or die trying

I had prepared myself. Rehearsed the things I would say over & over in my mind, thought of new ones, carefully planning the appropriate metaphors and similes so that even as someone who didn’t have aliens slowly digging their way out of the front of his body as they gestated and came to full explosive maturity, my doctor would be able to clearly understand what it’s like.

If I started getting a bit too happy during the hours leading up to our appointment, I would immediately think of one of the “Lost Dog” fliers I’ve seen posted recently on light posts around my neighborhood, the last one I saw about a week ago having a picture of a happy, smiling Golden Retriever on it.

I swear, I could step over human bodies littered in the street with the only thought being that I hoped that I didn’t get some of the blood or decomposed flesh stuck to my shoe, therefore having to scrape it off on the tattered clothes or face of the next corpse I came across – but show me a picture of a dog who was lost, its home and warmth and everything it knows suddenly gone, and I would sit there staring at it, fighting back tears and memorizing every detail just in the off chance I actually did see it wandering aimlessly around the neighborhood, matted fur, a hungry, confused and terrified look in its eyes as it occasionally stopped, lifted its nose to the air and sniffed, hoping for the faintest scent of home or companion.

I had pictured going into a vicious, swearing rant the second the door to my doctor’s office was closed and we were alone inside, ripping off my umbilical hernia belt, violently lifting my shirt and dropping my pants. “LOOK AT ME! Look at… THIS, this monstrosity that has taken over my life and destroyed my hope, this THING that makes me mentally destroy any chance of a human companion before I even say the first word to a woman I could see myself with, someone to care for and to care for me, someone to give myself to, someone that will again fight like hell to stay alive for because I couldn’t stand the thought of them being alone. THIS DEFORMITY that I do NOT have to live with, do not have to accept, like having my legs cut off or being born with half a face or worse, no sense of style. The surgeon says he’s concerned that I would die if I had the operation, but doesn’t he understand that by NOT performing the procedure just to fucking put my insides back INSIDE that he is condemning me to an existence where every morning I look at myself, every time I wish I could go swimming, every day that it’s warm and I can’t even just wear a fucking t-shirt without having to put on the hernia belt and another shirt to cover that I feel that I would rather be dead? What right does HE have to play god, this spineless, ignorant, self-centered human-shaped Jell-O mold?

Et-cetera, et cetera. Fire & brimstone. The 15 minute scourge of Ward 86 at SFGH. Sure, there may be a bit of hyperbole in all that was said, but it wouldn’t be forgotten. John (my doctor) would cower in the corner, eyes wide and terrified and amidst the indiscernible mutterings of prayer for his safety and futile attempts to calm my tirade, swearing to me that he would relay every word I said to the surgeon, Dr. Mackersie, the second he felt safe enough to come out of the corner and sit at his computer to send an email.

Yeah, it didn’t really happen like that. At all.

The moment the door was shut to his office, he turned to me and with a sorrowful, incredibly caring look on his face said “I read the email you sent to me (see previous post), but… I didn’t know how to reply.”

Wait. What was I thinking? This is my friend, this is the guy who knows me, the guy who cares for me. I quickly fired the original mental director for this performance and brought out a new one. This needed to be a quiet scene, one where I played the much more realistic role of someone entirely drained of the passion for life, someone who, after so many years of holding on desperately to that last thin thread of hope, had finally let it go after John’s email to me saying that the surgeon felt the procedure would be too dangerous to perform.

Though the fact that I wasn’t really playing a role made it much easier, I still should win a goddamn Oscar for it. Sure, I overstated here, embellished there, and inflated some things quite a bit, but when you’re a generally happy person called on to act despondent & dejected so that the emotion of what you actually do feel sometimes is pounded like a stake into the heart of the person you absolutely, unquestionably HAVE to relay it to, a little bit of dramatic license is necessary. After all, HE doesn’t have a scrotum sticking out of HIS belly – but I think I helped him understand what it was like.

And I’m nearly certain that I saw him fighting back a tear or two at times.

The person I showed him truly was me, in every way. In everything said, in everything felt, in every tear that I shed yesterday – but as an adoptee, the very first thing I learned in life as I was taken from my mother’s arms, 15 minutes after I was born, was how to shut down and build nearly impenetrable walls that kept the pain away, so even I don’t know that it’s there, and even less seldom feel it. As least not most of the time. I’ve spent a large part of the last nearly 20 years working on getting behind those walls in a manageable way. When I first began, I went too far to quickly and had I guess what was some kind of break-down, where I was sent home from work & spent the next three days in bed, in a fetal position, trembling, wrapped as tightly as I could get my blanket around me.

