Life, Death, Dogs. A Rooftop Contemplation

The occasional whisper of tires as a car drives by below, an unintelligible shout, the scattered songs of birds. The only sounds at this hour. Only the crackheads & I seem to be awake. Even the sirens are quiet, sleeping.

It’s 4am & I’m up on the roof of my apartment building with a fresh cup of coffee, a cigarette, & Ruby. The clouds above reflect the city lights giving a faint glow, just enough to see by. A cool breeze plays with my hair, blowing it in my face then away. I wrap my robe a little tighter around me.

I sit on the short wall of my building, look down at the weeds growing in our forbidden & neglected back yard. Near the far right corner calla lily’s bloom, defying the otherwise abandoned and unloved desolation. With their beauty inevitably comes a warm sorrow as I’m reminded of when Striggy brought a gift of bone-white lily’s to my tent in Austin. With love & reverence I placed them on top of the pale blonde box I had picked up earlier that day, already made into an altar surrounded with candles, a picture of Bean propped up against the box that now held the ashes of the most amazing dog & companion I’ve ever known. She was killed by a freight train a few days before, found by friends lying between the tracks, her favorite stuffed toy a few inches from her head. Nearly 13 years later & the tears still fall for her.

I turn back facing the roof top, close my eyes, take in a few deep breaths as I find a strange comfort in this sadness. Now, it’s filled with love and warm memories instead of the anguish I carried inside for years, holding it tight, afraid that if the pain wasn’t there I would somehow be betraying her memory.

I know better now. I understand death better now.

I think of how exquisite this life is, how fortunate I am. Occasionally I still let the weight of it all get to me and forget these things, but not now. Not today.

I open my eyes and catch Ruby briefly chasing her tail. I chuckle silently to myself and somehow love her even more.

I think of the time I spent in Hospice. Months on end so close to giving up, so desperately wanting to stop being strong, and each morning having to somehow find just one reason to keep fighting. One reason to stay alive.

As impossible it seemed to be able to imagine at times, I needed to believe that I would somehow get better.

I had to know, with as little doubt as possible, that there would be mornings like this one to look forward to.

The Complications of a Kiss

For hours we talked. We talked of the Sun & the Stars, of everything around & under them. We talked of writing and authors, of our pasts and present. Of herbs and addiction, of friends and difficult relationships. We talked of romance. She said she was a hopeless romantic, I told her I was a hopeful one which made her smile. She talked about lovers, of past boy & girlfriends, but not having anything current to say from my side, I mostly kept quiet.

I looked into her ice-blue eyes and I could only think of clichés to describe them, and worried about a piece of the glitter surrounding her eyes falling into one. I found it kind of dorky and cute the way sometimes she stifled her laughter by pressing her tongue against her upper lip. We talked outside of time, the world moving on around us.

Although we could have sat there enjoying each other’s company for much longer, the growing soreness in our asses had something else to say about it. It was time to stand, to go. It had been a lovely time together, getting to know each other, finally meeting a decade after she had first heard my name from a mutual friend.

Instead of parting ways outside the café, we sauntered down Market Street, side by side weaving around the people & construction, enjoying the continued conversation & moving slowly, more as if we were strolling through a park on a warm spring day than in the rush of San Francisco as it left work & headed home. As far as I could tell, we were the only ones there.

“This is where I turn. I’ve had a wonderful time.”
A warm hug. I answer, we go our separate ways. On the way home I walk faster, at my normal pace, the hint of a smile playing on my lips as I hope that it actually will be soon, and, newly inspired, think about what I’ll write.

At least that’s what I expected to happen, but we kept walking, taking now about hidden treasures in Golden Gate Park. She says she’ll take me to the “Faerie Door”. I imagine her being able to take me through it to her true home. Now walking through Civic Center Park, I begin to wonder where she’s going. My mind starts spinning. Maybe she has an errand to run that just happens to be in the direction of my apartment. Yeah, that must be it. If it were ten, fifteen years ago, if we were walking away from a bar a little tipsy, if pretty much everything were different, then I could accept that she might be coming home with me – but these days? A lovely woman I just met coming home with me? What a silly thought. That just doesn’t happen to me anymore. She must have someone else she wants to visit close to me. Maybe she wants to get some Vietnamese food to take home. Quit having such foolish thoughts, kSea. You know better.

