Gender: Male
Status: Married
Age: 55
Sign: Leo
City: Winnipeg
State: Manitoba
Country: CA
Signup Date: 3/4/2007
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[17 Sep 2009 | Thursday]
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Category: Religion and Philosophy
The body is made to age and to wear out. As humans we are designed to die, and everyone will. There is no escape. For some, death is closer than they could ever imagine: maybe it’s just around the corner. And for others, it’s waiting just up the road a ways. But either way, death is real, and no one gets away!!
Thanks to everyone for taking the time to drop by and read my blog entries. I hope you enjoy this segment from Chapter 8 “Another Miracle” of “God & Me and Hepatitis C”. Please feel free to leave a comment or a suggestion, you words encourage me!
Hepatitis C had me on the run, and my time was running out. My body was wearing out; I felt like I could drop at any moment. My insomnia was driving me crazy. I was no longer getting even those few minutes of spotty sleep I had counted on for the past few weeks. The combination of my work schedule and trying to keep up with our family activities had me worn down to a frazzle. I knew I had pushed myself too hard, and it seemed my vigorous behavior had sped up the damaging effects that the Hepatitis C virus was having on me. I was following my low-protein diet and one-liter-a-day fluid restriction closely; I took my diuretic medication and liquid laxative on time each day. But something was wrong: the diuretic pills weren’t removing the fluid as well as they had been, my abdomen and legs were swelling a little more each day, and my cough was getting worse. I could see that the muscle mass in my shoulders and arms was dissolving, and when I peed, my urine was a deep, dark, ugly yellow color, and that scared the daylights out of me. Driving to work each morning tired me out, and I struggled to make it through the day. To make matters worse, I had developed itchy spots all over my body. My shins were by far the area worst affected. I had read on the Internet that itching was a symptom of Hepatitis C, but I had no idea it could be that bad. It felt like I had millions of mosquito bites on the area between the top of my ankle and the bottom of my knee, on both legs. For every second of every minute, of every hour, right through the day and night, I had to fight off the urge to dig my fingernails into the skin on top of my shins and scratch the flesh away, right down to the bone, to stop the annoying irritation.
I was in rough shape, but despite my rapidly deteriorating health, my spirits and hopes were high. I was excited about my appointment with the transplant director. I was hoping he would tell me some good news. I had never thought about my own mortality before the gastroenterologist told me that my liver might last a year. I couldn’t believe how fast my health had gone downhill. I went from never being sick to maybe having a year to live, in what seemed like a blink of an eye.
I didn’t like to think about death, but in all honesty, death is the only thing that is certain in life. The body is made to age and to wear out. As humans we are designed to die, and everyone will. There is no escape. For some, death is closer than they could ever imagine: maybe it’s just around the corner. And for others, it’s waiting just up the road a ways. But either way, death is real, and no one gets away. I wasn’t wishing or hoping for someone to die, but from the volumes of people who die every day, I didn’t think getting a new liver would be much of a problem. The following week I would turn 47 years old. I am a Baby Boomer, part of the population explosion that took place after World War II—a generation that may have represented the largest increase in the world’s population in the history of mankind. Time was running out for people like me. The Baby Boomers’ life cycle had passed its peak, and was now winding down fast.
My generation of people were aging rapidly: aches, pains, and hurts didn’t heal up as fast as they used to, we were becoming weaker, our reflexes were getting slower, and we were much, much more susceptible to illness and disease. The death rate for my generation was climbing fast and would continue to climb. I knew that every day there would be more and more people starting the journey down the path to where death lays waiting, and in less than thirty-five years, there would only be a tiny fraction of the Baby Boomer generation left in the world. I had done my research. I followed the obituaries and watched the news, and I had read the death-rate statistics on the Internet. I could see that the death trend for people my age was steadily increasing from an assortment of sudden, unpredictable causes, like heart attacks, strokes, liver disease, various cancers, diabetes, pneumonia, car and motorcycle accidents, drowning, and suicides. There was an endless stream of people dying on a never-ending basis. I didn’t think I would have a problem getting a new liver. I felt there would be an abundance of donated organs available for transplant, and I was hoping to hear the doctor say that I would have a new liver before Christmas.
The Tuesday morning traffic was light, and we were moving along smoothly without any snags or congestion as we headed north along St. Mary’s Road. When we entered the downtown core, I could see the sun’s early morning rays bouncing off the windows of the stores and offices. The bright reflections highlighted the various sizes, shapes, and designs of the buildings that surrounded us like a thick jungle.
When Gloria turned off Notre Dame Avenue and onto Sherbrook Street, which led to the Winnipeg Health Sciences Centre, I could see the complex ahead of us. I had read on the Internet that this medical facility was one of the largest of its kind in Canada specializing in complex health issues and organ transplants, as well as serving as a training hospital for the University of Manitoba Faculty of Medicine. The hospital looked massive compared to the other buildings in the neighborhood. I could see the original brown brick building in the middle of the complex, and from the newer, different designs and shapes of the adjoining structures and the variety of building materials used, I could tell that the hospital had been expanded several times over the years.
It’s a big place, I thought to myself. I wonder how far I’ll have to walk when we get in there. I watched Gloria turn off the street and into the hospital entrance, where she stopped to pick up a parking ticket before we headed down the ramp leading into the underground parkade. I heard the loud sound of metal bending, twisting, and grinding as the big steel door in front of us lifted to let us in. The quick change from the sunlight to the dimly lit parking lot below was hard on my eyes, and I closed them for a few seconds, hoping my eyesight would adjust to the low-light conditions beneath the hospital.
As we slowly circled the parkade, I could see what looked like miles and miles of pipes, electrical conduit tubing, and large ventilation ducts fastened to the ceiling. I was hoping we could find a parking stall close to the entrance, and we carefully searched each row of cars parked between the giant cement pillars that held up the building, but no such luck. The only empty space we could find was at the far end of the lot, and I didn’t want to walk from there. I didn’t have a clue where we had to go or how long we’d be in the hospital, and I wanted to conserve every ounce of energy I had left in me.
“Would you please drop me off over there?” I said to Gloria, pointing to the big white sign that hung from the roof and read General Hospital in bold black letters. “I’ll wait there while you park the car.” “That’s a good idea,” I heard her reply. She stopped the car at the wheelchair ramp. The entrance stood out clearly in the dim lighting: the outside walls were painted lime green, and the door and windows were highlighted in bright canary yellow. I could hear the loud hum of the building’s exhaust fans and I could smell a damp, musky odor from the parked cars the moment I opened my door. I could feel my energy shrinking by the second as I unfastened my seatbelt and then struggled to turn my body sideways so I could get out of the car. My wife’s hand felt good in the middle of my back as she helped to steady me while I slowly pulled myself out of the vehicle. I was exhausted already, and I stood there for a moment to catch my breath and get my bearings before I closed the car door. When I walked up the ramp, the bright yellow door at the entrance swung open automatically. I felt a cool rush of air hit me in the face when I stepped through the doorway. I could see that three of the walls in the small room were a light yellow color, but the back wall jumped right out at me. It was painted lime green as well, and written on that wall in large white letters was Sherbrook Street Parkade Lobby. The room was empty except for me, the stainless steel elevator, the door leading to the stairway, and four wheelchairs, which were parked neatly in a line against the green wall. I was tired and I wanted to sit down while I waited for Gloria, but my pride wouldn’t let me. I didn’t want my wife to see me sitting in one of the wheelchairs. Wheelchairs and I go back a long ways, and I don’t like anything to do with them. I grew up watching multiple sclerosis take its time killing my dad. He was a big strong man and it took the disease more than thirty years to break him down, bit by bit. MS reduced his life to a mere existence, before it finished him off. I had never felt so helpless; it was painful and agonizing to see. It was like watching a few tiny ants eat a buffalo, and those horrible, ugly memories of how the disease slowly took away the use of his hands, arms, and legs, and confined him to a wheelchair, were permanently stuck in my head. I remember the many wheelchairs my dad had over the years—and how I would sit his limp body down on the seat and how I would lift him out, hundreds of times. I remember how I placed his lifeless feet on each footrest and carefully strapped them down so they wouldn’t fall off. I’ll never forget the look in my dad’s eyes as he taught me how to position his motionless arms on the small wooden table that sat on the wheelchair’s armrests, and how to open his hands, and spread each finger, so that he’d be more comfortable. I remember the countless times I folded dad’s wheelchairs and packed them into the trunks of big cars, and other times squeezed them into the back seats of small cars, and sometimes laid them in truck beds. I remember pushing my dad across smooth surfaces and rough terrain; I pushed him down narrow hallways and squeezed him into tight spots, up ramps, and down ramps; and I even pulled him up stairs and carefully eased him down stairs. And at times, with the help of friends, we even carried him while he sat in his wheelchair, like a king, into places where I couldn’t pull or push him by myself. I’ll never forget all the times that I repaired his wheelchairs, using tiny nuts and bolts or pieces of wire that my mom kept in her kitchen junk drawer. And if I couldn’t fix the problem, I used hockey or duct tape to hold it together or patch it in some manner until my dad could have it fixed properly. Many wheelchair memories are stored in my head, and they will always be there. While I waited for Gloria, I stepped closer to take a better look at the four chairs that were parked against the lobby wall like a string of taxis waiting outside a hotel for a customer. The first three in the line looked well used: I could see tiny, thin cracks on the black vinyl that covered their seats and backs, and there were dark scuff marks on the footrests. I also noticed a few deep scratches on their tarnished metal frames. The second chair was missing a footrest. Those chairs showed noticeable signs of wear and tear, but the last chair in the line caught my eye.