Yesterday, I was able to carefully make just the most infinitesimal crack in one of my walls, and bring out only what I needed at the time. I’m not sure if that’s progress on my issues or not, but hell, it worked for what I needed it to, and he had sent an email to the surgeon asking about something he said, and also mentioned looking into a different hospital for the procedure if my insurance covers it. “I don’t want you to have your hopes shattered again if the other hospital also says no.”
“John… they already are.”

He was standing above me, put his hand gently on my shoulder, and sighed in a knowing but somewhat helpless way. I stood up, thanked him for everything he has done, we hugged warmly, and I left with the impression that if he could perform the surgery himself, he just might – knowing that it could kill me, but also knowing that I felt that if I died because someone was at least trying, that would be infinitely better than living the entire remainder of my life with the hernias and pain unendingly growing, knowing that all it would take is one fucking person. One person with enough courage to let me have the chance to live the life I fought so hard to create, then fought again to keep.

All in all, I think the appointment went pretty well – though I would have liked to have the chance to perform that scene where I ripped off my clothes and said “LOOK AT ME! OPEN YOUR EYES AND LOOK! I’M A MONSTER! YOU’RE DOING THIS TO ME!”
But then I would have to hire a completely undetectable camera crew, and I just don’t know where to find one of those for under $20.

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Raising hell to escape from it

Today is the day I show them what’s been hidden behind the curtains.
In a few hours I make my way out the door to the hospital, for the monthly-ish appointment with my Doctor of nearly eleven years. He’s seen and been there for me for everything I’ve gone through, always by my side, always caring, always treating me as more than just a patient. John seems to see me as I see him, as a friend, and though it’s unlikely he shares the same sentiment towards me, I hold him as one of my best. He knows more about me in some ways than anyone else ever will, and he’s seen me at my physical worst.

But he hasn’t seen what I’ve been hiding. For the most part, I’ve kept that from him – from everybody – and have always played the role of the cheerful patient, regardless of how I physically felt. But this reaches far beyond physical. Sure, the hernias I have are somewhat painful, but more of a discomfort than an actual pain for the most part as I feel my intestines slide back through the muscle wall and find their little pocket of flesh when I stand and let gravity have its unforgiving way, stretching it like a growing foetus.

For five years, since my umbilical hernia started stretching my belly and giving me an outie that looked like I swallowed a cucumber whole and now it was sitting in my stomach, one end pressing up against my spine and the other trying to force its way out of my navel, I’ve been trying to get the operation that tucked everything back inside. Call it vanity, call it whatever the fuck you want, but I hated it then, back when it was a junior deformity, and it’s only grown; grown to the point of completely fucking my quality of life.

And unless this surgery is done, it will be there for the rest of my life, continuing to grow and get more disgusting as the months progress – along with my new hernia, an “inguinal” hernia, which sits, growing rapidly, jut to the top right of my groin. It’s nearly as if I have three ball-sacks now – one coming out of my abdomen, one on top of my c&b, and the original. From the discomfort to the monstrously hideous appearance that prevents me from doing nearly anything involving core muscles to simply taking my shirt off in front of *anyone*, I’m ridiculously limited in the things I used to love doing. STILL love doing, but can’t or won’t.

I’ve been nice up until now. I’ve talked rationally, pleaded, begged – I’ve written emails not only to my doctor* but to the surgeon who won’t do the operation based on a few minutes of poking & prodding and through that deciding that it was too risky, and I’m fucking tired of being nice, of being understanding.

Today I go see my doctor, and today, I’m not hiding my anger, pain, anguish or sorrow. I’m going to be someone he’s never seen before, and though performing the surgery is not his decision, it just might give him the balls to relay the importance of it to the person who is.

I’m fucking done being the good patient. The understanding one. The rational one.
I don’t give a fuck anymore, and it’s time to raise some hell.

*
Dear John,
Thank you for your call on Monday.

