Friday, April 03, 2009

My Savior: The Catheter Succubus

Death is on my mind constantly.

It started with the first year of treatment in 2004.

It didn't travel in the vicinity of the neighborhood near the province of good times.

When pain visits you consistently and mocks you with its volume, methods of Death make themselves vividly clear.

I am forty-five minutes from buildings in a laboriously ridiculous city that are jump worthy.

Using Craigslist in an attempt to hire a hitman seems easy enough.

Stopping Dialysis also seemed simple and reliable. Then I read what happens to your body once you stop treatment. It was half past pleasant and I've suffered enough.

Then along comes Catheter Succubus.

A simple uncapping of the lines. Large syringe to pull the blood out. Death within a minute as my lifeblood escapes for the very last time.

I would simply pass out from the lack of oxygen in my red blood cells and never wake up.

Planning would need to be performed meticulously.

I'd sell my truck and bike. Give all my useless crap to Goodwill.

Announce my two week notice to my employer and tell everyone I'm going on "sabbatical."

Borrow the biggest loan possible from my 401K.

I'd send half my savings to my best friend and half to my sister with the intention for the money to fund their children's future college educations.

I would include notes for both explaining clearly why I chose to end my life and for them to be thankful I'm no longer suffering.

The final note though will be the hardest series of words I've ever created.

My parents would be heartbroken, but I think my Mom would have another breakdown.

I would take that massive guilt to the grave along with my regrets.

Both plentiful, yet totally inconsequential.

I would request for my body to be cremated and my ashes to be spread from the middle of the span of the Golden Gate Bridge. I could view it from the sixth floor of Moffitt Hospital at UCSF while I was recovering from my first kidney transplant.

Some days it was my only friend.

This sounds like an excellent plan, but I'll have to muse upon it a little bit longer.

I feel like I'm missing something.

Thursday, April 02, 2009

The Point of No Return

I'm so close the breaking point I can feel the cracks in my beleaguered soul.

When you consistently do something for five years that you don't want to do, it makes you massively grumpy.

Or curmudgeonly unbearable.

Or sarcastically impervious to fun.

Or vanquished by the Evil Life Warrior.

I could do this all night.

Before treatment began I was rockin' the Second Kidney. I dated women constantly and enjoyed all the gifts that those activities provided.

I don't need to translate that for you in minute detail, do I?

I didn't think so.

I actually enjoyed the company of human beings and sought out their companionship quite often.

I often imagine that 2004 Stacy would pummel 2009 Stacy easily and with no remorse.

It of course would be a Geeky Nerd Fight. Or a Nerdy Geek Fight.

Many games of Battleship would be fought. Star Trek Trivia would spouted. "Planet of the Apes" would have to be shows so we can compare who known more of the quotes.

And after all those activities remained a tie, 2004 Stacy would sigh and simply punch me square in the jaw and tell me and everyone who looks like me to fuck the hell off.

(Quite sidebar: if you happen to look anything like me, I'll pray for you)

Five years later I feel as though every morning I awaken to world that is tarnished by my illness. I've endured unimaginable pain and repetitive vomiting regularly. I've accrued hours of lying on my office floor begging the Lord to take me right now.

You may ask where my support system is and that's a valid question.

I can't share what I'm going through because my parents get depressed and blame themselves.

I've caused them enough heartache for three lifetimes.

My sister and best friend both have kids, so they don't have time to hear my woes.

So I continue to keep it inside.

It bubbles. It pops. It sparks. It roars.

But it never escapes.

All I want to do now is get a little cabin away from civilization. Once a month I'll shuffle to town and pick up the supplies I desire. My only companion will be a labrador I picked up at the shelter who was abused by his past owner. We both allow the trauma of our lives to slip away as we try to resurrect the beings we once were. We connect on a spiritual level and enjoy the exhilaration of quiet.

Of course, none of this dream can begin without a new kidney.

Its almost become this phantom dream that I gave up on years ago. Incredibly obese people, illegal immigrants and celebrities all receive kidneys rather quickly.

Meanwhile, I play by the rules, exercise every day, eat well and receive nothing but Fuck You Mailers from UCSF.

Maybe the rotting evil I feel in the bowels of my soul is speaking to karmic retribution resulting in a lack of a new organ.

Of course, that's just a theory.

When it comes down to the lowest common denominator and everything else slips away, I really just honestly miss...