Its bright polished wheels seemed to gleam under the florescent lighting in the room, and when I looked at it closely I couldn’t see a blemish on the chair’s smooth, shiny seat or a scratch on its frame anywhere. It looks brand new, I thought to myself. As I stood there staring at it, I felt my skin go icy cold, and a feeling of extreme sadness spread through me. Is this my destiny—is history going to repeat itself? Am I going to end up in a wheelchair like my Dad? I thought to myself. I had never, ever, considered that I would need a wheelchair at any time in my life, until I entered that lobby and saw those four chairs lined up against the wall. The thought of Gloria and the boys having to lift me in and out and push me from place to place in a wheelchair was suddenly beginning to eat at me on the inside like a dangerous parasite.
She caught me off guard. She saw me looking at the chairs and I felt guilty, like I’d done something wrong. When I turned to face her, I didn’t look into her eyes. I knew she had my best interests at heart, but I snapped back at her like she had insulted me. “No,” I said in a loud, disgusted voice. “I don’t need one of those things. I can make it on my own.”
Our elevator ride to the main floor was short; we went up just one level. When the doors slid open, I followed my wife out into the spacious, well-lit area in front of the hospital’s main doors, where we stopped to look around. The walls were painted in light pastel colors and the place was packed. There were people of all ages and many different nationalities. Some of them were standing and looking around just like we were, while others were making their way towards exits and dodging and weaving between the people who were flocking into the building, like it was the last day to do their Christmas shopping. This is a busy place, I thought to myself as Gloria and I carefully made our way through the crowd towards a booth with a big orange sign on top that read “Information”. I could see a dark-haired lady sitting in the small room, which resembled an armored fortress. The bottom portion of the room was solid while the top part was enclosed with thick glass, and as I stepped closer I wondered whether it was bulletproof. Through the hole in the glass, Gloria asked the lady where the liver clinic was located. I heard her say in a polite, professional voice, “You need to go to the pink desk; I’ll show you how to get there on this map.” I watched her lay out a paper map of the hospital on the counter for us to see. I felt my legs grow weaker and my breath get shorter as we listened to her tell us how far we had to go. And as she traced along the route with her finger, I realized this wasn’t going to be an easy walk: it was a long journey. As I stood staring at the distance between where we were and where the liver clinic was located, my head began to fill with second thoughts about using a wheelchair for the trip. I knew full well that in my worn-out condition it would be the sensible thing to do. But I couldn’t let that happen. I didn’t want people to see me riding in a wheelchair; my pride and stubbornness had put up a brick wall to block me from using my common sense. I don’t like to lose: I didn’t want to concede to the fact that Hepatitis C was beating me. I was determined to make it to the pink desk on my own, even if it killed me. I can make it, it isn’t that far. It just looks like a long way on the map, I thought to myself. I am not using a wheelchair. I started counting the paces the moment we left the information booth; I wanted to know just how far I had to walk. Numbers were going off in my head like the bullets from a machine gun, 22, 23, 24, after each step. I could feel the energy draining from my body as we passed the lottery ticket outlet, the vending machines, the Cancer Care Unit, the rest area, and the gift shop. One hundred and fourteen paces into our journey, the large, spacious hallway we had been following turned into a narrow passageway that twisted and weaved and seemed to be leading us into the heart of the building. We passed a series of green doorways, and I could detect a hygiene smell in the air that seemed to be getting thicker and more noticeable the further we went. At 178 paces, Gloria and I stopped; we were standing in the middle of an intersection where four hallways converged at the hospital’s six main elevators. I remembered the lady at the information booth telling us to turn right when we reached the elevators and to follow the corridor to the end. That’s where we’d find the liver clinic. My energy was gone. I was so tired I didn’t think I could take another step. I needed a rest, but I had to get out of the way. I could see people coming towards us from all four directions at the same time. I made my way over to the wall closest to the elevators, where I could stand out of everyone’s way and rest, while Gloria went on ahead to see how much further we had to go. I locked my knees upright for support and I stood there with my back braced against the wall, like I was afraid it was going to fall down on top of me. I watched the people go by. I saw medical personnel wearing white knee-length coats or dark green pantsuits scoot by, pushing patients in wheelchairs or on gurneys like they were in a race. I watched patients dressed in hospital gowns getting on and off one or another of the six elevators, while other patients hobbled down the hallways pulling intravenous stands with medicine bags attached. I really didn’t know what to think of the Winnipeg Health Sciences Centre; I’d never in my life seen so many sick people in one place at one time. As I stood there watching them go by, under my breath I quietly asked God to give me the strength to make it through the day.
When Gloria returned, she said we still had a distance to go. Then she took my hand and we started out again. The corridor leading to the liver clinic seemed to go on forever, and as we walked along, I kept telling myself that today’s appointment was just a formality. I remembered the gastroenterologist saying that he thought I would be an excellent candidate for a liver transplant, so I wasn’t anticipating any problems. I had it all figured out in my head. I’d have my new liver before Christmas, the Hepatitis C would be gone, and I’d be as good as new.
When the count in my head had reached 247 paces, we walked through the big pink double doors at the entrance leading into the liver clinic. I felt like I was going to faint when I saw that the room was full. I couldn’t believe it. I had just walked a distance of more than two football fields. Sweat was pouring out all over me, my legs were swollen and felt like jelly, and there wasn’t a place for me to sit. I was in a tough spot; I backed up against the wall inside the doorway and stood there leaning against it, like the back of my golf shirt was glued to it. Gloria went to the front of the room, to where the receptionist was seated behind the counter, to check me in. The clinic was different than any of the other medical clinics that I had visited; the colors in the room were bright. The walls, the doors, and the reception counter were all painted different shades of pink; even the vinyl-covered chairs were a shocking pink color. The room looked like it would glow in the dark. But it wasn’t the decor that held my attention; it was the people sitting in the waiting area. I wonder how many of these people are suffering from Hepatitis C, I thought to myself as I glanced across the room. It wasn’t difficult to pick out the ones with liver disease. I’m not a minority in this place, I thought, as I looked at each face. I fit right in. I could see that at least three-quarters of the people in the room had the same ugly, yellow, jaundiced skin color as me.
I thought getting a new liver would be easy, but the news I had received from the doctor stunned me. I knew I needed God to bail me out of the mess I was in, but was He listening to my prayers??
Thanks again my friends for dropping by, I hope you’ll drop by again and read the next segment of “God & Me and Hepatitis C”, when it’s posted.
Take care and God Bless!!
Daniel
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[09 May 2009 | Saturday]
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Category: Religion and Philosophy
Thank you my friends for dropping by, I hope you enjoy my blog. Should I Take the Sleeping Pill- it was up to me! I couldn’t sleep, and I didn’t know why. I had read on the Internet that sleep disorder is often a symptom of Hepatitis C, but I still wasn’t sure if that was what was keeping me awake. It may have been the constant march of worrisome thoughts about my future and how it was shaping up that kept me awake. I didn’t know what to pin the blame on, and it wouldn’t have mattered anyhow. I couldn’t get any consistent sleep. If I did manage to drift off from total exhaustion, I’d only be out for a few minutes at a time. Going without sleep was driving me crazy. I couldn’t figure out how I could feel so tired and still not be able to sleep. It didn’t make any sense. Night after night I would perform the same ritual in bed. I’d toss, turn, fidget, and roll from side to side, and fluff, pound, and reposition my pillow over and over, while Gloria lay beside me, anxiously waiting for me to settle down so she could get to sleep. I tried counting sheep, widgets, pumpkins, and any other thing I could think of until it seemed like I’d run out of numbers. I did deep-breathing exercises—where I tried to suck as much air into my lungs as I could and then exhale quickly through my mouth, nose, or both at the same time—but that didn’t work either. Every night I did the same thing until I’d eventually give up, get out of bed and head downstairs to the living room, where my recliner was always graciously waiting for me, so my wife could finally get some sleep. Every night in my chair felt longer and lonelier than the night before. The only companion I had to share my time with was depression. Depression had a knack of always being able to pick up my scent as soon as I left the bedroom. It could sense when I was alone, tired, and frustrated, and ready to be picked on, and it never failed to track me down so it could feed on my worn-out mind. Night after night, it was just me and depression stretched out in my chair together, staring at the wall clock above the fireplace. I always followed the hands on the clock as they slowly travelled around. I tried to make a mental note of where they were at all times, so if I did fall asleep or drift off for a few minutes, I could measure how much sleep I was getting. Depression sat there with me, filling my head with an endless stream of horrible thoughts to keep me from drifting off. It pushed thoughts into my mind that told me I wasn’t going to make it, and that Hepatitis C would soon finish me off. It said that my family would suffer without me, and that because of me, my sons wouldn’t finish school. Depression enjoyed our sleepless, lonesome nights together, and it never let up pestering me. It knew that if I fell asleep it would have to wait for me to wake up before it could start working on me all over again. On Thursday, May 31, 2001 I was desperate and at my wits’ end when I stepped off the scales and Gloria and I walked down the short hall that led to the gastroenterologist’s office. I’d lost another nine pounds and my weight was down to 243 pounds, but that didn’t lift my spirits or make me feel any better. My mind was buzzing and it wouldn’t slow down. I was sorting out what to say when I saw the doctor. I needed to get some sleep, and I was desperately trying to come up with the best way to ask him for sleeping pills. I didn’t want to sound like I was begging for drugs, or give him the impression that I was tired and fed up with the whole wide world and looking for an easy way out. I didn’t want to ask for the prescription at all, but I’d had enough sleepless nights, and I was at the point where I would do almost anything for a good night’s sleep. I was nervous and on edge as I lay on the examining table while the doctor checked me over. I wanted to pop the question right then, but I hesitated. The words were on the tip of my tongue, but for some reason I couldn’t get them out of my mouth. I still wasn’t sure how to approach him. I missed my opportunity, I thought to myself as I watched the doctor walk over to the sink and wash his hands after he’d examined me. He slid into the chair behind his desk, where he picked up my file and began to read its contents. I’ve got to come up with a polite, professional way to ask him for the pills, I thought to myself as I got up off the table, put my clothes on, and slipped into the chair right next to the doctor’s desk. My stomach was rolling and I felt jittery. I had an idea in my head of what to say, but it wouldn’t come out. I slowly inched myself closer to the edge of my seat. I wanted to get a closer look at the gastroenterologist as