I appreciate you putting in the order for the hernia support belt, but to be truly honest with you (as I’ve always tried to be) – if the only way I’ll get the surgery I need is to have my intestines twist, then that’s what I’m going to try to somehow make happen.
For over four years (since Kat & I stopped seeing each other, back when the hernia was about 1/5 what it is now) I have pushed any possible romantic involvement away, not daring to even innocently flirt, terrified of even the possibility of anyone seeing the hernia, even more than I was afraid of telling people I was HIV+.
I haven’t even kissed anyone in over three years.

I used to have the morphine to numb the oppressive loneliness that the hernia has created in my life, and now, I don’t even have that. Living a life without even the hope of finding someone to share it with is getting to be too much to bear. I try, but at times I feel incredibly weak.

I’ve turned down offers to go swimming with friends, to go for camping trips at rivers or lakes, and anywhere or anything where I might need to take my shirt & hernia truss off. Even I try not to look at it in the mirror.

Though I understand the concerns about the ascites, I am able to keep it at a bare minimum hardly even trying to. On the day my inguinal hernia ripped through the muscle, I can *almost* guarantee that it had nothing to do with ascites – when I first felt the sharp pain, I was just playing with Ruby a little too enthusiastically. Due to the umbilical hernia combined with the months upon months I was mostly confined to a hospital bed, my core muscles have weakened to the point where they don’t have the strength to keep things where they belong anymore. I live in this body every day & pay close attention to it, and strongly feel that the weakness of the muscles have an incredibly large part in it all. I know that I can keep any fluid buildup down to the barest minimum before & after surgery if I’m allowed it. It’s barely an issue even without taking the herbs or meds for it these days – and if I have the surgery I’ll do everything it takes to heal without any complications at all.
I just want to feel like I’m alive again…

John, I’m sure you’re aware that it’s more than the lack of romance that is causing the emotional pain. The life I worked so incredibly hard to create -performing, costumes, and simply the joy for life that people once said inspired them – that’s gone, and it’s almost entirely due to the hernia & it’s physical & psychological effect on me.

When I was in hospice & the hospital after that I have NO doubt that it was my will to live that kept me alive and instilled in me the drive to learn to walk again. The spirit I once had to remain alive is dwindling.

Though it seems like Dr. Makersie is kind & thoughtful, there is one thing that he doesn’t seem to understand. Though the “statistics” say there could be a 30% chance of complications with the surgery… as my will to live fades, the chance of me dying without the surgery increases every day.

powerless & hoping

It’s early, though not as early as I prefer to wake up these days. The sleeping dreams were just too interesting, so I added an hour to playing inside my subconscious. After all, with our unconscious mind controlling 95% of our bodies – I want to make sure it has fun when I can.

There’s little worse than an unhappy subconscious; I’ve seen it in far too many people. I set the alarm on my phone an extra hour ahead.

Stumble to the kitchen, make my single cup of coffee, eat a small bowl of cereal then take me & my coffee back to bed. On the way I grab a few small treats for Ruby & give them too her. I’d imagine that she gets that morning stickypaste mouth just like humans do – or at least her breath smells like it.

I light a cigarette, take my first gulp/sip of coffee, and attempt to adjust my laptop table-thing so it isn’t resting on or pressed up against my hernia. Using my guts as a support just feels wrong in many ways – only one of them being the physical discomfort.
Looking at the clock a lot this morning – something I don’t like to do normally, but need to today. I have my second consultation for the hernia surgery in a couple of hours, & need to make certain I’m not late.
Walk Rubes, pack my notebooks & laptop in my bag & walk through the human detritus down to the bus stop on Market, armed with a mouthfull of “Fuck OFF’s” for the crack dealers who can’t seem to realize that I’m just someone going somewhere who doesn’t want to be bothered. Each time I consider tying or taping a sign to myself saying “NO, I do NOT want your fucking drugs, and if I DID wan’t drugs, I sure as hell wouldn’t get them from YOU” – but I’m thinking that would be too much – as they would probably only see it if I cut eyeholes in it & taped it to my face, and then I would have to wear it ALL the time, as they would never recognize me without the sign.
But I digress. (Maybe I think about this too much?)

The first meeting with the surgeon, three weeks ago, was filled with him telling me how insanely risky performing this surgery on me would be – IF he agreed to do it. I could die in so many ways it would make a hit-man for the CIA jealous, just for the creativity of it.

The surgeon was kind enough to describe some of them in enough detail for me to understand… but honestly, this falls solidly under “I would rather die trying than not try at all.” – and I despise the fact that it’s not my choice. Though if things go wrong I don’t want him to have to carry the weight of it, I still should be able to sign some sort of Kevorkian waiver saying that it’s entirely my choice & my responsibility if I die.