We wander up Hyde Street together, each step getting closer to my home and she is sill by my side. I start to get nervous, confused, trying to remember how to do this… this boy/girl thing. The game, the ritual. I can’t. Hell, the last lover I had was three years ago, and I don’t have the slightest idea of how to read all but the most blatant & obvious hints anymore – and those I’d likely even have trouble with, looking around the room for someone else and wondering if they were actually directed at me.

I need to calm down. This could be, and most likely is, entirely innocent. I don’t know what I’m thinking. Really. I have no idea.

We turn the corner to my apartment, which is now about 20 yards away. A friend of hers once looked at an apartment in the building next to mine I find out, and then I’m opening my gate. I apologize beforehand about the mess & dog hair everywhere. I refrain from saying that I wasn’t expecting company, thinking it might come across poorly and accidentally give her the idea that she isn’t welcome & make her uncomfortable.

I quickly grab the clothes off of my couch & toss them in the walk-in. “That’s your closet?”
“Yeah! I have another one right there.” That’s it, kSea. Suave as ever. Christ.

She sits on the couch without asking or waiting for me to say anything, and I like that. It makes me feel like she’s comfortable here. I offer her anything, and thankfully she’s happy with water. I can do that. I have water! I pull my finest ex pickle jar out of the cupboard for her & make sure it’s company clean, not just “me” clean. It passes. Must have been a good day when I washed it.

When I come back into the room I notice that she’s taken her hair down and nearly drop her water. It’s beautiful. She’s even more beautiful. I sit down beside her, leaving a good foot & a half between us. It’s a small couch. I mentally take the word “loveseat” out of my head.

The talking continues, she likes my knives (are you fucking KIDDING me?) and says she used to have one exactly like this one. We talk about knife throwing. (I can’t even make this shit up. Dear gods.) I tell her stories o fme as a child, crashing my mom’s car into our house at 11, setting my mattress on fire at 8. We laugh. Compare notes of families, talk about adoption & blood.

I’m terrified. This is what I’ve been doing my best to avoid every time I went out, and doing it very successfully for over three years. With clothes on, I look okay, but I’m reminded at the times I have to look in the mirror what I look like without them. Scarred & discolored legs, the umbilical hernia looking like a fetal twin sticking out of my abdomen, the inguinal hernia less horrible, but at the top right of my pelvic bone. Even if you know what to expect it’s hideous. I try not to look at it unless I have to. I don’t want anyone else to have to.

Even as rusty as I am, I know I could have swayed our conversation with a couple questions to a place where I could have found out if it was alright to kiss her, if she would allow me to, if she wanted me to… and I would have loved to. But everything inside of me wouldn’t let it happen for fear of the possibility of it going further. After some time she puts her hair back up. I feel like an idiot, just wishing I could get past all that’s inside of me. A warm hug, and we take the elevator downstairs. I bring Ruby so I have a reason to walk with her just a little more.

My Dr. had called me that morning, telling me that the surgeon still won’t agree to do the surgery on my hernia’s, now two instead of one. He says that there’s a 30% chance of complications due to the ascites (fluid retention) in my abdomen, but I can’t help but call bullshit. Though there may be some fluid, I work hard keeping it as minimal as possible with teas & herbs, and if he did do the surgery I’d work even harder, agreeing to even take the prescription diuretics they want me to. But still, he won’t. He’s afraid, he’s concerned, and he doesn’t have any idea how strong my will can be to live – when there’s something to live for.

It’s been nearly three years since I’ve even kissed a woman romantically, hoping that one day, with all the fighting to get the surgery done, he might give in – but still, there’s that 30% chance that I could die hanging over everything, hanging over a life that I now don’t even have the morphine to mask the oppressive loneliness.

What he doesn’t seem to understand is that, as my will to live fades, the chance of dying without the surgery keeps growing – with each memory of a kiss that never happened.

Still somewhere inside.

I constructed a monotone voice, did my best to empty my heart. As I waited, I practiced. Tried to center. This time he wouldn’t get me. I wouldn’t let myself go. This time I wouldn’t.
I thought I was prepared. Hell, shutting off was the first thing I had ever learned. I was a quiet baby, they were worried I was “slow” because I didn’t cry. I know this game, written into my heart when they took me from her arms after only 15 minutes with my Mother… but that’s not what this is about.

