this but again, it was all so jumbled I don't know where dreams and reality went astray.
Piggy-backing on this gem of a drug fantasy was one of the most uncomfortable things I've ever felt and probably will ever feel. Why? I know that this was one of the times that I felt myself dying. I know beyond the shadow of a doubt that I looked into the void and it scared the shit out of me. There is no way to possibly describe exactly how it felt but I know it was real.
(disclaimer: This was a very FUBAR dream so my sentence structure is probably going to be terrible.)
Not sure how this particular dreamscape began but I was in Burlington, but not the actual Burlington. This Burlington was centered around a massive hill and a dense forest. There were leagues of serpentine streets and I was trying to navigate them to make it back to the hospital. I don't know how I knew it but I was being followed by people meaning to do me harm. I happened across a family of hillbilly cannibals that were tied to the people that tried to extort money from me on the ambulance ride down (as I wrote in an earlier post.) They produced these kind of CKY/ICP videos of themselves butchering and maiming and eating other people. They told me I had to join them in these pursuits and I said there was no way I could do that and tried to escape. I managed to run and make it to a stranger's house close by who hated these monsters. From there we plotted to attack them and end their reign of terror in the community. We devised a plan to bomb their house and kill their elders, thereby scattering the younger of the family. We managed to attack them under cover of darkness, set fire to their house and kill some of the family but we couldn't completely overtake them. We fled into these fields adjacent to their house and waited for the police to come and finish the job for us but that didn't happen either. When we finally found the police we were arrested for disturbing the peace and trying to destroy this family. I pleaded with the police that they were evil, butchering and eating people but the police just said it was their right and we had no business trying to destroy them. There's a lot more to this dream but I can't recall it right now. I don't remember how it ended exactly but I couldn't defeat the cannibal hillbillies.
I was going to write about one of my experiences of knowing I was going to die but to actually put it down right now it would probably take me an hour to write and take twice as long to read. So I'll leave the full story for another post but I'll give up a little bit now, uncomfortable as it is.
One of my very lengthy dreams involved living in a "virtual" computer world where you had to know the most minute detail about computer programming to exist. Example: You couldn't just walk around and interact with things, you had to know the specifics of physics and moving bodies in space to even stand up and walk. There became camps of people of varying levels of skill at programming this reality trying to build reality to what they believed it should be. For some reason I was terrible at programming and could barely do the simplest task. Kelley and her sister Liza were in this reality and they were both geniuses. Liza and her boyfriend Mike were part of a group that were trying to build reality simply and directly and more like the physical world was. They would learn to do simple things like move an object backwards and forwards in space in order to make it possible for there to be gravity and planets and stars. This doesn't make a whole lot of sense, I know. Anyway, to get to the meat of it, their camp was at ideological war with the remainder of the world who rushed into programming reality and turned everything into a big game with no thought to the mechanics of physics or how to sustain their reality. Because of this their reality was being torn apart at the seams. That's when I knew I saw death. I was standing at the edge of a cliff and just saw blackness. Endless, cold blackness. I tried to turn away but was almost being sucked in or drawn to the dark and it scared me more than I've ever felt before because I couldn't see anything in the darkness. Eventually I did fall into the void and I could feel myself being covered by this cold emptiness but I kept thinking of physics things I learned from the other programmers and started to see miniscule points of light forming shapes and acting in logical ways in terms of gravity, attraction, flow, etc. From there I realized I could use these principles to make it back to the cliff and I did. From there I manifested a way back to the Kelley/Liza/Mike's group and told them I figured out how gravity worked in empty space so we could all be saved. There's a lot more to this but I'll stop there for now.
It's a little weird writing about it and I wish I could convey how achingly empty it felt to experience that. I knew that I was going to die. This was happening in my head while I was either being operated on or post recovery. According to the doctors I nearly died on the operating table and due to complications from my surgery almost died in SICU. I 100% believe this particular dream was my brain knowing it was going to die and fighting against it. It gives me the shakes just thinking about it. More on that later.
I'm done for the night. Maybe more later kiddos.
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