Pain. The definition of this word has kept me silent for a long time. Some people try to ignore it, others find some way to escape from it. Drugs and alcohol are a great way to escape the pain of living. Pain can be mental, like dealing with the trials and tribulations of normal everyday life. Other pains can be physical, like all the bullshit that I had to deal with when I was diagnosed with Leukemia (October 5, 2007). Life can be a bitch, but life has been the mother of all whores to me. I'm not going to say that I have had the worst life ever, because I know that others have been through a lot worse than me. But it is that pain, and how we deal with that pain that defines our lives.
When the doctors first told me that I had Leukemia, of course the panic set in, but shortly after, I had to make the decision of a lifetime (one of many). How to deal with the truth of cancer. I was in horrible shape, basically on my death bed when I first got to the hospital. I decided that chemotherapy would have to be my best option. And so, I trusted and followed the path of science and medicine to save my life. Even now I question my decision.
Then the drugs came. Bags of shit that poured into me, killing the essence of my very being. ALL, or Acute Lymphocytic Leukemia, is a cancer of the bone marrow. The treatment is Hyper-CVAD, a regimen of poison designed to kill me from the inside. Bone marrow biopsies, lumbar punctures, blood infusions, radiation, more poison, and dilaudid (Hydromorphone). Dilaudid is basically heroine (hospital heroine). I had lots of it. Lots doesn't even describe how much of this stuff I had taken. When I was first admitted to the hospital I was in the worst pain of my life, I remember that feeling so well. The nurse injected the dilaudid, and for a moment I was in heaven. With pain comes the addiction. The cancer created a hole that would never be filled.
I looked through the pamphlets that described what was happening to me. I see people with smiley faces, being embraced by the ones they loved. Those images are what I was striving for, a life with my family, free of disease. The following days, and months were nothing like what was described in those pamphlets. I journeyed into a life of hell. My family did embrace me when I was sick, caring for me when I had to move to Phoenix, Arizona for further treatment. I always had someone at my side, and that is the reason why I am still alive. But the journey of remission was not easy. I suffered for about twelve months, and up to my bone marrow transplant on August 8,2008 (08/08/08), weird. I kicked cancer's fucking ass!
Remission was not the end. In March of 2009, I was rushed to the hospital following the worst headache of my life, the second worst pain I ever experienced. It turned out that I had meningitis, but the doctors soon discovered that I had developed endocarditis. Enterococcal Endocarditis is shit developing on the heart valve. My mitral valve was clogged. Again, I was in horrible shape. I was shitting everywhere, puking everywhere, couldn't eat. Eventually, the doctors had to force feed me with a tube down my throat. That was another one of the worst feelings of my life. My condition was awful. I was dying, again. The doctor said that I was in too bad of shape to go through the mitral valve replacement. If I didn't get better, I was going to die. Another option was raised. Since I had my bone marrow transplant at the Mayo Clinic in Phoenix, they would accept me back to perform the mitral valve replacement. I remember when my step-dad was with me, and the doctors asked to speak to him. Shortly, they came back into my room, and my dad asked me the most important question I had ever been asked. If I stay in Washington, I would die, or, If I go to Phoenix, there is a possibility of survival. I said, "Let's go." That day, April, 30, 2009, I was rushed to the airport by ambulance. Straight to the runway, to a waiting private jet, just for me. Strapped to the stretcher, they loaded me into the plane. It was a four hour flight to Phoenix on that awesome jet. If I wasn't dying and high as shit, I might have enjoyed the experience. A tube down my throat, and on a fancy plane, the nurse gave me shot after shot of dilaudid, sweet pain.
May, 6, 2009, Dr. Arabia from the Mayo Clinic, cracked my chest open and went to work. When I awoke, I was in my room strapped to the bed, and again a tube down my throat, but this one was to help me breathe. I panicked. The tube was huge, and I could feel it jabbing the bottom of my stomach. Nurses rushed in, I couldn't communicate. I wanted to tell them that the tube was hurting really bad. They thought that I was trying to rip the tube out. The nurses put me out. I awoke again, and again in panic. My family rushed in. I tried, furiously to tell them that I was in agony, but no one could understand anything I was trying to convey. After about four hours, the fucking asshole nurses finally removed the breathing tube and unstrapped me. I will never forgive them for strapping me to that bed.
The surgery went well, and again I am saved by science and medicine. I am indebted to the ones who were there for me in all my times of struggles. I could never repay the kindness of the ones I love and who were with me through the worst experiences of my life. But this story doesn't end here. It never ends. It's been five years since I was diagnosed with cancer. I fought like hell to be healthy, and it hasn't paid off yet. Those smiling faces from the pamphlets started to fade. It is a constant struggle to remain here, but I do in honor of those who have helped me along the way. I have had two knee surgeries, been hospitalized several times for random illnesses and conditions (I contracted Legionnaire's disease, that's called Pontiac Fever, who gets that?), and a fucking excess wire pulled out of my chest. If you read the rest of my blog you'll find the story of how I almost died after a show that I did with my band, THE FESTERING (which will never die!!!). I almost decided to quit after that. I wanted to quit it all, but I have to continue, for you. For whatever reason you happened upon this story, thank you for listening. I think that writing this was more for me than anything, for reassurance of my position here. I promise to try...as hard as I can...to live.
OCTOBER 5, 2012.
happy anniversary.