I think I may have a very, very small glimpse of what women must go through with people trying to control what they do with *their* bodies.

9:15am. Need to leave in an hour.

At the first consultation the surgeon kept saying that he’s not saying he *won’t* perform the surgery, which gave me a glimpse of hope. Thinking that that was the only time I would see him, I gathered up all the courage I had & told him how much it prevented me from living my life – from being *me*. I did my best to explain to him that it’s far from only an inconvenience or 20,000 negative vanity points – that it truly made me feel much less than the me I built. I couldn’t perform, couldn’t help build things, couldn’t this & couldn’t that – and all of those things were who I *was*… and as I was talking to him, I guess all of the repressed crap I’ve held inside came out, and I broke down crying, my words coming out in-between sobs, this 48 year old man blubbering like he was a boy continuously beaten up by the school-yard bully but helpless to do anything about it. That was SO not in the script.

As good as it felt, it was embarrassing, and seeing him on my way out of the ward I apologized for losing it. “That’s okay, it told me a lot.” …and then he proceeded to make another appointment for me a few weeks from then, surprising me – and giving me… hope.

It all comes down to today, I think. I’ve worked hard as hell, taking a ridiculous amount of herbs to ensure that I have as little fluid as possible in my abdomen, sacrificing food for herbs for this exact reason when I needed to choose between the two. I’ll still need to maintain, hitting them hard before & after the surgery – IF it happens… btu I’ve done all I can up to this point. Worrying about it would be a waste of imagination… I just need to get there on time, so I’ll end this now with a simple request – send some good energy my way, if you will. I don’t believe in “luck”, but some positive “Stick kSea’s insides back IN” energy would be well appreciated.

And of course – and always – any help you can offer for the herbs I need to keep up, as I’m completely screwed for herbs & money right now & could really use a LOT of help.
Paypal ksea@culturefluxmagazine.com ~ ~ ~ Thank you!

I’ll let you know how it went when I can – but gotta fucking BOLT right now…

Love you!

Enough is Enough/The Scourge

(PLEASE take a minute & read to the end to realize how far we’ve come. Thank you! ~ C)

I would much rather be talking about something like my book sales (soon!), amount of people the book has helped, or Bernie’s lead in the polls when I say “It just keeps getting bigger!” – and I have little doubt that soon I will be able to say it about those things, but unfortunately in this case, I’m not. I’m talking about something so revolting, so unnecessary, and something that could either continue to be the scourge of my existence, haunting my every moment with it’s curse & making every possible romantic interest run away screaming in revulsion – or simply be fixed in a couple hours, letting me live the life I (we) have fought so hard for over the past years.

Yeah, I’m talking about my godsdamned umbilical hernia. It grows. It laughs at me. Even the old beat up truss I use can’t contain it anymore. (It keeps slipping down.)

20160322_113013[1]

It now has a new addition – a permanent “band aid”. Due to the constant chafing on my shirt, regardless of how tight I make the truss each morning, I have an open wound the size of a dime that simply refuses to heal… but there MAY be good news, just around the corner.

In 6 days, I FINALLY go in for a surgery consultation, and this is the point where they decide if they will perform the surgery necessary to make everything right again.

It’s absurd how (I’ve let) something as dumb as this has taken so much control over my enjoyment of life.

There are a few reasons that they wouldn’t agree to perform the surgery as far as I know, which are too much fluid in my abdomen, platelets so low that they would be afraid that I’ll never stop bleeding until the pump shuts down, or they’re curious to see what it looks like when a person’s guts come popping out of his belly like one of those “party popper” things with the streamers that we shoot in people’s hair.
I’m pretty sure we can cancel out the later though, as hell – this is SFGH, and I’m SURE they’ve seen their fair share of guts not neatly tucked into the body where they belong.

In order to have the best chance of not having either of the other two make them deny my surgery however (brief pause for AWWWwww! Ruby’s having a tail-wagging dream right now!)

Anyway, as I was saying, in order to have the best chance of getting my intestines back where they belong so I don’t have to deal with the daily physical pain & all the other stuff – I need your help. Again.

I’ve been taking over twice the dose of the herbs that will help (due to my poorly functioning liver & mal-absorption of everything, it’s necessary) and ran out, just a couple days ago. Already, the fluid is building up, my abdomen & legs are beginning to swell, and the pain and pressure builds.