he reviewed my file. I studied his face closely as he flipped through the pages in my folder, hoping to see a change in his facial expression that would give me a hint about how my examination had gone or how serious the material he was reading about me was. But I couldn’t detect anything. I quickly glanced at Gloria. She was sitting right beside me with her hand on my knee, and I could see that her eyes were fixed on the doctor too! I don’t want to sound like a fool, I thought to myself, but I can’t wait any longer. I needed to know if he would give me the pills or not, and now was as good a time as any. I shifted my eyes back to the doctor, who I could see was in deep thought as he paged through the contents of my file. I couldn’t think of a polite, professional way to ask him for drugs, so I blurted it out. “I can’t sleep at night,” I said. “For some reason I can’t sleep, and I was wondering if you could prescribe some kind of medication that would help me solve that problem.” Time felt like it stood still while I waited anxiously for the doctor to respond, but he didn’t move. His eyes were fixed on my file, and I began to wonder if he had heard me or not, so I covered my mouth and cleared my throat a couple of times, hoping to gain his attention. That did it, I thought to myself, as I watched his eyes slowly lift upwards from the material he held in his hands and focus on me. He had a serious look on his face and I wasn’t sure what to think. But before he had a chance to reply, I began to ramble on about all the difficulties I was having at work and how tough it was trying to make it through each day without sleep. I couldn’t tell right then if he sympathized with me or not. But after listening to my tale of woe for several more minutes, the doctor slowly nodded his head, and I took that as a sign that he may have been agreeing with me. “I’ll prescribe a mild sedative for you to take before bed,” he said. “However, Mr. Phillips, I must caution you first,” he added. “The medication may be harmful to your liver, and it can also become very addictive.” A surge of adrenaline shot through me. I could feel it from the tip of my head right down to my toes when I heard him say I could have the drugs. It felt like a big weight had just been lifted off my chest. I felt victorious, like I had won a championship. I’ll be able to sleep now, I thought to myself as I took a deep breath, pushed down on my feet, and smugly slid right back onto my chair. I felt Gloria give my knee a squeeze, and I turned just in time to see a little smile break out on her face. I got the sleeping pills that I wanted, and I knew she was happy for me. “Mr. Phillips,” I heard the gastroenterologist say. As I turned to face him, he pushed his chair back from the desk and slid it closer to me. He had a solemn look on his face, and I began to wonder if he had changed his mind and wasn’t going to give me the medication after all. I wanted those pills, and I wasn’t going to leave his office without putting up a good argument to get them. I slid forward to the edge of my seat. Every nerve in my body was tingling, while my mind was busy developing my defense, in case he told me I couldn’t have the drugs. I was on edge and my eyes were glued to his lips as I waited anxiously to hear what he was going to say. “Mr. Phillips,” he said, “your liver is continuing to deteriorate.” His words continuing to deteriorate whizzed through my ears like the razor-sharp tip of an arrow and lodged in the center of my mind. The victory feeling that I had felt only seconds before was gone. I felt winded, like he’d punched me in the gut. I could feel my stomach turn sour, and a cool sensation began to work its way all over my arms and the back of my neck. I felt Gloria’s hand tighten on my knee, but this time I knew it wasn’t a victory squeeze. It was for support. I felt dazed. That wasn’t the news that I wanted to hear, I thought to myself. That was bad news. Thank God, the doctor had more to say. “I have referred you to the director of the Liver Disease Unit at the Winnipeg Health Sciences Centre,” he said, “and he has agreed to see you on July 17 for an evaluation and assessment to see if you are a suitable candidate for the liver transplant program. And I will continue to monitor you throughout the process.” That’s good news, that’s the kind of stuff I like to hear, I thought to myself as I sat there in my chair staring at the gastroenterologist, once again enjoying the incredible feeling of relief that was coursing through every part of my body. I felt recharged as Gloria and I left the gastroenterologist’s office. The sour feeling that I had felt churning in my gut only moments before was gone. I was feeling incredible. In a matter of seconds, my emotions went from down in the dumps to the top of world. I wish that I had a crystal ball, I thought to myself as we passed through the lavender door on our way to the elevator. I wanted to peek at what the future had in store for me. I was on a high, and my confidence was soaring as we stood waiting for the elevator doors to open. I could feel my heart beating in my chest like a big drum. I was completely overwhelmed: a gastroenterologist I’d met only six weeks before was taking me on as a patient, and he had set up an appointment for me to be assessed and evaluated for a liver transplant. I couldn’t get over how everything seemed to be turning in my favor. What are the odds of that happening? I kept asking myself, and it made me wonder if God was listening to my prayers. I wasn’t sure. I knew that I still had a long ways to go, but I took it as a sign that good things were happening and moving me in the right direction. The excitement continued to build and build inside me, and by the time we pulled out of the parkade and on to the street, I felt like I was ready to explode. We were on our way to the drugstore. Gloria was seated behind the steering wheel and in control of the car, while I lay stretched out on the passenger side with my sunglasses on and a cool breeze from the dashboard air conditioning vents blowing over me. I gazed up through the open sunroof at the building tops and the big fluffy clouds that floated gracefully across the light blue sky. I didn’t say a word to Gloria. Traffic was heavy and I didn’t want to bother her while she was driving. I just lay there, clenching the prescription for sleeping pills tightly with both hands. I was exhausted and sweaty from walking up forty-eight stairs to where our car had been parked on the top floor of the parkade. But I was happy! I got the pills that I wanted, and for a bonus, I got a specialist to look after me and an appointment to be evaluated for a liver transplant. I was riding a winning streak; it felt like I had the world by the tail. The downtown traffic was heavy, and it wasn’t letting up. It seemed like we were stopping at every red light. I didn’t like the delays. I wanted the pills in my hands right now, and I was anxious to get to the drugstore. Having to stop and wait at each corner was playing on my nerves, but there was nothing I could do about it. We were bumper to bumper and the sounds of heavy traffic were all around us as we slowly plugged along down the street. I held the prescription tight to my chest with both hands, like I was afraid someone was going to reach down through the sunroof and take it from me. I could hear the rumbling and humming of car motors, the occasional squeak of bad brakes, and one or two good horn blasts, which made me wonder who just got cut off. The Beatles song “Yesterday” was playing on the radio. I like that song, and when I listened closer to separate the lyrics from the rest of the sounds that were flowing into my ears, I noticed the words “all my troubles seemed so far away.” And I thought, How fitting for this occasion. I knew as soon I took the pills my sleep problems would be far away. But the next line, “Now it looks as though they’re here to stay,” set off something in my head that I couldn’t stop. I could hear a tiny voice, coming from somewhere in the depths of my mind, beginning to nag at me. The squeaky murmur was telling me to remember what the gastroenterologist said about taking the sleeping pills, and how they may be harmful to my liver or become addictive. I didn’t like what the little voice was planting in my head. I tried to put those thoughts out of my mind by telling myself over and over, I need sleep. I have to get some sleep. And the prescription I held in my hands was my ticket to get some. The little voice was tougher than I thought. I couldn’t bury it or drown it out with other thoughts, and it wouldn’t shut up and leave me alone. It just wouldn’t quit. It felt like it had anchored itself in the centre of my mind, in a place where it couldn’t be budged, while it caused tiny “what if” thoughts to trickle into my head over and over. By the time we finally pulled into the drugstore parking lot, my mind was so cluttered with doubt and second thoughts that I wondered if the sleeping pills would push my troubles away or if they’d only create newer and bigger ones for me to face. I wasn’t worried about becoming addicted. I knew an addiction could only happen if I let it happen. And I wouldn’t let that happen. However, the thought of harming my already-failing liver didn’t sit well with me, and it had me on edge. There was an argument raging in my head as to whether I should take the drug and get some sleep, or tough it out and see how long I could go without it. I was confused and didn’t know which way to lean. I wanted sleep in the worst way, but I didn’t want to harm my liver and shorten my life either. What should I do? What should I do? I thought to myself, as I watched Gloria walk across the parking lot towards the drugstore to have my prescription filled. And as I watched her disappear into the store, the argument taking place in my head got out of control and escalated into a full-blown fight. The aggressive part of my mind was screaming at me to take the pills. You need them, you want them, take them, it kept yelling. That part of my mind wanted to sleep, and it didn’t think taking the pills was a big deal. But at the same instant, the tinier, calmer, more sensible part of my mind was fighting back. It told me to heed what the doctor had said. It said that I had to do whatever I could to protect my liver and make it last as long as possible. It told me that taking sleeping pills was risky business, and if I took them I wouldn’t like the consequences. When the store doors opened and I saw my wife walk out, I followed her every step of the way as she walked casually towards the car. I could see she was holding a small white paper bag in her hand. When she opened the car door and reached in to give it to me, I struck out like a rattlesnake and snatched it from her fingers. The drive to our house from the drugstore was less than ten minutes, but it felt like we were driving for hours. I didn’t say a word to my wife. I just sat in my seat with my eyes fixed to the small white paper bag I held in my hands. My mind, meanwhile, tried to answer the questions that were stuck in my head: What would happen if I opened the bag? Would its contents help me? Or would I be opening Pandora’s Box? I couldn’t find the answer. As we turned down the street that led to our house, the only thing I could hear in the car was the crackle from the paper bag as I traced with my fingers along the tiny cylinder-shaped bottle inside. I wanted to open it in the worst way and have a good look. But I didn’t. I knew if I opened the bag, I’d be tempted to open the container, take out a pill, and pop it in my mouth right on the spot. I wasn’t sure if I was doing the right thing or not. But when Gloria pulled the car into the garage, the fight in my head ended. I’d made up my mind. The little voice in my head had won by a narrow margin. As much as I wanted a good night’s sleep, I couldn’t justify taking the risk of damaging my liver any further. As soon as I got out of the car, I made my way into the house and headed straight for the kitchen. I pulled open the cupboard door right above the fridge and placed the unopened bag of sleeping pills in the small brown wicker basket where we kept our household band-aids, cough syrup, and headache medication. I knew in my heart that I was doing the right thing. But as I gently closed the door, I felt a rush of anxiety sweep through me and I began to wonder just how long I could hold out…… Thanks again for visiting, Take care and God Bless!! Daniel
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[07 Mar 2009 | Saturday]
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Category: Religion and Philosophy
My Friends, I thank you from the bottom of my heart for your comments, encouraging words, and in a few cases your criticism. I pray the chapter segment below from God & Me and Hepatitis C – “What are the Odds” will give you or someone you know, a little added Hope and Inspiration.
