Honestly Me

  As I sit here on my couch and begin to write this post, I feel  if I should attach a warning label that says, "excessive negativity," or preface what I'm about to write by saying, I have never felt this sad, this angry, this scared, or this alone, when attempting to put together a blog post.  I also would like to say that due to how emotional I am as I write this post, I can almost guarantee that it will not read as well, or be put together as cohesively as It should. Now that I have gotten the formalities out of the way, here are the facts: On October 29th I had a procedure done called an E.R.C.P, where the doctor inserts a long flexible tube down my esophagus, and into my G.I tract. The following is what I had to endure after the "procedure."

  When I "came to" in the recovery room, I remember being met by the surgeon who performed my procedure, and being told that the "procedure" took about two hours to complete.  From what I remember the surgeon didn't seem to be concerned with the lengthy time of the procedure, and if he wasn't worried, neither was I. When I got home that evening, I was dead tired and felt like hell, I went directly to bed, and slept through Wednesday. By Thursday afternoon I finally pulled myself out of bed in hopes that moving around my apartment, and trying to eat something would make me feel better, unfortunately that wasn't the case.  Days went by and I was still feeling run down, and my stomach cramps had become so intense that I couldn't tell if I was starving or nauseous, I felt horrible, but still, the worst was yet to come.

  Around eleven p.m. Sunday evening I went to bathroom to empty my ileostomy bag, and that's when I realized how sick I really was. I wasn't putting out stool from my ileostomy, but blood, dark, red, fresh, blood, and just as quickly as I emptied my ileostomy, it would start to fill with blood once again.  Fast forward about an hour, and I find myself in the E.R of The Washington Hospital Center, where I would spend five hours being evaluated, scanned, and waiting for doctors to figure what to do with me. At roughly five a.m. I was admitted to the I.C.U, and was promptly met by a team of doctors, nurses, and anesthesiologists, who were getting the room, as well as my self prepped for an upper endoscopy so they could figure out where the bleeding was coming from, and stop it.  The official diagnosis was "acute internal bleeding." Two days later I had another E.R.C.P to check how I was healing from the cauterization performed when I was first admitted, as well as to remove the two stents from my bile duct and pancreas that where placed during my E.R.C.P on the 29th. Initially things looked good as I was on the mend, and the stent from my bile duct was successfully removed, but the stent from my pancreas was unable to be removed, as it now was floating somewhere along my G.I tract.  I was told not to worry as the stents themselves are small, and I should pass the missing stent in my stool over the next few days following said procedure.  I still haven't passed the stent

  During my four day stay in the I.C.U, I was told that I was anemic, with a touch of pancreatitis. I received two units of potassium intravenously, and had two units of blood transfused due to my "acute internal bleeding."  I have never been so scared in my entire life. My palms where ghostly white, and without color due to the amount of blood I lost, I was unable to leave my bed, because of how lightheaded and weak I had become, and because of my weakened state everything had to be done for me; use your imagination concerning that last statement. This was an experience that has done far more damage to my psyche than my physical person. With every ache and pain I have felt since being discharged I assume the worst. The last time I had unusual aches and pains, I found myself in the intensive care unit, what's next? My paranoia has manifested itself into anger and resentment, and in turn I have become a person I truly loathe.

   I resent everyone.  I resent everyone who is healthy and takes it for granted. I resent everyone who drinks, does drugs, over eats, or smokes, and then has the audacity to complain about the negative impact these choices have had on their health, and/or even think they are some how deserving of sympathy for something that they did to themselves! I hate everyone who constantly complains about their, "oh so tough lives," what I wouldn't give to have some of the problems most people bitch about. Oh, and by the way, no, all of our problems are not relative, in fact they are very particular.  When I hear people complain about their "problems," in my head I'm screaming, "get some fucking perspective!, At least you have your health, and you should only be so lucky never to know what its like not to!" 

  Bottom Line: I have become the quintessential bitter, and jaded old man. The man who cant stand happiness, unless it is his own.