A serious, somewhat grim look on his face as he comes in. I’m somewhat surprised he doesn’t even acknowledge being three hours late, but easily let it go. Running through my head is that this is the single person that can change my life and for now every thought swims around what I can do to convince him to do this surgery, to make me whole again, to stop the pain both outside and in my heart.

On the table he looks at it again, prying, playing, doing what I do al the time – tucking my intestines back inside of me and wishing they stayed there. It doesn’t work, I know without even looking.

Sitting back up we start talking, a subtle but sincere look of concern on his face as he again explains all that could go wrong and why. I notice that this time there are more reasons. Maybe he prepared.

“Surgeons try not to be executioners.”

“But I’m already dead. This is the one thing that could give me my life back.”

At least, that’s what I tried to say. In the first few words out of my mouth I felt my heart claw its way into my throat, blocking all coherent speech. Everything I wanted to say. I pause for a few seconds, try to talk again. Try to say what I’m feeling. I am frustrated, dismayed that I can’t control myself. Surprised that I hid this pain so fucking well that even I didn’t realize how deep it went, how much stronger than me it is.

I kept trying to talk, to say something that didn’t make me sound completely irrational & controlled by emotion. I kept failing.

But something must have worked. He told me that he would check with a colleague of his at UCSF, a hospital that is one of the best transplant hospitals in the country & much better equipped to perform the surgery. See what he says.

“I’m not saying no.”

Twice he said this, but all I could hear was how far away it was from “yes”.

 

As much as I had hoped to be able to talk, to argue my point rationally, and as much as I had gone over every point in my mind that I needed to bring up to him, I knew even if everything went perfectly he would still see me more as a series of tests and paperwork than as someone who depends on this surgery to get his life back. It’s through no fault of his. We have only met briefly three times, and his job is to judge by the evidence, not emotion.

Knowing this, I woke early yesterday to try to write something that might make him understand the person behind all the tests that scream to his rational mind that I have less than a 1 in 4 chance of living through this – that I am far more than a statistic.

This, along with some words from friends that follow, is what I wrote:

Dear Dr. Mackersie,
Since even before I made another appointment with you last month, I’ve been trying to figure out what to say when we met again. Though I’ve thought of many things, I still have no idea what will actually come out of my mouth. I’ve never felt talking has been one of my strengths – but writing has, so today I give you this in addition to all the emotional blather that I’ll try to say.

When I was only 17 years old, I received a call telling me that I was HIV+. As I’m sure you remember this was at a time when nearly all people who contracted the virus were dead within an average of 18 months.

From that moment on, I lived my life expecting to get sick and die at any time, knowing that it was more than likely that I would. I figured that I would enjoy life while I could, and any future I thought of having – any goals, dreams, school, or anything that would take longer than a year was out of the question. I erased any hope of one day becoming something more, having no choice that I saw but to find a thin contentment in floating from job to job, only working to be able to eat & enjoy whatever time I had left. I eventually made my peace with dying very young.

After over a decade had passed without any health issues, I realized something was wrong – but it seemed too late to do anything about it. It’s difficult to simply change the thinking that you will die any day into understanding the possibility that you might live.

Fast forward to 2004. I was laid off from a job, and at that point decided to find out what would happen if I actually lived a life that I wanted – a life that might mean something, a life that for the first time might have value – not only to me, but perhaps others as well.

It wasn’t easy by any stretch of the imagination, but I refused to give up – and eventually found myself not only loving the life I had fought so hard to create, but for the first time ever, truly loving myself.

Had I not experienced that incredible life, I have little doubt that I would have given up like so many other people in the hospice. There were two primary things that kept me fighting so hard: finding my Birth Mother who I had been searching for most of my adult life, and returning to become the person I loved again – performing, sharing myself, inspiring & making others happy. There is no greater gift I had ever been able to give, and it is, literally, what I lived for.

The way you are able to improve people’s lives with your hands & knowledge, that’s what I did with my dreams, creativity, & body.
Now imagine if (gods forbid) there was an accident, and your hands were hurt. There was an experimental operation that you could have performed, but it was risky – it would either restore them so they were of use again & you could continue helping & saving others, or they would be completely dead & useless at the end of your arms.
What would you choose to do?