****
“I want God on my team”
I knew going to the baseball game in my condition wasn’t a smart thing to do. There was an endless stream of negative “what ifs”—things that might happen to me on the way to the game, at the game, or on the way back from the game—marching continuously through my head. The weather forecast for the next few days was calling for hot temperatures, and I knew that if I had to walk very far or stand in the sun for any length of time, my energy would disappear and I’d be in big trouble. The fear of collapsing and ending up in a ....Minneapolis.... hospital was weighing heavily on my nerves, but I didn’t want to be the spoiler. I wanted Gloria and the boys to enjoy the ball game and the shopping trip to the Mall of America we had planned for Monday. I didn’t want to ruin our plans. I pleaded with God to give me the strength to keep going.
****
The corridor crowd got thicker as we went along. It felt like we were caught in the middle of a stampede. I tried to keep an eye on the signs above each of the tunnels that led to the seating area, while at the same time watching behind me to make sure Gloria and the boys were close by.
My legs felt like jelly when we finally reached our section. Slowly, we edged our way out of the flow of people, and then we walked down a short flight of stairs to where our seats were located.
“Look at that,” I said to Gloria and the boys as we stood together on the landing beside the press box, looking out into the heart of the Metrodome, at its imposing lighting structures and the massive collection of speakers that hung by thick steel cables from the roof. I knew that the building’s roof was held up by air pressure—air pressure created by nothing more than a series of high powered electric fans—and I found this very hard to believe.
The sight that lay before my eyes was breathtaking. I could see the brightly colored Twins emblem on the turf a few paces behind home plate. When I looked out into left field, the home run fence looked like it was a mile away, while in right field—hanging on the wall above the bleachers—I could see championship banners from past years, and pictures of some of the great baseball players who had played for the Twins. The inside of the building was vast and filled with striking color combinations that jumped right out at me. The seats that surrounded the playing surface were dark ocean blue, and the artificial turf was grass green. There was a layer of red shale beneath each of the bases, home plate, and the pitcher’s mound. It was an incredible sight to see, and when I glanced over at Gloria and the boys, who were standing beside me, I could tell by their facial expressions that they were excited to be here. And that made the whole journey to ....Minneapolis.... worthwhile for me.
As Gloria and the boys left to get snacks, I stood in the aisleway for a few moments, looking at our seats. I was trying to decide which of the four chairs I should sit in. The boys were like eating machines, and I knew from past games that they’d be hustling out to the corridor to get food and drink all game long. I didn’t want to be in their way and have my feet stomped on every time they got hungry. So I decided to take the fourth seat in from the aisle. I found the chair extremely comfortable, and wide enough to accommodate my body size. The view I had of home plate and the infield was great. I’ll be able to see all the action from here, I thought to myself.
As I sat there in my chair looking around the building while I waited for Gloria and the boys to return, a sudden, dull feeling of extreme sadness came over me. I knew right away what was causing it. Depression was here with me. It must have followed me to the game, and now that I was alone and tired it had caught up with me. It felt like depression was sitting in the vacant seat right beside me, holding me in a headlock while it whispered horrible thoughts in my ear. Enjoy the game, it told me. It’ll be the last one you see! It told me I was done, finished, and that I would collapse and end up in the hospital before the game ended. I tried to shake off the depression by looking at home plate and thinking about the game that was about to begin. But it wouldn’t let me go. It was hanging onto me like I was a prize trophy.
Fatigue had me worn down to the point where I didn’t have enough energy to fight back. I was an easy target for depression, and now it was taking cheap shots at me while I waited for Gloria and the boys to come back. As I sat there with those ugly thoughts churning in my head, I started to second-guess myself. I began to wonder if depression might be right. Maybe I am a goner, I thought. Maybe I don’t have the strength to make it through the game. What if I do collapse, and paramedics have to haul me out of here? What will Gloria think? What will the boys think?
I felt like I was in a nosedive, heading straight down into the pit of despair. Depression had me right where it wanted. It had me thinking about all the negative things that could happen to me while I was at the game. As those ugly thoughts tumbled around in my head, I felt a cold, sticky sweat forming on the back of my neck, my forehead, and my arms. I wasn’t sweating because I was hot; even with all the people in the building, the atmosphere was cool. I was sweating because I was worried. I didn’t want to embarrass my family or end up in the hospital. And as I sat there watching the people around me hustling to take their seats, under my breath I was asking God to help me make it through the day.
I have to stop this depression, I thought to myself, while I scanned the building hoping to find something positive to look at. Something that would help me take my mind off the horrible stuff that was circling in my head. The batter’s box caught my eye. There were two small rectangular-shaped boxes drawn on top of the red shale with broad, bright white lines on each side of home plate. The sharp red-and-white color contrast stuck out in my mind, and it held my eyes like a magnet. From there I let my eyes follow the white lines on the turf that marked the base lines and fair-play boundaries from the batter’s box to the home run wall in right field, and back again. Then I followed the line leading out to the left field fence and back to home plate.
The lines on the playing field looked perfect, like they’d been hand-painted by an artist. And as I sat there following each line out and back, my mind shifted gears. Instead of the depressing thoughts that had been smoldering in my head before, I found myself wondering how it would feel to be standing there in the batter’s box beside home plate, with my fingers tightly wrapped around the neck of a long thick bat. In front of a capacity crowd that was cheering me on! While I stared out at the mound and into the menacing face of a pitcher who was winding up to throw a 94 mph fastball my way.
As I sat there in my seat—staring at home plate and fantasizing about the adrenaline rush and the thrill that would give me—out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of Gloria and the boys, who were back and standing in the aisle discussing who would get which seat.
I thought my eyes were going to pop out of my head when I got a good look at what the boys were holding. They had their hands wrapped around the biggest hot dogs I’d ever seen. The bun was thick and long, almost like a small loaf of bread. But it was the wiener that really stood out: it must have been an inch in diameter, and it easily ran the length of the bun, with a little bit to spare. ....
“Would you like a bite, Dad?” I heard number three son ask as he sat down in the chair next to me.
You can have some of mine, too,” number four son added, while he slid into the chair next to his brother.
I was stuck for words. I couldn’t take my eyes off those hot dogs, and I paused for a moment while I tried to think up a lie to tell the boys why I wasn’t hungry. And as my mind scrambled to figure out what to say, I quickly glanced over at my wife. I could see her cautiously sitting down in the aisle seat, holding a large box of french fries in one hand and a tray of soft drinks in the other. I felt left out: I could see there were only three drinks, and I knew there wasn’t one for me!
I was hungry; I was face-to-face with temptation. I want my own hot dog, I thought to myself, slowly shifting my eyes back to number three son, who had both hands wrapped around his dog and—in order to fit it into his mouth—was squashing it together like he was punishing it. I could see big gobs of green relish, ketchup, and mustard ooze out of the top when he bit down on it. As I watched his mouth close, I heard a deep voice in my head tell me to take a bite. Come on, it said. The boys offered you a bite. Don’t disappoint them—have a bite or two or three. Come on, what damage can a few bites do? That small amount won’t harm your liver, the voice said. You know you’re hungry—go on, have a taste, it won’t hurt you!
Maybe a bite or two won’t hurt me, I began to think. And that thought started my mind visualizing what one of those hot dogs would taste like—with a couple of spoonfuls of freshly chopped onions spread evenly along the bun on each side of the wiener, then topped off with a thick covering of sauerkraut, and perhaps a slice of dill pickle tucked inside for good measure. And the longer I paused to think about it, the more tempted I was to ask one of the boys to get me one.
I could tell from the low growling sounds that were coming from my stomach that it was agreeing with me, too. I was hungry, and I was leaning towards breaking the rules and having a hot dog. But somewhere in the depths of my mind there was a party pooper hiding. I could hear its squeaky little voice reminding me what the dietitian had said about processed meats—that they contained large amounts of sodium, which could be harmful to my liver. And that I should avoid them.
The combination of smells drifting my way—from the boys’ hot dogs, and the french fries my wife was holding—was pushing me to my limit, and I wanted to ignore my health condition and eat. But again the little voice inside me said, No. Don’t do it. Look what you did to yourself when you drank the ginger ale. If you start eating, you won’t be able to quit. I didn’t like following the rules, and there was no one around to force me. But I had promised myself that I would do everything in my power to help myself and make my liver last as long as possible. And I didn’t want to break that promise.
Although only seconds had passed, number four son had already eaten about half of his hot dog while he waited for my reply. With my eyes fixed on what he had left, I quickly reconsidered their offer once more, and then reluctantly said, “No thanks, guys. I can’t eat that kind of food right now.”
