It's been a fucked-up year in a fucked-up life. I strongly suspect I only have to endure another year before I am overtaken by death. That, too, is fine: after all, there is no to little hope for me; that's the bitch about this particular cancer. Every time I fight and win a battle, I'm immediately put into play in another battle; it's just plain exhausting.
The doctors did not think I would live a year ago. They all told Sharon that the only way I was leaving the ICU was via the morgue; that they had never, in the history of this hospital, had a patient in my shape live.
Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke. It took me 5-6 months afterwards of resting and fighting, fighting and resting, before I was recovered to the point where I even began to want to have a life. Then the setbacks started, and I alternated between wanted to claw out my eyes so I cannot see, and castrate myself so I cannot breed.
I'm still in that phase, that alternating between modes. Sometimes I'll stand naked in front of the mirror, and grab my genitals, and think that somehow, in some way, my life would be better if I just had the balls to cut off my balls. Or even to smack myself in the nuts with a 2x4, to rupture my testicles, to see that bewildered look on my face as I sink uncontrollably, slowly, inch by inch, to my knees and puke all over myself.
So much hatred of myself, so little time for courage.
Speaking of puking: I have to stay up until 1:30AM because I am now uncontrollably doing so, and I'm too giant a pussy to puke in my sleep and drown. At 1:30, my anti-nausea med will tell me if I have to sleep sitting up; take more meds, or if the waves of nausea are done for the day.
The nausea is the latest new thing; I heard all the cool kids were doing it, so I hopped on board that train. It's one thing after another with myelofibrosis; we think this is caused by an interaction between one or more of the pain meds and the anti-cancer med.
It's just one more thing I've lost. I was working on going for an 800lb deadlift when the cancer started to really hit; a year later was the first time I nearly died, when I had so few red blood cells that my heart was working so hard it ached, literally, and I thought I was infarcting.
The only thing I really remember about that ER visit was getting a rectal test for blood; Sharon wanting to leave the room, the nurse telling her not to worry, the woman doctor sinking her finger in my ass as I groaned, and when she was done, I made some smart ass remark about normally paying extra for the finger.
I spent the next week in an ICU, as the tried to figure out why I was so close to dead.
I've lost everything, really, when you come down to it; I've lost my abiltity to train. I listen to various guys whine about a hurt toe, and how they can't train, and I want to laugh, to cry, and to kill them.
I would gladly smash my toes, one at a time, with a 24# sledgehammer, if it meant I could train again.
Because I know, deep in my spirit, that I will never, ever be able to pick up a weight, to dealift, to compete in strongman again. That weighs me down, very heavily. Everybody tells me to do what I can; they've never been where I am.
My spleen is 2-3 times normal size. This means if I take any kind of body blow, chances are high that it explodes and I die.
My cognitive dysfunction is high; I have a hard time rembering names and technical topics. I can no longer work - forget multitasking, there are times when I look around my bathroom, realize where I'm at, and realize that I can't think my way out of a wet paper bag, or figure out why I'm squeezing my nuts so hard that I'm leaning back against the wall, sweat dripping off my brow, breathing uncontrollably fast.
Note: in case you need more of hint, the above is expressive writing, and not reflective of reality except that reality which exists as a psychological and emotional state.