Many years ago I made complete peace inside my heart with death, and that holds strong to this day. That, however, was a physical death. I didn’t count on a situation that would eventually blacken my spirit & heart, and over the past few years, gradually but steadily, that is what has been happening to me. The immense & beautiful love for life that I had is slowly being extinguished, as I can’t live the life I fell in love with anymore – or be that person.

A couple days ago I asked if there was anyone willing to write a few words to you so you might see how important this is to me in case I didn’t get it right. A couple of old friends wrote the words below.

I need to get my ass in gear now if I want to make it to our appointment on time, so I can’t read over what I’ve written – but please take it for what it’s worth, and I trust that you will hopefully understand how much this means to me – and the power you have to change my life entirely.

Thank you for reading.
With respect, hope, and a bit of groveling,
~ Casey Porter

~ ~ ~

Hello…
My name is Carolyn Jepsen and I am here to write about Casey Porter.  I know that you and he are meeting soon to discuss surgery and I would like to say a few words on Casey’s behalf.

Truthfully, I am not quite sure where to begin this note.  I cannot imagine the decision that sits with each one of you and do not envy either position.  I can only tell you what I know, which is that I trust Casey.  I trust his instinct, I trust his strength and his will.  I trust his creativity and his unbelievable capacity to fight.  Casey is someone who knows better than to live as fully and beautifully as possible.

I met him back in 2004, oh-so-briefly, as he spearheaded the performance end of a Dresden Dolls DVD shoot.  He was vibrant and full – I had never met such a force in my entire life.  A professional artist wrangler, stilt walker, fire-breather…simply put, an outrageous tornado of art and joy.  His example stayed with me and remains to this day.

In the last few months, I have read and listened to Casey’s words as he has detailed a sort of spiritual and creative death.  For an energy such as his, there could be nothing worse.

As I’m sure you already know, the miracle of Casey is that he lived through death.  He walked out of that hospice on his own two feet, then went out into the world to keep right on living vibrantly, passionately and fully.  He healed himself as he lives – on his own terms.

I don’t know the odds that this surgery holds, but like I said earlier, I do know that I trust Casey.   I believe him when he says that he understands the potential consequences.  I believe him when he says that, for him, this is more than worth the risk.  He sees this surgery as his best shot at reconnecting to his heart and spirit – to the self that he fought so hard to fall in love with.  I believe he has earned that shot and as you consider whether or not to give it to him, I hope that you will consider this: Casey Porter knows what to do with a chance at a greater life.  He won’t waste it.

Thank you.

~ ~ ~

Dear (Dr, Mackersie),

I understand your hesitation with my brother’s surgery and the complications that may arise. I work as a surgical tech for LAC+USC trauma and I know the risks. But this beautiful man has been on deaths door and spit in its face. He has the miraculous spirit that will not give up, and that is why it’s been so painful for me to read his posts over the past year, watching his spirit fade. Casey is strong and tenacious, and I know you can work miracles to vastly improve his quality of life.
Please. I believe in him, and you.

Warmly,
Cat Colegrove

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

In writing this, I’ve come to an understanding. A remembering, so to speak.
Since I started walking this life of dreams, I have never let anything get in my way. I never let anything stop me.

Though the circumstances are different, I need to remember that through it all, and as well as I may hide it – I’m still that person who will never quit.

 

almost always tomorrow

3/24/99

because there isn’t anything

that makes sense anymore

 

because there isn’t anything

that i have to make me smile right now

and the pain of my impatience

has control over me

and i feel

futile like nothing will ever

be complete

and i hate it all right now

and i hate you all

right now

and fuck this place

and fuck this job

and fuck this morning

and fuck you people

and fuck this page

fuck the moon

fuck the sun

fuck the stars

fuck this life of nothing from nothing and

i would love to open myself up

and feel this poisoned blood

leave me

watch as it stains the sheets

a final crimson

watch this morning

and everything else

 

disappear

 

as my eyes slowly close

 

but wouldn’t that be

just so fucking

redundant

 

and what if tomorrow is just

 

a little bit

 

better

 

3.24.99

i look out the door to the gray sky

same as it is inside

when there is nothing left

and nothing matters today.

 

i look to the gray sky

the color has faded from this boy

dead eyes and an empty heart

and nothing matters today

 

i dream of the peace in draining

on top of my bed, eyes slowly close

and i feel as there is nothing left to give

i’ve never been able to see it so clearly.