I was afraid that their next question was going to be, “Why, Dad? You like hot dogs.” But instead, right at that moment, a thundering voice came through the large speakers hanging from the roof, asking everyone to please stand for the singing of the national anthem.
Like a fire that was raging out of control, a wave of excitement spread through the building. It seemed like the announcer’s voice had started a race. I could see everyone scrambling to get to their feet, quickly removing their hats, their eyes glued to the flag that was hanging above left field. It was something to see. I watched old people and young people, alike, stand at attention, holding a hand over their heart, with a proud look on their face, while they joyfully sang the words to the Star-Spangled Banner.
Big cheers rang out, and a thunderous clapping sound could be heard throughout the stadium as the anthem finished. And when I looked around, I could see people jumping up and down, while others waved hats or held up banners or signs to show support for their team. The excitement was unbelievable. It was like a big jolt of electricity was flowing non-stop through everyone in the Metrodome. I was tired and depression had a grip on me, but when I looked at all the enthusiastic people who were sitting around me, I started to feel better. It was as if a tiny bit of their energy was trickling into me, giving me a well-needed boost.
When I saw the Twins’ starting players trot out onto the field, I knew the opening pitch wasn’t far away. While the four infielders calmly took up their positions around the bases, I watched the three fielders hustle out to their spots in the outfield. There’s been a lot of great ballplayers stroll out onto this field, I thought to myself, as I watched them toss a ball back and forth to get warmed up. And while my attention was focused on them, I heard a loud smack come from the home plate area. When I looked to see what was happening, I saw the backcatcher, his knees bent, crouched in behind home plate, playing a game of catch with the pitcher.
The pitcher looked like a giant, standing high on the mound where he could look down on every other player on the field. I wonder how fast he’s throwing, I thought to myself. I tried to follow the white, blurry streak as the ball left his hand, right up until I heard the smack and it disappeared into the catcher’s glove. I could see that the two of them had another captive audience: the home plate umpire was standing a few feet away carefully watching each pitch, like he was expecting the two of them to pull something sneaky.
Here we go, I thought to myself, the game is about to start, when I saw the catcher leap up and fire the ball across the infield to the player standing on second base.
“Dad, did you see that throw?” I heard, turning to see a surprised look on my number four son’s face.
“Yeah, he’s got an arm like a cannon, doesn’t he? How would you like to try to steal a base on him?”
"I wouldn’t have to, Dad,” he mumbled from behind the food he was trying to chew. I watched him pack the last remaining chunk of hot dog into his mouth with his index finger. “I’d hit a home run.”
His cheeks were puffed out like a chipmunk with a mouth full of chestnuts. And I could tell by the big grin on his face and the way he was nodding his head up and down that he actually believed what he was saying.
The building seemed to go quiet. I felt my heart gain a beat or two when I saw the umpire step up to home plate and, with a small brush, sweep off the tiny shale particles that had been kicked up onto the bright white surface of the plate during the warm-up. The only sound I could hear clearly in the background was the loud barking of the beer salesmen, who were scampering up and down the stairs on every aisle, carrying big boxes of beer and yelling, “Cold beer! Cold beer here!”
I was anxious to get the game under way, and I shifted closer to the edge of my seat to watch the players move into their starting positions, and to look at where the umpires would be standing to make the calls on the bases.
“Go home!” I heard a loud voice yell from somewhere in the crowd. I looked around to see who’d said it and who they were saying it to, but I couldn’t pinpoint where it came from.
“You may as well go home right now! You won’t be getting a hit today!” I heard another voice scream. My eyes swept over the crowd once more. I couldn’t tell where the voices originated from, but I had a good idea who they were talking to, and I quickly glanced towards the visitors’ dugout.
My hunch was right. The Tigers’ leadoff batter was standing in the on-deck circle, casually swinging his bat back and forth while he stared out at the pitcher on the mound. I’d heard baseball commentators mention on broadcasts that Twins fans like to get into the game, and when they get cheering and making noise, the Metrodome can be one of the most difficult stadiums for visiting teams to play. And I was looking forward to seeing if those fans were going to live up to their reputation today.
I couldn’t hear the umpire, but I knew he must have just said, “Play ball!” when I saw the Tigers’ leadoff man walking toward the batter’s box.
I wonder what he’s thinking about? I thought to myself. I’d made that short walk many times when I played ball, and in the few steps on my way to the plate, I always tried to think of all the rotten things that I’d done in my life—and then I would quickly promise God that I wouldn’t do them anymore if He would just help me hit the ball and get safely on base.
A surge of anxiety shot through me and I started to fidget in my seat as I watched the batter step into the box, dig his cleats firmly into the loose red shale below him, and stare out at the pitcher. The pitcher was calmly standing on the mound, his glove neatly tucked under his arm, while with both hands he vigorously rubbed the baseball he was holding, like he was hoping for a genie to pop out and grant him a wish.
This is going to be interesting, I thought to myself as I watched the batter and tried to hear all the sharp verbal jabs that were being tossed his way. In the background, I could hear a low booing noise. It sounded as if a choir of bass singers had joined in with the chant to give it some rhythm. It’s all fair, I thought. The home team Boo Birds were after him, trying to get into his head and stir up enough confusion that it would take away some of his mental concentration as he got ready for the first pitch.
The game got off to a good start. It was exciting to watch the powerful swings from the batters and the incredible arm strength of the fielders, who could throw the ball from way out in the field to any base with ease. Not to mention the lightning-quick reflexes of the infielders, who would pounce, like a cat hunting a mouse, on any ball hit their way and then—with one swift motion of the arm—throw the ball across the infield with the speed and accuracy of a guided missile to first base in time to catch the runner. And then the umpire would shake his clenched fist high in the air—like he was threatening someone— while he barked “You’re out!” in a voice so loud it could be heard throughout the stadium.
As the game went on, the air inside the Metrodome was filled with a soft mixture of oohs and ahhs from the fans as they reacted to each play. I listened carefully. I could detect a serious sigh of relief every now and then from the home-team fans when the Twins made a big defensive play to stop a run from being scored. I also liked to watch my boys, and I kept peeking at them out of the corner of my eye. It was exciting to see the expressions on each of their faces when they heard the loud crack of the bat—when a player really clobbered the ball. I watched them closely and I noticed that if the ball was hit on the ground in the infield, they didn’t move or stir much in their seats. But if the ball was hit high into the air and was rocketing upwards towards the roof, deep in the outfield, it looked like they were holding their breath. I saw them inch their way closer to the edge of their seats, their eyes fastened to the ball as they followed its trajectory like it was on its way to the moon, waiting to see if it was a home run or not.
Hepatitis C might be trying to take my life away, I thought to myself, but it can’t take this memory away.
At the top of the ninth inning, the Twins had a commanding lead. The Tigers needed a miracle comeback to hold off certain defeat. When I looked at the long faces on many of the Tiger players standing in the dugout, staring at the scoreboard, I realized right then that I might not be the only one in the building asking God for help. The diuretic pills were working, and from the pressure I was feeling in my abdomen, I knew my bladder was full and I should be heading for the bathroom. But I didn’t want to leave the game, just in case the Tigers did receive some of God’s favor and were able to mount a comeback rally. So I decided to stay and hold it.
What a tough situation to be in, I thought to myself, as I watched the Tigers’ leadoff batter look out, scanning the field to see where the Twins players were positioned before he stepped into the batter’s box. I wondered how much pressure he was feeling. His team is down and they need a bunch of runs to get back in the game, I thought to myself, as I quickly glanced around the building. It looked as if everyone was staring at him.
The odds definitely were not in his favor. Nine against one isn’t fair, I thought as I watched the infield umpires shuffle closer to the bases, like they were eager to call him out. I watched the batter dig his cleats into the shale and raise his bat high over his shoulder. His head was pointed towards the mound, and I knew his eyes were fixed on the pitcher. The pressure’s on him, I thought to myself. I wonder what the odds are that he’ll make it to first base. I saw his body tense when the pitcher started his windup, and as I saw the ball heading his way, my thoughts shifted from the game on the field to the serious predicament that I was in. I began to think about my own odds—what the odds were that I would live. I wasn’t playing baseball against another team, where umpires made the call. I wasn’t that lucky. I was in the midst of a high-stakes game where death made the call, and if death called me out, it wouldn’t be my teammates who I’d be letting down—it would be my family.
I wished it was only nine baseball players who I was up against, but that wasn’t the case. My opposition was tougher, and deadlier. I was facing an all-star team led by Hepatitis C and Cirrhosis, which together had damaged my liver beyond repair; Jaundice, which had yellowed my skin and eyes to the point where I felt embarrassed when people looked at me; Edema and Ascites, which had swelled up my legs and abdomen so I couldn’t walk or breathe properly; Insomnia, which took my sleep away so I couldn’t rest; and Fatigue, which ran me down to the point where Depression could easily catch me and plant horrible, ugly thoughts—thoughts of extreme sadness—in my head.
I was facing a menacing group of killers, all working together like a team of assassins to wear me down and finish me off—so death could call me out, once and for all. I was outnumbered and I knew it. The odds were heavily stacked against me. But I wasn’t going to give up. I believed with all my heart that if I could get God on my team, I wouldn’t have to worry about the odds.
Thanks my friend’s, until next time,
Take care and God Bless!!
Daniel
.. ..
