Tag: help

The aftermath

“I don’t belong here”, I said. As I spoke I scanned the group assembled at the long table. Looks like 2 Head Shrinkers and an intern. They looked like reasonable people. I could work with them.
“Sir, won’t you agree that most everyone here would say that?” said the Benjamin Bratt lookalike, young and sharp Psychiatrist.
“Maybe. And with no disrespect to those who are here, this is different.”
“How?”, the very cute Intern chimed in.
“Because I tried to force my Doctor’s hand and they called my bluff.”
“Could you give us a little more?”
I explained to them that I was struggling with my dialysis treatments. I was having itching and cramping and spasms that made being in a chair unbearable. That I couldn’t get relief day or night and the insomnia was beating me down. When I couldn’t take it anymore I demanded that my Dr. admit me to find out what was going on. That I was going to hurt myself if I couldn’t find relief.
“That was a mistake that I regret deeply,” I said.

I explained that I wasn’t aware of the steps they would take after my threat. The room without sharp objects that I spent almost a full day. That I would be roomed with a bunch of twitchy, clearly disturbed people. God love them but I’m not one of them. That it just wasn’t what I wanted to accomplish. I was very clear to apologize for wasting their time. But I was clear…I am here for medical care because nothing has been resolved yet.

The next 20 minutes was a back and forth about the seriousness of threats and the callousness of ignoring them, taking an opportunity to partake in some group therapy, digging down to see if I really wanted to harm myself. I had to think about that one long and hard with chin in hand.
I had had some dark-ass thoughts while in the booby -hatch room. Cold, alone, sleep-deprived and ravaged by the lack of dialysis treatments is not a good combination for me. I fought thoughts of slashing my wrists and watching myself bleed out. I imagined putting my .38 Special against my temple, or should I put it to my chest to make a better open-casket? I fantasized about swilling a bottle of Ambien and floating off to peace at last.
“And your children?” I came out of my fog.
“What about my children”? I asked.
“Says here you have 4 children. Are you concerned about how they would feel if you harmed yourself?”
Hell of a question. Should be filed under “no-brainer” but it had to be asked. My children would be fucking crushed if I did that. My children and I have an amazing relationship that I cherish. They have been the biggest reason for me to fight all along. “Yes, I’m very concerned. That realization did come to me. I have a great support network all around…friends, family, my Mason brothers. What made me clear my head between my admission 2 days ago and now is one recurring and terrifying thought.” I paused to sip my coffee. “What if there is a hell and my penance is to watch my children grieve for me, to struggle in life and I’m forced to scratch and scream at a window but they can’t hear me?”
“That’s a rather specific scenario…” Benjamin Bratt said.
“It’s happened before in my dreams…”

funk

I am easily in the worst funk I have ever been in.

The cold and short windows of sunshine always affect me but this year is by far the worst with regards to being down. I think I’m clinically depressed. I’ve let my appearance go. I hate showering because the bathroom is so damn cold. I’m always tired. I don’t answer the phone when most people call. I constantly call on myself to snap the fuck out of it but I can’t. The visceral reactions I once had to my hyper self-aware moments are just not there. The days in which I feel good no longer outnumber the bad. I reach inside for the strength and it’s not there.

There are so many things that I want (ed?) to do. Bucket list stuff. Skydive. Travel in a RV cross country and embrace my inner Kerouac. Ride my motorcycle, one of the things that makes me happier than anything. At least it used to. Write a novel. Get my own place. Fall in love.

Now that one I can say happened. But to what end?

My girl is not mine. But I love her. She belongs to another man. Yes, there is a possibility that she will leave him one day. In the meantime I’m hanging around, like a cinder-block around her neck, trying not to influence her in one of the biggest decisions of her life-to leave and start anew. Hopefully with me. The whole thing really is a “hopefully”. In addition to all of her potential adjustments in her own relationship I’m sure at some point she will ask if she needs another man in her life, and more importantly is it going to be me?

The one thought that dominates my psyche is can I be enough for her? I don’t have money. I don’t have my own place. The love in my heart and my dreams of a new and fresh start don’t seem very reasonable when I can barely get out of bed some days.
Sadly, I feel I’ve led her on. Not in the sense that I am not who I say I am. Instead, I feel that in my quest for normalcy I indicated that I was ready for a relationship. I now question whether I can. I can barely take care of myself, can I be enough for her?

All of these thoughts race through my head and I barely have the energy and will to process them, never mind act on them.

I’m in a bad place.

Just friends

“Let’s just be friends…”. Undoubtedly the most unwelcome words for a guy to ever hear. Nice guys, and I’d like to think I am one, are cursed to hear those ugly words many times in life. I’ve certainly been kissed off more than my share by them. It ultimately feels like rejection, only covered in confectioner’s sugar to sweeten the taste.
Today, I think I would welcome those words.

Why did you have to take my note, after I caught the wedding ring and tried to pull it back? It would have been so much easier if you let me down easy that day. I was ready for it. Going into any situation you must be prepared for any outcome. I was poised for rejection, it’s my usual pose. I wasn’t prepared for you to want to get to know me “as friends”. I wasn’t prepared for you to pry your way through the very small wall of scar tissue that I call my heart and make me want you more. I wasn’t prepared to invest myself emotionally in you, to want to make up for the poor manner in which your husband treats you. You deserve better and it is my nature to want to give better to you. I want to take you away.

But I can’t.

I’m not financially secure. I’m in poor health. I have no place of my own. I am in no way an upgrade for you. You need security in the comforts of life that I cannot provide. If only good intentions were currency.