 

a dream of over and done with

i just don’t care anymore

and it doesn’t matter who she is

i never knew her anyway.

 

erase forever and always

never have they made much sense to me

when the beginning of the story is nothing but a myth

the author gets to choose his own end .

going down

It was new to me, this pain, and I freely admit I was a little bit more than concerned – though doing my best to keep worry out of my mind. The feeling was like someone with long, jagged fingernails had reached into my intestines & stomach, grabbing them, puncturing and twisting until the muscle fiber began to rip & tear like the stalk of a vine wrenched past its limits. That was the first day, this past Saturday, but thankfully by the evening it was only a dull pain – most of the time.

Sunday came, and the pain was fresh, stronger, & accompanied by my stomach expelling all inside of it, though not much could be – I had eaten very little the day before. Still, with every few small sips of liquid my stomach somehow found that on top of three or four times the amount to purge, though I don’t know how it found it anywhere.

The thought occurred to me that my hernia had finally torn open internally, the intestines had twisted & were blocked, sepsis had set in or a multitude of other things that can happen. Not  knowing what it felt like or how quick death could come, deciding that if this was the time I would let it come, I decided to forego the trip to the emergency room. Hell, I don’t have the money for the bus anyway so I’d have to call for an ambulance, and I’m just not into the bullshit of everyone knowing my business that that involves, especially if it turned out to be nothing to worry about. If it got to the point where I had to post asking for a ride on Facebook I would, but more than likely the hospital would keep me overnight which would mean having to again ask for someone to care for Ruby. I wasn’t willing to be let down again so soon.

I thought about all the morphine I had in my drawer across the room, then thought I shouldn’t think about that. Too easy. The pain will go away. The pain will go away…
Gods, I hope this pain goes away…

Day three: Monday.
I still haven’t eaten anything other than a bowl of cereal and an artichoke since Saturday morning. I drink what I can to stay hydrated. Weak, tired, and hoping something left in the kitchen appeals to me, hoping that something might stay down, I pry my body out of bed while holding my intestines inside of me. The pain is less & I’m grateful, but at times it still crawls out, breaks through. Still, I feel better. Better than yesterday & the day before. I decide not to call my doctor. I have an appointment with him on Friday anyway.

As usual I weigh myself, keeping track of where my weight is heading. It gives me something to work with, something to determine if my body is beginning to retain fluid or if it’s doing what it should. I look at the glowing digital number on the scale, telling me that I’ve dropped a little over 10 pounds in the past three days. I’m not surprised, not concerned. Even if there was food to eat it wouldn’t stay down, but I feel the hollowness in my stomach, feel the energy drain out of me. I fantasize about chicken soup but don’t have the money for it. If I did have money, I would need to buy coconut water before anything. It all comes down to priorities.

It’s much more than the lack of food that’s making me weary.

I finally fell asleep at 6am, wake up a little after noon. Today I almost feel whatever normal is, though I have little to go by these days. I’m making an educated guess. I don’t think that normal people feel a normal like this.
I vow to myself to finally finish this post I get out of the house, walk somewhere with Ruby. I wish I had the time strength & energy to just keep going, leaving everything behind. Find a forest, make a shelter, learn how to hunt with my bow to eat & feed Ruby. Just go away; paper, pens, and only what I think I’ll need. Find a river, sit in it for a few months and wash all of this away.

There are many things I would like to do. In none of them do I see this apartment, these streets I’ve walked on & woken to for nearly five years now. In none of the things I see do I feel this way. In none of them this deep melancholy.

It’s hard to believe in anything anymore.

I’ve forgotten how to believe in me.

and I rejoice

The San Francisco heat wave, our yearly week of Summer, finally breaks & I quietly rejoice. I am not made for hot weather – or at least hot weather where there isn’t a clean ocean or river or lake or large puddle to go swimming or stomping in.

September is knocking on the door of October, and if I had to choose a favorite, I think October would be it. I remember the way some of the places I have lived changed their color, the reds & oranges & hints of stubborn green flooding the air & ground as if the world was on fire, sacrificing itself in some sacred way to become the stark, haunting & beautiful bare branches of Winter.

The energy of Change is in the air. It finds its way into my blood – and my memory.

