Sunday, July 12, 2009

M.I.A. Stacy

I've mentioned in an earlier post that I am God's Action Figure.

To understand fully what I'm talking about, feel free to check out
"God's Action Figure" from last April.

In that earlier post, I theorize that God created me from used parts that He simply had lying around Heaven's Garage. Thus, I look and feel the way I do.

I hope you understand by now that Dialysis, on its own, for the duration I've endured, is more then enough for any one individual to handle.

This year marks over twenty-six years I've been dealing with kidney failure.

And now I have created a corollary to my earlier theory on my personal creation.

God's actually been trying to kill me.

Or push me to the brink so I kill myself.

I had the insurmountable luck to be born in a decade when Dialysis and transplantation had finally become viable. Well, that's just dumb luck really.

Two transplants and a total of six years of all encompassing Dialysis later, I'm still here to annoy my fellow man.

Two years ago I had reached a plateau where I had found a way to balance treatment with what I wished my life to be.

That made God incredibly angry.

Two years ago I was diagnosed with Chronic Sleep Apnea. To state it simply (and because I don't really care to talk about it all that much) my throat closes up over a hundred times a night. It is during these moments that I stop breathing, my throat closes up, my brain wakes me up (but not to full conscioiusness) and the whole process continues unabated.

All. Night. Long.

Last week I returned to Doughy Sleep Doctor and I took the credit card device that takes my stats on the breathing (CPAP) machine and allows a computer to display and print out the results.

Go ahead. Take a guess as to the average number of hours of sleep I've received each night over the past year.

Six? 5.4? 3.27302938 hours?


This is where God is laughing hysterically and putting another point on the God vs. Stacy scoreboard.

The machine works fine for those two hours. I rarely wake up because 9ml of air is being pummeled downostrils with a breathing mask.

Somewhere around two hours, the sleep medicine wears off and the Stacy Claustrophobia kicks in.

Without my knowledge, my unconscious mind senses something trapping my head, removes it and then throws it into the carpeted floor below.

God's shaking his belly with uprorious laughter right about now.

My day starts unwillingly at 6:30am when I wake up and discover I'm exhausted. I wander in and out of sleep for the next couple of hours until my alarm shakes reality back into my face.

What God also finds entertaining is that the less sleep I receive, the more nauseous I become, the more vomiting ensues.

So vomiting has returned as my morning ritual.

Once I'm all cleaned out my system makes room for a small amount of appetite.

From a strapping 62kg. last year, I'm down to 56.5.

And the weight keeps dropping.

God thinks He has me on the ropes, but He's mistaken.

Uvulopalatopharyngoplasty: The Surgery.

It rhymes with "MoveYouUhPlateOrMarniGoNasty."

This is a procedure by which tissues are removed from the throat.

I know. Sounds like a great way to spend a Tuesday.

The following are removed, in no particular order:

--- The tonsils.
--- The Uvula.
--- The soft palate.
--- The adenoids.
--- The pharnyx.

There are many factors in my life that have led up to the possibility of this surgery.

I've been on steroids for a majority of my life to save my transplants, so that could have caused my throat to swell.

The years of radio have developed my pharnyx, so that could also be a culprit.

The fact that my growth was stunted by steroids at the age of twelve could have caused my throat to develop fully while the surrounding area did not. I have small nostrils leading to a narrow nasal cavity as well.

At this point, the "E" in my Username stands for Enough Is Enough.

That's right. Stacy's mad as hell, and he's not going to take it any longer.

To get some minute idea of what I feel like, take a moment to remember the most exhausted day of your life.

Could be a 24 hour shift you had to endure. Or an extremely long birth for your first born.

Whatever it happened to be, multiply it by 730, because that's how many days the two hour sleep days have been continuing.

I'm a mindless, numbed down, former shell of myself. I go through my daily routine unabated, uninterested and mostly unmotivated.

I've gone from the purgatory of Dialysis to the hellfires of Sleep Apnea and every day is a struggle for something in the vicinity of the zip code of the neighborhood of Normal Stacy.

Normal Stacy is an ironic name, for Normal Stacy is simply Original Stacy with a new title.

Normal Stacy is given to flights of silliness. Normal Stacy makes up strange moments on the radio and then laughs at himself. Normal Stacy can be quite charming and fun to be around. Normal Stacy is very energetic and never a fan of vertical resting.

Presently, Dying Stacy is taking his place. And I mean that literally.

If I continue down this path of restless nights and minimal sleep, heart attacks and strokes are designated moments already created for my future.

And God will be laughing the entire time.