This will not end well, I just know it. I can let myself enjoy the waltz of the initial flirtation, getting to know you on a deeper level, to lie in bed thinking of those hungry, stolen kisses. But to what end? It’s just not fair to you. You deserve better.

5% of me is shouting down the other 95% of me to do the right thing. The blare of reason is the only thing loud enough to drown the raucous roar of my beating heart.
I want you.
I need you.
But you are not mine to take.

Until something changes on your end…please tell me you want to be “just friends”. I will hate it. I will fight it. But I know that I will learn to live with it. After all, It’s the only way this can end well.

Wait, don’t. I want to savor the moment for a while…

A familiar view

It’s 3 AM and I’m wide awake. I’d been admitted at midnight.

The clatter in the halls and the soft, incessant beeping of machines, as familiar as they are to me, could not be ignored. Television wasn’t an option, I had turned it off at 2. Canned laugh tracks weren’t masking the all-too-familiar sounds and sensations of the hospital room. I’d never been in this particular room before, but if hospital rooms were hotels, I’d qualify as a certified TripAdvisor reviewer. Trust me, they’re all the same.

I was preparing myself for a sleepless night. Once a huge deal to me, now it was no big deal. In a former life, being awake at 3 AM was panic time. I would be so worried about being able to carry out the responsibilities of my work day on no sleep that I would obsess about it and be up all night. Alas, that was when my life was structured and meaningful. Now, being up all night barely affected me or my meager itinerary. As I sat up in the uncomfortable, narrow bed I looked forward to the one thing I could always count in during a hospital stay, some good thinking time.

The last 3 days had been a blur. After a 3rd day of failing to get out of bed for more than an hour at a time, shivering under blankets, a non-existent appetite, and experiencing complete exhaustion at completing even the most mundane physical tasks I had forced myself to take a shower at 8 PM. The thought of removing the 3 layers of clothes in order to even get in the shower filled me with dread. I ran the water until the bathroom steamed up a bit and I forced myself to get in. As I did that I was already dreading stepping out of the shower to get dressed. I have never felt so vulnerable to cold as I have lately. I ran the water hot, hotter than usual and hoped that it would wash away whatever toxins were stealing my life force from me. The effort that it took to wash my tired body sent me into a coughing fit. I nearly passed out I was so short of breath. I stayed in the shower longer than usual, enjoying the heat and steam, and still dreading the brief but brutal moments of drying off and getting dressed. After mustering the courage to do so, I found myself so winded by the mere act of getting dressed that I had to take a break. That told me all I needed to know, I was going to the ER. I was finally convinced that this wasn’t just another “episode” that CKD patients go through. I was more than run down, I was sick.

The 30-minute drive to the hospital was easy. Sitting was no problem. Walking the long corridor from the main entrance to the ER proved to be more of a challenge. By the time I got to the registration desk, they were already scribbling “shortness of breath” as the cause of my visit. Never having been to this hospital, I had to go through the entire registration process. By offering up “transplant patient” at the beginning of the visit, I certainly sped things along. I was immediately seen by the best doctor they could offer that graduated from the bottom 3rd of his graduating class. I’m not being cruel, it’s a small NH hospital that is only equipped for so much.

I explained my history, as I had done so many other times. They took vitals and made pages of notes. When they didn’t recognize half of the meds on my carefully crafted list I immediately knew I was in Mayberry R.F.D. They got the chest X-Ray done and, as I suspected, it was pneumonia. They immediately, and by that, I mean in 2 hours, admitted me. Which brings me to where I am now, wide awake, without comfort, body worn down and my mind searching for clarity.

Despite my serene surroundings, I am bombarded by my thoughts. The last month has been a blur of illness and disappointments. Flare-ups of symptoms once under control had dominated my time and energy. Medicinal changes and side effects have sidelined me from almost everything I enjoyed doing. I am annoyed that the pneumonia is back. This is the second time I’ve had it and the last time was the final blow that forced me out of employment. I’m annoyed at the perceived quality of care I am going to receive. The staff is nice, but they clearly have very little experience with a patient with a history such as mine. I have enough free time to embrace some bitterness also. I have been so disappointed by the events of the Friday before. I had gone to meet some friends at a long-anticipated event and despite the excitement and the planning, I had felt so miserable that I had to leave early. I had so many questions and things to learn from these people. But my expectations of tales and laughter and stimulating conversation over a bountiful meal turned out to be sipping ice water and picking away unenthusiastically at a meal that barely interested me at all, trying not to show my guests how nauseous, exhausted, cold and dying to get out of there and into my warm bed at all costs I was. It further annoyed me that I was already “writing off” the events of the past week as “just another setback” and a part of the new reality.

Is this my new reality? The silent room gives me no answers, and I haven’t the strength in my lungs to hold my breath for one. I am at the point where I know that I am losing the person I was just a month ago. It’s not the illness talking, I know myself well enough to look past how I’m feeling now but to the future. I have been able to pull myself up from so many of life’s beatdowns, dusted off and told it to Fuck off. But at that time, the good days greatly outnumbered the bad. Am I prepared for the days when my “episodes” outnumber my good days?

I have to do something. I thought I have been eating healthy. I can do better. I thought I have been making good choices. I have to make better. I thought I was feeling pretty good. I must do something better.

When I get out of here, I think to myself, I need to make some changes.

As expected, I was released with an antibiotic after only one day. Left to fend for myself again. Left with time to think, to assess and re-evaluate. Where is my source of power? How do I tap into it again? What needs to happen to make me again crave the challenges outside of my doors more than the comfort of my own bed?

I need to be a conduit of inspiration, not an object of pity. I don’t think I’m overstating this. This morning, when I looked in the mirror…I looked sick. That I cannot accept.