Twelve years & four days ago I decided to follow my dreams, whatever they were & whatever it took. Shortly after I was working with The Dresden Dolls & my life changed forever.

img_2073-sized

It was on this day that my beloved Bean was hit by a train in Austin & killed, a few hours and eleven years ago.

BeanCarWindow

Ten years less a week ago I received an email from Mike asking if I was interested in becoming a permanent part of the Vau De Vire family.

shoot2

Six years & eight days ago I first stepped into the hospice, walking in easily enough but rapidly dying one week later as my body began to shut down.

Five years & a month ago I did what the doctors thought impossible, and walked out alive.

Four years & a month ago I talked with my Birth Mother for the first time in my life.

MomMe2

Nov. 23, 2013

Two years & a week ago I first spoke to my Birth Father, who until shortly before that had no idea I existed.

And now I feel the story of this man should – will – change again. I’ve already begun to kick a nine-year morphine addiction & plan to have that entirely behind me in less than a week… yet I feel that is far from enough. I want more. Monumental change. I thrive on the shit. It’s my lifeblood, my constant need. When life gets too comfortable, too predictable, I have a bad habit of stepping into a dangerous dance to bring back, to summon life’s music – and far too much is dangerous these days.

The dreams I still have, but the energy to reach for them is as scarred as my liver. I will keep moving forward, doing my best to rip through the barriers, the walls both inside & out. Both physical & mental.
The failed Kickstarter shook me. It hit hard and I fell.
It’s time to rise again. Dust myself off and move on.
I will keep moving forward.
I will live to make my dreams come true.

I see the sun shining outside, feel the sharp chill of the breeze that cuts through my window. Today will be cooler…

and I rejoice.

falling apart to fall back together

Four days, and as the clock relentlessly ticks down I count every hour with a strange combination of sheer terror and wary excitement, my emotions swinging from one to the other like spectators heads in a high-energy tennis match.

Two days ago I picked up my last Morphine prescription, and as the bottles were handed to me I looked at them with a feeling of triumph. This is it.

20160915_155604

I mostly know what to expect. I’ve done this before, 28 years ago, and again a bit more recently when my motorhome was towed with all of my meds inside. It’s not what I remember that frightens me the most, though those memories still clutch at my mind and sink their diseased claws in when I try to make myself believe that I’m strong enough.

No. It’s the things I know I don’t remember that frighten me the most. The whispered shadows of the nightmare, the parts that my mind gratefully thrust out of my memory in an act of self preservation. The small things that are lost in the fog.

The Fog.

It’s surrounded me for over nine years, from when I finally gave in to my doctor’s concern & offer of something to help with the pain that twisted my face, carving each line on it deeper like a Halloween mask of Edvard Munch’s “The Scream”… the only difference being that my screams, I kept inside. At least when I could.

With the first pill they finally went away, and I was so grateful I almost cried, even through the personal guilt and failure of feeling like I wasn’t strong enough, that I had finally lost to what for so many years I had conquered when necessary, not even taking so much as a Tylenol-3 or even an aspirin when I broke my leg skateboarding, tore apart the tendons & dislocated my shoulder when my van rolled 5 times across I-5, and hundreds of other minor bangs, bashes & aches. Those, I knew, would all pass, and all I had to do was hold strong and stand my ground. This time though, instead of fading, getting better & finally going away, the pain only increased. With each day, with each strip of flesh on my legs that caught under my fingernails while the poisoned fluid pooled and the unbearable itching multiplied, the pain grew and my conviction deteriorated…

There were, of course, many, many  times I needed them, so if I chose not to take that first pill then, it was just a matter of time before I did. When the cirrhosis decided to go to town on my body, it’s two favorite places to destroy were my legs and abdomen – and it was like a category-6 tornado in a trailer park. From the swelling to the point where I couldn’t bend my legs & had to cut the legs of my pajamas to be able to squeeze into them to the itching so horrid from the poisons my liver couldn’t process I cut myself open with my own fingernails, to the pressure from the swelling in my abdomen & legs so severe the fluid actually started pushing out of the skin on my calves and pushing my intestines out of my navel, to the pain from the occasional infections that slipped right by even the highest doses of morphine – I was certainly grateful for it at times…

 
…but as the months & years continued and the pain slowly subsided, when I began to wonder and doubt how necessary the morphine was anymore, I knew I was screwed. Sure, there was still the mild constant pain from my calves that never fully healed or grew back more than the thinnest layer of protective skin, and there was still the occasional breakthrough pain in my abdomen – but nothing I thought – that I think – that I can’t deal with. Nothing so bad that my body’s own pain killer can’t handle it. Nothing so severe that the mind/body & quantum healing practices I discovered and used in the hospice and the surprising strength I found in my mind can’t handle it.