As I’m sure you can imagine, even if you’re on of the few who haven’t been there, it’s horribly demeaning to still have to ask for help. Through most of my life, as broke as I’ve been, I’ve almost always – ALWAYS found a way to make it work out, save for a few past emergencies. Even though each time I feel like I take every bit of my dignity & throw it out the window – I have no choice other than to plead for you to help me in this fight again.

My paypal addy is ksea@culturefluxmagazine.com

The good news is that we ARE winning! There are quite a number of herbs that I’ve been able to cut down on or quit altogether, and the physical difference in me from just a couple of months ago is incredible. I have more energy, can put my shoes & socks on without needing to contort myself in strange ways just to reach my feet, and no more pools of blood or fluid from scratching off the tiniest scab. You ARE making a HUGE difference in my life, and for that, I will be eternally grateful.

So please, if you can, I need your financial support to get rid of this damned hernia! We’re getting so incredibly close to what you’ve all been helping me reach for – let’s keep on making this dream come true – and THANK YOU!

That address once again – ksea@culturefluxmagazine.com

Love love love,

~ Casey

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Lifeblood

Sooo… yeah.
I guess it’s about that time, isn’t it? I’ve been bad at keeping up in my online journal for the past… amount of time. I should do that/this before it gets out of hand, and there’s so much to say that nothing is said at all. Gots to feed the veuyerlits. (Hmm… Vueyerlits? Nope, not a word – or, at least wasn’t until now. Vueyerlit {n} def: One who more or less kinda closely follows (when they have time) the life of another through their writing.

But I digress. Things & stuffs. They’ve been happening. First, lets get that health crap out of the way. In two (TWO!) days I go in to get my bloodwork done – and this is the one I’ve been busting my ass to make right. Eating all the proper foods, staying away from detrimental ones, taking twice the dose of the herbs I need that will help (have to – since my liver is pretty much one big internal scar, I don’t absorb things the way I “should”. (and this is perhaps one of the VERY few times I would be happy to conform to what I “should” do.)

I’ve done all I could, spent nearly every dollar (except the $10 for Bernie & a bit for Isa A Shisha) on things that would help raise my platelets, red & white cells, & iron. All for surgery on my navel, which I have a CRAZY irrational phobia of other people touching – much less hacking away at. (What the HELL am I thinking? Just give me the manual and a scalpel. I’ll do this shit myself! Step away from my belly button, and no one gets hurt – got it?)

So now – money is gone, a few days left on food & the herbs – and countdown to 0:00, which is actually at 9:30am this Thursday, begins. There’s no reason to be nervous – at this point it’s either a pass or fail, essentially – and thanks to all of you, I’ve done all that I could. I’m sure as fuck going to HOPE, though – for whatever that’s worth… and continue with the mind/body meditations that got me out of the hospice, because I KNOW that helps – and hey, if any of you could slide some good energy my way, it sure would be appreciated… min’s running a tad low.

Oh, yeah. One other thing happens on that day, with the same bloodwork. It marks the 3 month limit they set… soooo, if the Hep-C virus is STILL undetectable, I am “officially” CURED OF FUCKING HEP-C!

Man. Talk about a fucking day – and I’m usually just barely getting out of bed at that time.

So, you may ask – what does being cured of Hep-C mean? Answer: Besides having the weight of possibly infecting someone else lifted off of my shoulders after fucking YEARS – not a damn thing, really. Well – the disease won’t progress, but fuck – at this point, where the hell does it have left to go? The damage – that’s been long, long since done.

BUT – NOW, I’m on a mission to figure out what herbs & concoctions can actually reverse cirrhosis. Western med can’t do it – but I’ll bet you my life (literally – haha?) that I can.

Aaaand – as if all of that wasn’t enough – there’s MORE! This is the good shit though – it’s easy, and short.
Three weeks after pulling the surprise attack on my Mother – she finally fucking called. Just to say hi, say she’s feeling better, getting around easier, and how am I?
After 10-11 months of not hearing a word from her, even through my birthday, the visit worked – and I owe it all to Kitty, who drove all the way from Sacramento to pick me up and take me another 3 hours North.

I put her pictures up again.

And yeah, there’s more – there always is, isn’t there? Even, at the rare times, where the outside is relatively calm – the mind never rests.
I fucking love it for that… but that’s for another time.

