The Wilson's Property, Part Tres

So, minutes after I was diagnosed, the doctor asked if he could send a few resident doctors (recent grads) in to look at my eyes through a slit-lamp. Because the Kayser-Fleischer rings that were appearing in my eyes, they (the dick-wad students) had only seen in text books.

I allowed them.

And I wish that I hadn't.

Here it was, literally minutes after being diagnosed with a life-threatening disease that I had been dealing with increasingly severe symptoms for months, and some hot-shot little fucker comes in and had apparently skipped the two hour seminar that's offered on a Sunday morning at Medical School on bedside manner and started bossing me around.

No, "Hi, you piece-of-shit patient! I'm here to fuck you up even more! Isn't that grand? Look at me all grown up wearing this lab-coat. Isn't it totally AWESOME, dude? Chicks dig lab-coats."

No, "Hi, Copper-top-almost dead person! I'm doctor Eatshit. So nice of you to let me in here to stare at your eyeballs with blinding light moments after you received word of being the lucky recipient of a genetic disease. So, thanks for that. I barely know how to use this little lamp-light thingy that contains all the brightness of 10 suns, but I'm going to practice by trying to burn your retinas off. So, you're cool with that, right? Great. Let's get started."

No, it was nothing sweet or endearing like any of that. He cut right to the chase;

"Sit back. Take your glasses off. Lean forward. Put your chin here. Now, let me rest my 1/2 inch penis on your forehead. Or better yet, let's put it in your mouth. What? You can't tell that I put it in your mouth? What was that? One of your molars is bigger than my penis? Oh yeah? Well, that's not very nice."

No, it isn't. And it wasn't.

I didn't need bossed around by some arrogant little shit without an ounce of empathy. Speaking of 1/2 inchers...

But, I sat there. And said nothing. And felt demoralized. I was already at my wits end and was drained of any "fight" that I may have had left. I let them stare into my eyes and felt like I was a freak on a page in a book.

They didn't care. There was no, "Thank you". No, "Take care". No...none of that.

I went home and even though I was glad of a diagnosis, I was emotionally and physically exhausted. I curled up in bed, pulled the covers over my head and cried myself to sleep.

Much of the time when I'm really out of it, my mind just needs to sleep, to shut down and hibernate.

After a long nap, I felt better. I called my parents after feeling a little refreshed and informed them of the diagnosis. I built up my courage to at least sound strong for them, if not for myself.

For a little while after the diagnosis, I felt...

dirty.

But not in a fun way. It's the kind of dirty that don't wash clean.

It was odd. I had worked with all kinds of patients when I was an orderly, then a social worker, and then as a researcher. And never in all of my years of working with people who had cancer, or AIDS, or any other type of condition, did I ever consider that they themselves might feel "dirty".

But, I did. I felt tainted. Like spoiled goods.

I also felt betrayed by my own body. After all of those years of exercising and being involved in various sports; taking relatively good care of myself, I felt poisoned.

Although, I was aware that my life style up until then (except for the booze, sex, pot, rock-n-roll and free-basing Comet) had most likely help to stave off the pending symptoms and also helped me to recover more quickly.

(Just for the record, I have NEVER snorted Comet. I have ONLY snorted water one time when I got a bagel stuck in my nose.)

The week after the diagnosis consisted of a multitude of tests to see if I was able and capable enough to deal with a liver transplant. At one point, an anesthesiologist said, "Why you're the healthiest patient that we're going to transplant yet!"

I wanted to punch her square in the face.

ANOTHER really empathetic, kind thing to say from a health-care professional.

I worked for YEARS in hospitals. And I know differently of how it should be and much of the time is. I worked with MANY wonderful people who truly did empathize with their patients and demonstrated it on a regular basis. However, there are always a few...

After all the tests were completed, I was put onto a liver transplant "watch" list. There was a new transplant team at the hospital and they seemed a little too eager to begin adding notches of transplants to their bedposts.

Something deep down in me told me that I wouldn't need a transplant. I was extremely ill, yes. But, from what I read and researched, the liver is an amazing organ. The way in which it regenerates is unbelieveable. Nothing short of miraculous, in fact.

At one point, I said to one of the doctors on the transplant team, after I had HAD ENOUGH of their arrogant bullshit, "I'm not going to need a transplant."

And the doctor kind of looked at me as though I were delusional (and maybe I was) and he said, "What? You don't think that you're sick?"

And I stared at him with as much conviction as I could muster and said, "I didn't say that. I said, 'I'm not going to need a transplant'. There's a difference between what I said and what you heard."

And he replied, "How do you know that you won't need a transplant?"

And I said, "I just know."

And not only did I know it, but I FELT it. At the core of my being, I felt it.

And I didn't need one.

Besides the whole "dirty and tainted" thing. And besides dealing with an over-zealous transplant team, the days and months that followed all of this were strange.

The sky seemed more strikingly blue than it had ever been. And the trees seemed more brilliantly green than they had ever been. And the breeze had never felt so regal. And the only thing that was golden to me were the people that I loved. And the precious by-product of those relationships was the unconditional out-pouring of support.

The core of my existence had nothing to do with things. But, of moments. Moments filled with raw, true emotion and honest laughter. And the hugs and affection seemed to have taken on a more urgent, solid meaning.

And while I was dying, Life itself seemed to have blossomed right in front of my copper-filled eyes. It seemed real. But, not in a complex, devastating sense. It seemed true and beautiful and lovely, but in a very simple way. It was about enjoying RIGHT NOW. Because that's all that I knew that I actually had. It's all we ever have...