There’s only one small problem. My brain has completely shut down all of it’s own natural pain killers. Feeling unloved & un-needed, the receptors that normally block everything bad have gone on to other tasks where they feel more appreciated. I wish I knew more of the science of it – it’s not entirely endorphins or dopamine but a combination of the two along with some other things. That’s what I kind of know. I know the human body is fucking amazing. We all should kiss ourselves every day and thank it for all it does for us.

I know without any question, without the slightest hint of doubt at all – what I know intimately – is that the human body is in constant pain. Anyone who hasn’t experienced the feeling of not having any help at all from your body to dull pain cannot even come close to imagining what it’s like when you feel EVERYTHING.
I don’t feel as if I can explain it well enough right now, nor do I want to.

But I want my body back. I want my mind back, and all the things working as they should  again. I want to feel alive again- with all the pain, passion, love, joy, excitement & fear.

So here we are, nine years later. And I’m fucking done. Things need to change and that is the most obvious one. The feeling of the morphine sticking felt thorns of stupid into my brain is over – or will be soon. First, I need to pay for those lost years, and I know I will – dearly – but every second will be worth it. Nine years of mental fog, nine years of suppressed emotion – the passion, love, excitement, joy, happiness and everything else a person feels on a daily basis has all been muffled, like my mind & heart trying to speak to me through a sealed door.
(Hm. That’s an interesting mental picture.)

On September 21st I will take my final dose of morphine, hopefully for the rest of my life. On the 22nd I’ll begin to feel the withdrawals. They don’t come at once, of course – they gradually build, if I remember correctly, over about three days – but it’s like sticking your hand into a put of 75 degree (Celsius) water. It’s not boiling yet, but it sure as hell isn’t pleasant.
This ought to be interesting.

But WAIT! That’s not all!

To make things completely absurd, I’ve also decided to quit smoking at the exact same time. I mean hell – If I’m going to change my life, I may as well just jump right in with both feet. Get rid of all the things that I’ve been wanting to quit.
In a way I suspect that it will give me something to laugh at myself about – like when you stub your toe and hop around like a fool, feeling like a dumb-ass and laughing through the pain – except in this example I’ll be writhing in pain, wanting a cigarette, and laughing at myself because only someone who is a complete and utter fool would consider quitting both morphine and cigarettes at the same time, and I’ve always held the self-imposed title of “Fool” quite proudly at times such as this.

But there’s something else which is more of an experiment than anything: I have this notion that kicking morphine AND cigarettes at the same time will somehow drive the point that I am now (or will be horribly soon) a non-smoker home a bit harder, because I know smoking is going to be the hardest one in the long run – and I’m in this game to win. So far, I haven’t died 100% of the time, so I’m doing pretty good I think.

When the door is opened, when the fog clears and for the first time in nine years there is no drugged buffer repressing all of the beautiful and horrible things inside of me, I suspect it will be one hell of a ride as I become accustomed to feeling *everything* again – I mean hell, in preparation I’ve cut down the regular dose of 60 – 90mg through the day to one 30mg pill in the morning, and was nearly bawling during parts of the movie “Pete’s Dragon” I watched earlier tonight.

As I said, it’s going to be one hell of a ride. It should make for some interesting blog posts as well.

I should probably apologize in advance to anyone I offend, but honestly – if you get offended, it’s your trip, not mine. Fasten your seat-belts, put on a couple extra layers of skin – and Lighten Up. Things are likely going to get a bit crazy.

Wish me luck.

And please – I’d like it if you commented, if you wish. It will help me not feel so alone.
Comments & ‘likes’ left on my WordPress blog are MUCH more appreciated than those on Facebook, as well.

Four days until I begin to rip myself apart. I’m excited to see what the rebuild will look like.

And I need to figure out whaat kind of art project I’m going to make out of these:
(
I haven’t counted them, but I suspect I have about forty that I’ve saved over the past couple years = when I remembered to.)

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