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[31 Dec 2008 | Wednesday]
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Happy New Year, my Friends.... Hepatitis C and having a liver transplant six years ago didn’t take away my desire to live life to the fullest. If you have a few spare minutes, and would like to go somewhere different (via YouTube) and try something new. Please flow the link below and join Gloria and me in Hawaii, as we prepare to climb Diamond Head, the most famous Volcano in the world, on my sixth year Liver Transplant anniversary..... http://ca.youtube.com/godandmeandhepc.... I hope you’ll enjoy the video and I pray it provides a little added hope for those who are facing some tough challenges, as I’m sure you can use a boost. .... On behalf of Gloria and me, best wishes for Good Health and Prosperity in the New Year. .... Take care and God Bless!!.... Daniel .... Ps. the pack on my back in the video is full of Hope and Inspiration; God gave me a bunch and I like to spread it around wherever I go!....
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[14 Nov 2008 | Friday]
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Who infected me with Hepatitis C? I didn’t have any tattoos or body piercings, and I had never had a blood transfusion. How did the virus get into me? It was a mystery, and whenever I thought about it, an endless stream of who’s, when’s, where’s and what-if’s filled my head, pushing my mind into overdrive as I explored a few of the infinite possibilities. The virus spread through blood contact, and the fact that it could live outside the body for hours in a speck of blood waiting to infect someone didn’t narrow my search parameters. And learning that Hepatitis C was sneaky and elusive, able to hide in the blood stream or liver for decades, just complicated matters when I tried to figure out who had infected me, when it happened and where. Throughout my life I had associated with many people of good character, poor character, and downright shady character, and I knew the odds of accurately finding the answers were slim to none. .. .. Someone infected me! The virus definitely came from another person, but who was it? Could it have been blood contact from an opposing team’s player—in the heat of battle during one of the countless hockey, football or baseball games I had played in over the years—that snuck into my body through an abrasion or wound on my arm or leg? Or perhaps it was from one of my teammates—could one of them have been infected and casually rubbed up against me while we were jammed together on the bench in a small locker room? Or what about all the blood I’d seen spat all over the shower room floor and walls from a player who had a nose bleed or had lost a tooth or two from being hit in the face with a puck, ball, stick, bat or fist? Perhaps a splatter of infected blood from one of those people got caught up on a floor drain I stepped on while taking a shower, and the deadly virus had entered my body through one of the many open, bleeding blisters I had suffered on my feet over the years, from breaking in new skates or cleats. .... .. .. Maybe it was from one of the bloody fights and bar room brawls I was in: I wondered if it was one of those people who had infected me. What about the instruments the doctors used to stitch me up when I was cut, or maybe it was the sharp, twisty-ended tool the dentist used to check my teeth—the one that made my gums bleed? What if those instruments weren’t sterilized properly, and what if they were used on an infected person before me? Was it possible a speck of active Hepatitis C–tainted blood could have been clinging to their stainless steel surface? But then again, perhaps it was someone at one of the many parties or social events that I attended who infected me? And in which decade—the sixties, seventies, eighties or nineties? Or maybe it could have been one of the several people I had pulled from their cars after an accident—drenched in their own blood—who infected me. And then there was the remote chance that one of the young players I had coached over the years who sustained a cut during a game may have passed the virus on to me. And then again, I could have been infected from menstrual blood during intercourse from one of the many sexual partners I had been with. .... The longer I thought about where the disease may have come from, the more possibilities came to mind. What about the plates I ate off and utensils I used to eat with in restaurants? Was there a chance that a speck of blood from an accidental knife cut from an infected chef or kitchen worker had dripped on one of them, and then found its way into me through a hangnail, scratch or paper cut on my fingers? And what if a virus-carrying bartender accidently sliced himself while cutting lemons or limes to garnish drinks, or a waitress or waiter suffered a scratch or cut from a broken glass? Is it possible a Hepatitis C–laden blood smear could have been riding on the rim of a beer mug that I’d hoisted to my mouth, and then entered my blood stream through a bleeding gum caused by aggressively using a tooth pick or flossing my teeth? .. .. What about all the sinks, toilets and showers in all the hotels, motels, bed-and-breakfast places and campgrounds I had stayed in over the years—perhaps a virus carrier had accidently spread speckles of infected blood around the room after nicking themselves while shaving their face or legs. The virus could have found its way into me through one of the cuts that I’d made in my own face while shaving. And where had I been infected—in which city or town and in which country and on what continent? The words could have, maybe, perhaps, likely and possibly filled my head, but they didn’t accurately answer the questions in my mind: who, where and when? .. .. The possibilities were endless. I couldn’t pinpoint where it had come from, and I knew the odds of my finding out were practically zero. I wasn’t going to drive myself nuts trying to figure it out, either, or let depression pull me any deeper into the cold pit of despair that was already trying to swallow me. I was determined not to torment myself any further by worrying, or by forcing myself to think back and shuffle through decades of memories that were stored in my head so I could find out who was responsible and blame them for my misfortune. So I could tell people it wasn’t my fault, that it was someone else who did this to me. .. .. Maybe I contracted Hepatitis C by accident, or maybe I got it from doing something that I shouldn’t have been doing. But, either way, I wasn’t going to waste my time wallowing in my own self-pity or complaining because I felt that life had dealt me a raw hand. And above all, I certainly wasn’t going to believe in some ludicrous theory, like God was punishing me for my past behaviors. .. .. How I got Hepatitis C really didn’t matter, because even if I was able to find out it wouldn’t change anything. I’d still have the disease. So instead of driving myself crazy and wasting my precious time looking for causes, I focused my attention on searching for solutions. I looked for new ways to manage myself more effectively, so I could conserve my energy and make it through each day without adding any more stress to my already-fatigued body. Time was running out. I could feel my strength and energy slipping away a little bit more each day, but I didn’t panic. I knew in my heart that God could pull me out of the mess I was in, and I had to find ways to keep going until I could convince Him that I was worthy of His help. .. .. I didn’t like having a microscopic killer inside me. A non-visible speck that was billions of times smaller than me, trying to finish me off. My worst fear in life had become my reality: something I couldn’t see, grab, hold, kick, punch, or fight back against was trying to kill me. I was in the fight of my life with a tiny, menacing virus, and I knew I was losing. Hepatitis C had me cornered, but the virus wasn’t my biggest problem. The gastroenterologist said I had liver cirrhosis, and that I needed to have a liver transplant in less than a year, and he didn’t give me any other options. I didn’t know much about liver transplants. But I knew enough to understand that someone, somewhere, would have to die if I were to live, and that thought weighed heavy on my heart. .. .. How quickly a year passes!
I’m alive and well, and I thank God each and every day..... I would like to thank everyone who visits my site. Your messages, comments, and kind words of encouragement are valued and greatly appreciated. I thank you from the bottom of my heart..... .. .. I hope to make another blog entry in January 2009. Until then, have a Safe, Healthy, Christmas and New Year!.... .. .. Take care and God Bless!!.... Daniel.... .. ..
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[27 Nov 2007 | Tuesday]
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Category: Religion and Philosophy
A Special thanks to all my friends who have taken the time from their busy schedule to read my blog entries. Your messages and comments are a true inspiration for me and I ask God every night to bless you for those words of encouragement.
Please remember, "God & Me and Hepatitis C" is a true story; however, it isn't my story. It's God's story! I'm just an ordinary guy, who God pulled out of deaths doorway to tell it.
********
Gloria had been mentioning to me that she could see a yellow tinge in my eyes. She was right. There was a yellow tinge, but I didn't take it seriously. Instead, I bought eye drops to take the red out, and found it also worked for the yellow. Therefore, my problem was solved….. Or was that what I wanted to believe???
********
5:57 AM—the red digital numbers seemed to light up my room. My sleep had been restless. I tossed and turned all night. Something wasn't right. My legs felt funny, swollen. I sat up in bed and pulled off the covers. My legs were grossly swollen and my feet looked twice their size. When I pushed down on my legs with my fingers a big indentation formed and it took several seconds for my skin to pop back into place. What's wrong? Is it food poisoning? My mind raced, trying to recall what I had eaten over the last two days. My stomach felt fine. What could it be? But I didn't have time to worry about it. I had a meeting to go to, and my concerns were whether my pants would fit over my swollen legs or if I could stretch my socks over my feet.
At the meeting my mind wasn't focused on business; it was busy searching for the answer to my leg problem. Questions rumbled through my head. Could it be the driving? How about the late nights? What about staying in hotels? Was it the rich food that I ate, or was it the beer I drank? I hoped it wasn't the beer. I searched my mind, memory by memory, trying to recall anything that would give me a clue about why my legs were swollen. The meeting seemed to linger on forever and I was thankful when it finally ended. My legs look like logs attached to my hips, and when I walked the swelling increased. Gloria would soon be here, and I knew if I didn't have a good answer as to why my legs were swollen she would be on my case about seeing a doctor. I didn't like doctors.
When Gloria and the boys arrived at the hotel, I didn't have an answer. I told her it might have been something I ate, but Gloria wouldn't buy that excuse. I tried to convince her that the swelling would go away in a few days. She wouldn't listen to me, and said she would get me a doctor's appointment the moment we got home….
********
"Would Mr. Daniel Phillips please identify himself?" Looking up, I saw a professionally-dressed lady, wearing a snow white pantsuit, looking for someone in the waiting area. It suddenly dawned on me. She was looking for me. "Yes, I'm right here," I said, standing up to identify myself. "Please follow me, Mr. Phillips," she said, motioning with her hand. I followed her a few steps down the hallway when she opened a door leading into a small office.
A large desk sat in the centre of the room, and a sports coat was draped over a high-back chair behind it. The office looked old and well used. Beside the desk were two chairs. "Please have a seat. The doctor will be in to see you shortly," said the lady. The door clicked shut. I sat quietly in the chair, staring at the loose-fitting sweat pants that I wore to hide the bulkiness of my legs. My hands were clasped tightly together. "Just a few pills, that's all I need. Just a few pills and everything will be alright," I told myself, while my mind conjured up all kinds of horrible things the doctor might do to me. I heard a creak. My eyes shot over and focused on the door knob. I tightened my grip on the arm rests. I felt like I was sitting in an electric chair. Slowly, the door swung open and a stout older man with graying hair and thick, dark-rimmed glasses walked in. He wore a knee-length white coat and held a brown file folder in his hand.
