 ©1999-1999 ICFTP What're you, kidding? |
The fan cycles back and forth beside me, and over that I hear the sound of cars rushing across the wet roads outside this apartment. I'm back in Birmingham. It's raining, dreary, grey. The drivers don't slow down just because it's wet, and the streets always seem to be on the verge of automobilic catastrophe. You take your life in your hands every time you cross a street.
Your life in your hands.
Yours is, you know. Always. You're the sole responsible party when it comes to how you live. We're innundated with information about what we should and shouldn't do with our lives. Most of it is opinion. An awful lot of it is bullshit. It's up to you to filter out the crap and decide how you want to live, what's best for you and yours. You've got to decide who to listen to - C. Everett Coop or Joe Camel? Mom and Dad or your buds? The rational or the sensual... what still small voice should you pay attention to?
Well, I reckon that depends on what you want to happen to you.
I'm scared. I'm upset. I'm pissed off. Again. Dammit, I'm emotionally right back where I started with this whole mess - scared. My life is a-gonna change again. I don't really want to change. Again.
Today's doctor's appointment didn't really go all that well.
Ya know, I always kind of thought of myself as a smart boy. I got a kick out of really trying to understand every aspect of what was happening to me, and what we were doing about it. I felt like I was a part of this process, not just someone who was having things done to him. I knew why the docs were doing what they were doing. I understood that this process is still in its infancy. I always asked why a certain chemical was being introduced into my system, and what it was going to do. I wanted to understand what was happening to me.
I also knew that the doctors and nurses, incredible as they are, are in some ways shooting in the dark. It's just the nature of the beast. So I felt a little bit smug inside, that I was as smart as they were.
Duh.
Dumbass.
Idiot.
So I missed a few doses, I said to myself, that's ok, I'm doing great! Karen doesn't really want me smoking pot, doesn't want it bad enough to prescribe Marinol so I can keep getting high (this isn't a clue? Shee-it) So I keep smoking. I keep drinking. I miss doses cause the drugs make me feel bad.
Wait a minute. Isn't this the kind of shit that I was so scornful of when hearing about other people's battles with cancer? "Whatta ya mean, he just quit taking his medicine? What an idiot!"
Yeah, what an idiot.
Well, today's talk with Karen and Dr. Caribasi had none of the familiar "Hey you're doing great, better than anyone else we've treated yada yada yada." Instead, I was told about the two patients that are back on the unit. The two patients who stopped taking their medicine. One of whom picked up a nasty lung infection from smoking pot and whom Karen expects to die.
To DIE.
Sounds melodramatic, don't it?
Guess what. When someone says that shit to YOU it ain't fucking melodramatic at ALL.
So were they trying to scare me? Almost certainly. And ya know why? Cause I fucking needed to be scared.
I am.
So here we go. Whiteboy here gets to quit smoking pot. Homeboy gets to stop drinking so goddamn much. None at all for the next week, so the liver function tests can come back unaffected by alcohol. I assured Karen that I would have no trouble quitting smoking, that it wasn't an addiction thing, it was just something I really enjoyed. Guess we're gonna find out, huh? I'm writing it here, in front of all of you, so I can find out if I really won't have a problem quitting. 'Cause if I announce it like this, with all intentions of, in the words of Dr. Caribasi, "Making an investment in your later life," and I still can't stop, then there IS a problem. I don't think there will be, but here it is, for the record. I said it, and I like to think I'm a man of my word. Guess we's gonna find out, huh, chilluns?
I'm not really happy right now. Being scared like this, necessary as it may be, just plain sucks. Top it off with a feeling of embarassment, of being ashamed of my own stupidity, and you get an emotion that you'd just rather not feel. I don't really wanna feel like this anymore. So let's see if Whiteboy can get his ass in gear and stop fucking around, since I wanna, you know, live and stuff.
Random note: writing like this is totally addictive. Walking off the BMT Unit, all I wanted to do was get to a keyboard. You should try it sometime.
Well kids, thanks for sitting down with me again. Next time around, I promise a much more fun and amusing entry, cause boy do I have a story to tell.
The Porch Halloween party was Saturday night.
So - next time - Action, Adventure and Really Wild Things.
Peace.