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Lull In Between The Storms before/after I sat grim faced in the doctors office. I tried to while my wait by staring out of the small window at life as it passed by, like I have whiled my wait my whole life, as a child in school, I found endless promise lay outside those windows, boundless and untold, but I could not release the mounting anxiety for what I knew lay ahead. The flourescent overhead light glared and sizzled. I lay on the paper covered examining table. This time in history will be reknowned for the barbarisim of its medical arts. Medical arts should be elegant. There should be no harsh angles and jangling saws to do their work. The great revolution will come with the perfection of gene therapies. We will ingest viruses that will fix everything. Health in pills. Pain will be recognized and treated. But this is not then, and I realize the shortcomings of the era I have been born into this time around. Pain mongers in white coats and expensive educations are the order of the day, and there is nothing to do about it. I would be more keen on health care, and be a bit more resonsible with such, if I knew those fuckers wouldn't cause me pain every goddam time I see them. The doctor came in, and attempted to examine me. She gave me my options. And although lured by the choice of doing nothing, I chose action. "This afternoon." I said unblinking, looking in her eye,"Yes, let's do that." * * * The prep for the diagnostic battery broke me. Pain beyond pain. I've prided myself in the past for my pain threshold. I'm the kid that broke his arm, and then finished the basketball game, with the winning basket. But this was beyond the pale. Constant hurt, without relent. The pain scrambles the brain, weakness rushes in, and focus is nowhere to be found. They say courage is doing what needs be done, in spite of felt fear. Well, those who utter that stupid plattitude never saw me. I broke on the way to the hospital. I started sobbing like a child. First time I've actually cried in a decade. I knew the pain I was in. I knew that I was going to a place that would make it worse. I wanted to run. I wanted to flee. I wanted to die. I wanted to tell those around me...that this was not worth living. That the pain is too much, and I need OUT. But instead I sobbed. Like a baby. To my credit, when I was left alone, I did not think to end it. I did not come up with the plan until it was unworkable. Leave a note, "The pain was too much," and crack the back of my skull open like a walnut. Condemn me if you like, but until you've crossed that threshold, you just don't fucking know. I support euthanasia. And I think you are a mindfucked tool if you don't. Your religion don't include me, sister. Stuff it up your ass. I sobbed. As I walked into the hospital, my mother trailed behind me like a leaf in my wake. Tears rolled down my face as I asked for directions. Cunt gave me the wrong directions. I wound up in a surgical area, and some workers took pity and guided my to the right place. I sat down to register, and had to gasp out my answers. Give me credit for persistance. I was not ashamed of my tears. They showed me to my room, a private room thankfully, and I got undressed. The nurses fluttered about as they got me prepped. One actually had compassion, and was gentle with me, as she poked my veins and stole my blood. The others were not. I saw the look of condemnation in one. Compassion walked out of the door sheepishly. I do not blame her. She has no company in this day and age. It was a few hours of suffering until the doctor arrived. They wheeled me across the hall to the examination room. Stark white. No decorations. The flourscent light glared overhead, making everthing that much whiter. The hospital smell of decay and death hung in the air. Around me, all sorts of monitors popped and hummed. Big angular instuments of pain hung stored in racks. Everywhere I looked reeked of anxiety. Eventually the nurses got me hooked up. I begged for sedation. "Were going to wait to see what the doctor says." said one. I heard the doctor in the other room. "She said that we can give you sedation. Do you want to wait to talk to her? Were going to wait so you can talk to her." The doctor shuffled in. "I already talked to him today," she said. I made my case for sedation. The doctor looked me in the eye, as we always do, and she saw two perfect tears streak down from my eyes. A nurse standing next to her prepared the solution in a syringe. A mixture of merciful demerol and something else. (Demerol! YEAHHHHHHH!!!! WOOO! WOOOO!!!! Should I ever be diagnosed with terminal stages of anything, demerol will be my weapon of choice as I quickly defile myself to death.) The doctor turned and said something quietly to the nurse. The nurse came over and put the first syringe full into my IV. It was quick. I exhaled a few times, and tasted what seemed to taste like alcohol on my breath. I relaxed quickly, felt the tension leave my body. Still awake, though. Something I think to do with my consitution and experiences. With the second syringe, I was quickly unconsious before she even got the plunger all the way down. Blissful ignorance. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. I slept unaware, and came to, feeling no pain. They had me hooked up to some crazy IV, pumping unkown drugs into my system immediately. I got dressed, and left, mother trailing in my wake like a leaf. She told me what the doctor said. "He's really messed himself up this time." Hah. And on the drive home, mother worked me over to stay awhile and help father out. Addled by drugs, I agreed. I have no idea where my life is heading at this point. A large part of me does not care. I don't know how long I will stay. But on the positive side, I'm already showing improvement. I think the worst has passed. Of course, I still have to get some lab results. I think it will be okay, although given the life I have led, perhaps anything is possible. If an arm spontaneously grew out of my back, I really wouldn't be surprised. But I think everything will be okay. I still need more attention, but I believe, and I hope, the worst is past. And I'm at a crossroads, stumbling for the path to follow. All the roads have a toll. Should I reign in my appettite? Try to make this life last as long as I can? Change my goals? My focus? Should I look at it as I have, fatalistically, in that we all will die, its what you do with the intervening time that counts? My passions are my passions, and on some level they are tied with what drives me, moves me, makes me what I am. And part of that is a hunger that is unrelenting. To crack the thighbone of life, and rip the marrow out with my teeth. To drink straight from inbetween the hips of life, and taste her essence, eat her soul whole from the fount. I don't know. Are these even choices that I can cognitively make? My mind drifts, and I pause inbetween, resting in the lull between my storms.
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