He politely introduced himself as the doctor and stood beside me skimming through the folder's contents. Setting the folder gently on the corner of the desk, he asked me what my problem was. I bent down and pulled the legs of my sweat pants up to my knees. I told the doctor about the swelling and when it happened. The doctor knelt and carefully examined each leg, pushing and probing with his thick fingers on my flesh. "Do you do any driving?" he asked, looking up at me through his thick glasses. "Yes, I do considerable driving," I replied.
"The swelling and discoloration in your legs may be related to inflammation," said the doctor.
"What's inflammation?"
"Your body may be fighting off an infection of sorts, and the swelling in your legs might be the result. I'll give you a prescription for anti-inflammatory medication which should help bring the swelling down," he said, moving behind the desk and sitting in the high-back chair. "I'll just be a minute." I watched him open the middle drawer, pull out a two small sheets of paper, and scribble something onto them.
"Here's a prescription for anti-inflammatory medication." The doctor reached forward and handed me a piece of paper. "And I'll need a blood sample from you also," he added, handing me a second piece of paper with the words "Blood Test Requisition" printed on the top of the sheet. My stomach started rolling and a cold shiver shot down my spine. "Blood test," I said.
"Yes, you look a bit heavy and I'd like to check your thyroid. That may give me a better idea what's happening to you," he said. I could feel a cold sweat leaking out of my skin when I stepped out of his office and started down the hallway towards the blood lab. With each step toward the lab, I told myself, "It's just a simple blood test, nothing to worry about." But the thoughts of a needle going into my arm and my blood being sucked out scared the daylights out of me. I froze at the entrance to the lab. I took a deep breath and slowly backed up against the wall behind me. I needed to give this situation some more thought. In my left hand I held a prescription for anti-inflammatory medication, and in my right hand I held the blood test requisition. With my back pressed against the wall I thought back to the only blood test I could remember having.
At the time when Gloria and I were married, a blood test was mandatory before we could apply for a marriage license. Gloria went first and it didn't bother her, but sweat oozed from my forehead while I waited for my turn. I felt uncomfortable entering that tiny lab and felt sick when I saw blood tubes and needle packages sitting in the tray beside the chair. My stomach was rolling when I sat in the chair and held my arm out. The blood technician was a tiny older lady. I felt the needle jab my arm, but I didn't look to see what she was doing. When she finished taking my blood I felt dizzy, and when I stood up I started to stagger and bump into things. I could hear the sounds of glass smashing and equipment hitting the floor. The poor technician panicked. She grabbed hold of me and tried to keep me from falling. At six feet tall and 240 pounds, I towered over the tiny woman. Her head fit nicely against my chest under my arm, and we wobbled back and forth like we were enjoying a close waltz. I can still remember her screams of "Elsie! Elsie!" as she desperately called to the lady in the other room for help.
The sound of people talking in the blood lab across from me brought my attention back to why I was here. I had to decide what to do. A cool feeling from the wall behind me was seeping through my cotton golf shirt and sending a chill down my spine. I stood frozen against the wall, staring at the blood requisition in my right hand, carefully weighing the pros and cons of having the blood test. "What's wrong with me?" I thought. "Am I afraid of the blood test or what the blood test might reveal about my health?" I didn't know the answers to the questions circulating in my head.
My eyes shifted to the prescription for anti-inflammatory medication which I held in my left hand, and I thought about what the doctor had said. He said my body might be fighting off an infection, and the anti-inflammatory medication should help bring the swelling down. Well, he's the doctor, and he knows best. I'll get the prescription filled and take the pills. The swelling should disappear in my legs and I'll be fine. Gloria will be happy, and she'll be off my back. I crumpled the requisition into a little ball. The crisp crackling sound of the crushed paper made me feel better already. On my way out of the building, I fired the crumpled blood requisition into the garbage can beside the exit door….
********
I was fighting a demon in my mind, a demon named Depression, and I didn't know how to fight it. Depression has no face, form, shape, or design, yet it was tearing me apart. I was into a knock-down drag-out fight with something I couldn't see, grab, hold, punch, or kick, and we were fighting in the depths of my mind without rules or referees. How can I fight it? Each day I could feel depression sucking the positivity out of me, and I was falling deeper into despair. I knew what I should be doing. But it was easier to sit in the pub, drink beer, eat wings, and wallow in my own self pity. My confidence was shaken, and I couldn't find the zeal needed to turn things around.
Whenever turmoil entered my life and everything appeared to be falling apart around me, or when I competed in sports or business and I needed the strength, courage, and mental agility to gain an edge on my competition, I would ask God for help. And over the years I'd had many one-way conversations with God, and had asked him for a lot. But did God really exist? Honestly, I had never been 100 percent sure. As much as I wanted to believe that God was real, there had always been a speck of doubt lurking deep in my mind that kept telling me, God doesn't exist. I didn't know the answer, but asking God to help me made me feel better than doing nothing at all.
The pub didn't open until 11 a.m., so I had lots of time each morning to lie in bed and think about God and my relationship with him. After all, I never received everything I asked him for. And when I did receive things, I still wasn't convinced that it was God's doing. Maybe it was my doing, I thought. Or perhaps it was luck, fate, or just plain coincidence that things worked out the way they did. Every week I asked God to help me win the lottery, and wondered what it would be like to fly in a private jet to collect my winnings. I never won the lottery, but that didn't stop me from believing in God or asking him for things. I believed he was out there somewhere, and I was hoping he would help me get my life back on track….
********
I wasn't sure where I stood with God; I hadn't been to church since I was eight years old.
It was a warm Easter Sunday, and my friends and I were planning to play baseball. The infield was dry and only a few small patches of snow remained in the outfield. After a long, cold winter of playing hockey we were ready to play ball. My mom, however, had a different plan for me. Dad was out of town working and Mom thought it would be nice if we went to church together. I didn't like her plan, and I told her my friends and I were planning to play baseball and that going to church was out of the question. She didn't see it my way. A huge argument broke out, followed by me having a major temper tantrum to further my protest about going to church. Unfortunately I lost the argument, and my temper tantrum did nothing to weaken my mom's position, and I soon found myself sitting next to her at the front of the church.
I sat quietly with my head and shoulders slumped in disgust, staring down at my running shoes. She knew I wanted to play baseball, and that was on my mind. I could feel her eyes on me every few seconds. She was checking to see if I was up to something. During the service several church attendants came down the aisles with an offering. They gave us a tiny glass of grape juice and a small, dried-out piece of bread. I downed the juice in one shot, and quickly popped the bread into my mouth. "Now's my chance," I thought. I turned to face the congregation and in a very loud and clear voice said, "The bread would taste better if it had butter on it!" From the corner of my eye I could see my mom's face change colors until it glowed fiery red and I thought flames were going to burst out of her ears. That was the last time I attend church, and I wondered if God would hold that against me.
********
And over the years I'd accumulated a sack full of sins, not to mention the promises I made to him that I never kept. I didn't read the Bible and never preached, taught, or sold religion. I kept my belief in God to myself and never pressured my family or other people to believe in him. In fact, the only time God heard from me is when I was in a jam or wanted something for personal gain.
When I needed help, I was never afraid or ashamed to ask God for help. I always tried to cover all my options when searching for solutions to fix my problems or get ahead. I looked at it this way—it didn't take much time to ask for God's help. It didn't cost me anything. Therefore, I had nothing to lose. But if God listened, maybe I had lots to gain. My knowledge about God was very limited, and consisted mainly of what I learned in Sunday school. I remembered what the teacher said about God, and the stories she told about Jesus, and how he healed people. And those stories stuck with me all my life.
In elementary school our class said the Lord's Prayer every day, and we sang the Canadian national anthem which contains the verse, "God keep our land, glorious and free." Because ..:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />Canada was part of the British Commonwealth, we would also sing God Save the Queen, the British national anthem. When I was a teenager and couldn't find anything interesting on television, I would tune in and watch evangelists like Billy Graham, Oral Roberts, and Rex Humbard preach the word of God. When I visited the United States I saw the words "In God We Trust" printed on their money. However, no one had ever driven God's name deeper into my heart than Kate Smith when she sang God Bless America at the Philadelphia Flyers hockey games in the mid 1970s. Her powerful voice was electrifying, and when she sang it was as if a wave of electricity flowed through the people in the stands. I'll never forget the feeling she left in my heart. I didn't go to church, and I didn't read the Bible, and my knowledge about God may be considered small, but the belief in my heart for him is big. And that's good enough for me.
The end of July was approaching. My legs hadn't improved—they were still swollen and ugly looking. I asked God several times a day for help. I asked him to help me find a job. I asked him to fix my legs. I asked him for strength to fight depression, and I asked him to let me win the lottery because I believed it would solve all my problems. One moment I was fighting depression, a thing in my mind that I couldn't see but was real and was feasting on me. The next moment I was asking God, who I also couldn't see, for help, but my faith was in God and I knew he was out there somewhere. And that gave me hope.
I believe God is merciful and won't turn his back on anyone asking for help. I didn't believe God would send an angel to fix my problems, and I didn't expect him to do it all for me. I knew that I needed to take responsibility and do something to help myself. I dug deep within and started doing things to show God that I was serious, and not just asking for a free ride or a quick fix to my problems. It was tough at first, but each day I forced myself to get up early instead of lying in bed feeling sorry for myself. I cut back on my visits to the pub, and every time I walked into the bathroom and saw that haggard-looking man in my bathroom mirror I would lean over and look directly into his eyes, and tell him that today is a new day, and with God's help its going to be a great day. As the days went by I wasn't sure if God was listening to me, so I kept on asking. I was determined to get his attention sooner or later…..
