Monday, September 26, 2005

Living on E

I don't have even the faintest memory of speaking my first word, but I'm guessing it was, "Ow."

I have been enduring the humiliation of Dialysis now for sixteen months and tonight, by far, was the most painful I have ever experienced.

My access arm had been bothering me all day. I don't know whether my mind was playing tricks on me or a piece of the needle was lodged in between two nerves, but the pain was louder than in the past.

The last time I had this type of pain, my access had stopped working, so I immediately pressed two fingers against both sides of the loop to check if they were still functioning.

Hmm. Not as strong as usual, but still there.

As soon as the needles infiltrated my arm, I knew there would be trouble. Right away I knew something wasn't quite right.

The burning was loud, shrieking and full of anger. It was almost as though my arm were screaming the word, "Enough," over and over and over again.

When the pain became unbearable I started to sweat profusely. I had worn two t-shirts because I'm usually shivering at the clinic, but tonight all my sweat soaked through the first shirt and glued itself to the second.

I know. Gross.

I love the look I get from the tech's when I'm in pain. Woose. Schmuck. Pussy.

The older gents in the clinic like to stare at me, their eyes screaming, "Big pussy."

One day there will be a technology allowing me to transfer all the pain I'm feeling at any given moment to any individual I choose so they can relate to what I'm going through. When that day arrives I will pay whatever fee is necessary to purchase this technology and use it on every individual who deems me unworthy of the male species.

I requested they turn the flow down but they didn't really seem to work.

So I do what I always do when I'm in agonizing pain. I put up with it.

I know my body cannot endure much more. I find that I take all the pain and suffering, humiliation and agony and I roll it into a giant Stacy Ball and roll it down deep into the bowels of my soul. There is resides, getting bigger and more anxious.

I could attempt to reduce its mass by screaming at the top of my lungs to anyone who will listen. Or taking a baseball bat to my entire apartment. Or crying into my pillow each and every night with the zest that Dialysis injures me.

But it would be to no avail.

I find that since I take all my pain and shove it deep to the lower decks of my psyche, I'm suddenly becoming numb to everything. I don't laugh very often, I don't cry during sad movies. In fact, my emotional state is more often than not, just plain, all-American grey neutral.

That's drab, lifeless and boring. But that's what my life has become.

Maybe this whole experience would be easier if I had someone special in my life. Someone who cares for me to such a degree that anything I share will be accepted with no questions asked.

I don't think a woman like that exists.

Or if she does, she's dating someone much more successful than I.

With about thirty minutes remaining Dialysis felt my dignity was still sufficient, so cramping began in my jaw, sprinted down my spine and laid out a blanket and picnic basket firmly in my left calf.

That's when they asked if I'd like to end the treatment early.

Duh.

I shuffled out of Dialysis about a half a kilo heavier than usual, but I don't care.

I'm really at the end of my proverbial rope.

I now would like to make a proposal to you dear blog reader and I say this now without a smirk, or a wink or even a nodding of the head.

I am offering $1000 to anyone who will take a gun and shoot me firmly in the back of my skull.

There are some ground rules of course:

1. I cannot be shot on the weekend. You can only commence this act on a Monday, Wednesday or Friday because if I'm going to die, why go through one more needless Dialysis session.

2. I don't want to feel anything. Make sure you point the gun directly at my temple. I want to suddenly be here enjoying a Wendy's Single Classic, then I want to be face down in my Biggie Fries.

3. I don't want to know it's coming. I don't want to see you. I don't want to know you. I don't want any preemptive strike. Just do it and take the money. It will be in my wallet, ten $100 bills. Enjoy.

Please understand this will not be a murder, but a selfless act of euthanasia for one who is mentally and physically unable to withstand any more pain in his miserable little life.

Thank you and good night.

2 comments:

  1. I refuse to take you up on your offer for the purely selfish reason that you bring far too much joy to the entire Universe. Instead I shall dedicate all my time into designing a transfer of pain machine which I shall give you, free of charge, on the sole condition that you promise not to use it against me.
    2 more points-
    A) I am terribly upset about my lack of cable, ergo lack of America's Next Top Model.
    B) 35 is too old to be single? I think not, and all polled agree with me (for a grand total vote of 16.) The stats don't lie, Stacy, you just attacked that woman's ego by stating a preference for shorter hair.

    ReplyDelete
  2. I refuse to take you up on your offer for the purely selfish reason that you bring far too much joy to the entire Universe. Instead I shall dedicate all my time into designing a transfer of pain machine which I shall give you, free of charge, on the sole condition that you promise not to use it against me.
    2 more points-
    A) I am terribly upset about my lack of cable, ergo lack of America's Next Top Model.
    B) 35 is too old to be single? I think not, and all polled agree with me (for a grand total vote of 16.) The stats don't lie, Stacy, you just attacked that woman's ego by stating a preference for shorter hair.

    ReplyDelete