Maybe tomorrow.
Until again, I love you – and thank you for keeping me alive for all of this.

One last: and strangely enough, it’s actually an original kSea quote – I looked!

“Never let logic get in the way of your dreams.”

I fucking love you.

 

The good with The bad

So, do you want the good news or bad news first?

Oh man – I was hoping you would say that. Okay! Good news it is. Here we go.

Remember that book I was telling you about, the one that I was planning to write? Well – I finally started it! It took some cunning, telling myself I was going to sit down & write something else, but at the last second I told myself I was going to at least start the book – and that’s what happened.

It won’t be like anything you’ve read before. Unapologetic, authentic, moving & inspiring, it’s going to finally put into words the wild & often hilarious adventures I’ve had over the past ten years, from when I decided to give up everything & chase down my dreams… and it’s going to be entirely true. Wish me luck.
Now, the crappy news I just received this past Friday from my doctor.
It’s likely I’ll get denied the surgery I’ve needed & been hoping for for over five years.
Quick back-story: When my ascites (the abdominal swelling) was at its worst, the pressure was so severe that it actually pushed my insides outside. Squeezed a part of my small intestine out of my navel.
Over time, it’s grown. The skin has stretched, and even more of my intestine is on the wrong side of me. As a result I need to wear a hernia truss every single day, from the moment I wake up until I go to bed. If I don’t, the intestine stays out and even after putting the truss on, the pain lasts the rest of the day.
Now that I’ve fought so hard, and, with your help, been able to bring the swelling back down – my doctor told me on Friday that my platelets were so dangerously low that the surgeons told him they would likely deny me the surgery I need to fix it.
Thismeans never going anywhere, ever, without having to wear the truss. Beach, sunny park, anywhere I want to soak in the sun or just fucking be comfortable again.

zbelly1

These pictures disgust me. As superficial as it is, I’m insanely (irrationally?) self-conscious about the way my hernia looks.
To think that I may have to live even longer with it is unbearable.

zbelly2zbelly3

Even a simple small cough causes pain – with or without the truss. It feels like my guts are going to rip through the thin skin & go shooting across the room like one of those trick peanut jars… so I need to raise my platelets, or this is going to be my life. There are a few things that help, the best being papaya juice and wheatgrass/chlorella – but as usual, I don’t even have money for healthy friggin’ food, much less indulging in things like taking my health back & being able to live a life that I used to take for granted – and so many still do.
So again, as degrading as it is, I have to ask for help. Right now I can’t even get to the pharmacy to pick up a needed prescription, because I don’t have the $2.25 for the damn bus. I don’t have money for food, for the coconut water that keeps away the bone-crushing cramps and keeps me hydrated as the other fluid is flushed out…

***So please – share this & give whatever you can. I’ll admit – though I’m grateful for anything, it’s horribly disheartening when I lay it all out there, force myself to ask again, and help just barely trickles in – like it has the past couple of times I’ve had to ask. Please. Help me get what I need so I can not only get healthier, but get the surgery I need for my hernia while I can. I have an appointment with the surgeons on January 14th. There is no time to waste.

My PayPal address is ksea@culturefluxmagazine.com, which is much preferred to the GoFundMe page – but if you wish to give there, the link is www.gofundme.com/fightingkflux .
Thank you.

Ah, but that’s right – I promised you some more good news.
The herbs are WORKING, and the swelling in my legs & abdomen is going down, much to my delight – and thanks to you. I’m finally able to consistently make it not only up the stairs without getting winded, but to the BIG dog park at the top of the hill, which for a while I could only get within two very steep blocks of. This, of course, is much to Ruby’s delight – but we’ve been hit with some pretty steady and much needed rain for a number of days now, and she isn’t to thrilled with that wet stuff from the sky. Still, I try to get my exercise in where I can – not only to build my strength back up after my muscles atrophied in the hospital, but it helps with the edema (legs) and ascites (abdomen). In the past 21 days, I’ve gone from 191.6 lbs. To 168.2 – with maybe 10 more to go. It’s slower, but much healthier than the prescription drugs, and well worth it.

We’ve accomplished some incredible things together. Without you there would never have been any possibility of getting better – no reason to fight, because I would have had nothing to fight with… but damn, look how far we’ve COME!
We’ve gotten this far. I promise that if you don’t give up on me, just hang in there for a short while longer – I won’t give up either.

I love you.

~ Casey