 ©1999-1999 ICFTP What're you, kidding? |
Sigh. Yeah, yeah, I know, quit bitchin'. I'm not bitching, just sighing.
It's gorgeous outside, cool and clear, blue skies, little fluffy clouds. I'm in downtown Birmingham, sitting in a little coffee shop called Lucy's, typing on my Powerbook. Wow, a little slice of San Fran right here in the South. Could I be any cooler? Sure I could. I could be a published writer working on my latest novel. I could be a poet (but what self-respecting poet would write anything but longhand? On unlined paper, ya dig?), hell, if I was REALLY cool, I'd be tied in to the net via nifty new Airport wireless networking on my shiny new Blueberry iBook. But nope, I's just me, typing on an old Powerbook 160, writing down the stuff in me head as it occurs to me.
I happen to be listening to Bob Weir sing. I happen to be wearing a blue sweater with a wide horizontal green stripe and baggy carpenter's jeans. I happen to be partially happy and at home and satisfied to be in the city again, and I happen to be very very tired of hospitals and sickness and disease and watchfullness and responsibility.
Just got back from my latest appointment at UAB. The bloodwork came back great, as usual. They took me completely off the penicillin. I'm also showing signs of GvH (Graft vs. Host) which is supposed to be good at this point, and really the only thing that's been missing in the right and proper course of my treatment. So it's a good thing.
So why does it bug me so much? I don't know, man. I'm just so fucking tired of one thing after another to watch, one doctor's appointment after another to go to. One more treatment to apply to myself (even as I lose the penicillin, I gain a new mouthwash to rid myself of the GvH) One more irate boss that doesn't really dig me missing every other monday so I can be in Birmingham to talk to doctors. Man, does anyone out there actually think I WANT to be here, doing this?
The point of this entry (inasmuch as any of these things HAVE a point) is to try and communicate what it's like to continually, week after week, talk about the things that are necessary for me to do in order to extend my lifespan. For me to be told time after time that I need to do this, that I need to do that, that I need to eat this, that I need to swallow that, in order to stay healthy, to stay alive. It's lame. It's much worse now that I'm spending so much time at home, attempting to live a more or less normal life (and for the most part succeeding, I'm happy to say) and only going to the doctor's every two weeks. I spend most of two weeks as a normal human with thoughts and feelings about my career, my relationships with friends and lovers, with taking care of bills, etc etc... and then, once every two weeks or so, I have to drop into a mode that allows me to deal with the fact that I have a treatable terminal disease. Back into the realm of sickness and disease I go, where I have to think about my health and my life and my death, where the people are kinder and gentler than anywhere else in the world.
Do you understand how difficult it is to be treated so kindly? Do you? Think about it for a few minutes. We're not talking about the politeness of the gentleman who holds the door for you. We're not talking about the friend who lends you a couple of bucks at lunchtime. We're talking about unfettered, powerful compassion, directed at you - because you need it. It's harder than you might think to accept, time and time again. By accepting these people's kindness, you accept your debt to them.
Of course, there's a reason for this. What we might not do for ourselves, we'll often do for others. Like taking our medicine on time.
Oh, but it is draining.
Alright, alright, Trey can't just bitch and bitch here. You know me, you know I'm still diggin' things - and I'll write about them too - here I go, watch me now.
I'm sitting here in a wonderful little shop, where the folks smile big and friendly when you come in and order. The door is open on the street, and good music is playing over the stereo. I've got a seriously good (and powerful!) cup of iced coffee at my side. The chalkboard over the counter is packed with dozens and dozens of names and how much they owe on their tabs. It kinda gives you the idea that they're more concerned with getting coffee to people than getting money from people. There are some really nice coffee-table books scattered around, books on photography and foreign countries. We've got comfy tables like the one I'm sitting at, conveniently near the power outlets, and couches with plenty of cushions. It's a gorgeous day outside, and I'm done with my doctor's appointment. Hell, my nurse is ecstatic that I'm showing GvH. I'm sitting with one of the best friends I've ever had, and thinking about a girl that I just might, just may, possibly could really be in love with. Things ain't bad by a long shot.
But can y'all dig my desire to just be done with this crap?