Please join me in January for another segment of "God & Me and Hepatitis C"
Take care, have a wonderful Christmas and a safe and healthy New Year.
God Bless!!
Daniel
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[04 Oct 2007 | Thursday]
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Category: Religion and Philosophy
Stand—up and Live or Lay down and Die
I could hear a slight rustling of papers on the other side of the door just before the gastroenterologist entered the room. He asked how I was feeling. "Better than the last two times you've seen me," I said. I watched him sit at his desk, slip his glasses on, and begin to read several sheets of paper that he held in his hand. Gloria and I sat quietly watching him. I studied his face closely, looking for any indication of whether what he was reading was serious or not. He seemed to take forever, but finally he set the papers on his desk, removed his glasses, and then shuffled his chair closer to me. "Mr. Phillips, I have your ultrasound and blood test results back, and the results aren't good," he said. "You tested positive for hepatitis C and you have liver cirrhosis." I glanced over at Gloria; her face was as white as a sheet. "What the hell is hepatitis C?" I thought to myself. I shifted my eyes back to the gastroenterologist. "How long will my liver last?" I asked. "Maybe a year," he said. That wasn't the news I was hoping to hear. "Well, I'm not afraid to die," I said, "because everyone's going to die, and that's not even an issue. But what this does is wreck my plans. I promised my wife that our four boys would get postsecondary educations, and I promised my wife that we'd have a good retirement. So what we need to do is find some solutions." The office went quiet….
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Gloria: Dan wanted to take the whole family to Hawaii. My first thought was, "Are you crazy? How can we go to Hawaii with your health the way it is? What if something awful happens to you while we are there? Dan replied his concern was that maybe he might not be with us much longer and he wanted to have us all together for a family vacation. That comment took the breath out of me, and I had nothing more to say….
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When I asked Jesus into my heart, I opened a direct relationship with God. I believe when God made humans, He added large scoops of desire, attitude and faith to help us through life's tough spots. He gave us Desire, so that we could live life to the fullest, He gave us Attitude, so that we could get the job done with whatever it takes, and He gave us Faith, so that we could understand that anything and everything is possible, and the Power of Prayer can make it so.
********
Six Months Earlier
The sky was filled with twinkling stars and a warm, soft trade wind was blowing into our faces. It was mind-boggling. We moved into the house we purchased in Winnipeg on December 18th, and three days later we were off to Hawaii. Eight hours ago we were sitting in the plane on the runway looking out the window at snow piles, and now Gloria and I were sitting on a bench in Honolulu watching the gentle ocean waves slowly roll up onto the beach in front of us. Behind us, clusters of coconuts hung from beneath the leaves on palm trees. Street lights and colorful florescent advertising signs from the stores across Kalakaua Avenue lit up the tourist area. And we knew that somewhere over there, numbers two, three, and four sons were busy rushing from store to store along the Waikiki strip, looking for something to buy.
This was the first time we'd been out of Canada at Christmas, and although it was exciting it also had a bit of sadness attached to it. Number one son couldn't make the trip. He couldn't get the time off from his job working on the oil rigs in Alberta to come to Hawaii with us. The night air and the smell of the water relaxed me. I was worn out from the fight, content to just sit with Gloria by my side and look out over the moonlit ocean. When we left Winnipeg earlier this afternoon the weather was bitterly cold, and when I stepped off the plane here a sudden gush of warm humid air took my breath away. The temperate change was drastic, and I could feel my core temperature rising to the point where I thought I would melt. The last two months had been hectic, but despite all that was happening I stuck to my plan and managed my energy well enough to keep going. I took my diuretics on time, learned to sleep intermittently between my nightly bathroom visits, ate what I could whenever I could, and never quit asking God for help. My weight shot up and down like a yo-yo. On November 29th I weighed 290 pounds and on December 7th I weighed 310 pounds. For some unknown reason the diuretics quit working and I retained fluid and gained twenty pounds in eight days. To compensate, the doctor increased the diuretic dosage and I lost sixteen pounds in eleven days. The plane was full on the flight here and it was quite a challenge to squeeze my bulky body into those narrow seats. It was a good thing that I was sitting with my number three and four sons, because that way I wasn't embarrassed when part of my midsection flopped over the armrest onto their side. The quick, constant changes in my weight were draining me.
It was a beautiful night. The beach was quiet and we could only see a couple of dark shadows in the distance walking along the water's edge. I put my arm around Gloria and pulled her closer. My clothes were soaked; the warm humid air was sucking the sweat out of me like an open faucet. She looked concerned. "Dan, you look very tired. Do you still think this trip is a good idea?"
"Don't worry about me. My weight's going down again and that'll give me more energy to get around. I'll be alright," I said. I'd been to Hawaii twice before and knew what to expect, but the truth was that with all activities and sightseeing we had planned for the boys I really didn't have a clue how I was going to get through the next seven days. I could feel my health slipping a little bit more each day, and I wasn't sure what the future had in store for me. But I was determined to see that Gloria and the boys had a good time while were here. And if my health continued to decline, at least I would have some good memories of us having fun together. I've never been afraid of dying, because everyone is going to die. It's the degrading and agonizingly painful journey before dying that concerned me. But if that's what the future held for me, I had life insurance in place that would take care of Gloria and the boys.
Because of all the excitement over going to Hawaii, moving to Winnipeg, starting a new job, and my concerns over transferring the boys to a new school in mid-term, my mind was traveling too fast for depression to catch me or to worry about my health. My appointment to see the doctor in Brandon was scheduled for February. I didn't mention liver cirrhosis to Gloria; she had enough on her mind and I didn't want her worrying about me. Besides, what I learned on the Internet about liver cirrhosis was to quit drinking alcohol, and I'd done that, so I hoped I'd be fine. As we sat there listening to the ocean and watching the waves roll ashore, an old memory from my first visit to Honolulu surfaced. I looked down at the palm of my left hand and a creepy sensation came over me.
When I was twenty years old, two of my buddies and I were bar-hopping our way around Honolulu when we found an interesting part of the city down by the waterfront. It was a seedy and somewhat morally challenged area, the kind of place guys like us, who were looking for a good time, liked to hang out. As we walked along, going from bar to bar, we came across two ladies who were leaning against an old building. The younger of the two approached me and asked if I'd like to have two dollars worth of fun. "Sure," I said. Two dollars. What do I have to lose? She took my hand and led me into a tiny booth. She quickly pulled a dark curtain across the opening with one hand while holding her other hand out for the money. When I handed her the bills, she quickly slipped them into her dress. She reached for my left hand and held it up close to her face. Then she proceeded to tell me my future. I was disappointed; this wasn't what I expected at all. But I went along with the gag anyway. The lady showed me my lifeline and pointed to where there was a big gap in it. Then she told me that I would become very ill sometime in the future, and there'd be a big change in my life. I was shocked. I didn't like hearing what she said. I yanked my hand back, pulled open the curtain, and bolted out of the booth down the street right into the closest pub, like I was shot out of a cannon. "She must be crazy," I thought to myself as I sat at the bar chug-a-lugging an ice-cold beer. That experience haunted me ever since, and whenever I didn't feel well I'd look at my palm and wonder if it was possible that she could be right.
On our way back to the hotel we walked through the International Market Place where I purchased a big straw hat and several bottles of 30+ sunblock. On my previous two visits to Hawaii, I didn't heed the warnings and ended up with sunburn so severe that my skin peeled for weeks. It was a painful lesson to learn, and I wasn't going to let that happen again.
The walk back to the hotel exhausted me. There is a four hour time change flying west from Winnipeg to Hawaii, and having those extra hours added to my day threw my schedule off and drained every ounce of energy I had left in me. I knew the next few nights were going to be rough and I wouldn't get much sleep. My nightly bathroom visits would keep me on the run, and with my biological clock set four hours earlier than Hawaiian time I'd be waking up a lot earlier than I wanted to.
Our trip wasn't a relaxing vacation. It was a power trip. I wanted the boys to have fun and do as much as possible together in the time we had. I liked the island and city bus tours best, because all I had to do was sit in an air-conditioned vehicle, look out the window, and listen to the tour guide. Walking was tough on me. I had to rest every fifteen minutes, and that slowed us down considerably. While Gloria visited the Ala Moana shopping centre, the boys and I visited Pearl Harbor to see the USS Arizona memorial and the battleship Missouri, which is retired from active service and serves as a museum. I sat on a bench in the shade while the boys waited in line to get our tickets. On the boat ride across the water, the sun sucked the energy out of me and I struggled to get off the boat at the memorial. We didn't stay there long, just long enough to pay our respects to the fallen sailors and for my sons to see the devastation that war brings. An hour later, I was huffing and puffing and feeling dizzy when I finally made it up the walkway and stepped onto the deck of the Missouri. The battleship is almost three football fields long and built for able-bodied seamen, and when I looked around I wondered what the heck I was doing there. The boys had gone ahead of me, and while they scurried through the ship like they were on a treasure hunt I stood at the bow out of everyone's way, hanging on to the railing, asking God to give me the strength to keep from collapsing and falling overboard.
Christmas morning in Hawaii wasn't like our other Christmas mornings. Traditionally, back in Canada, I would be sitting in my recliner with the fireplace blazing, looking out the living room window at the snow in our front yard, wishing that I was in Hawaii. Gloria and the boys were fast asleep in the hotel room while I sat out on the balcony twenty-eight floors above the streets of Honolulu, enjoying the morning air, sucking on frozen fruit bars, and checking the edema in my legs. All the walking I had done over the last few days was now taking its toll on me. I was tired and worn out. My appetite wasn't very good, and it was a struggle to have a regular bowel movement. I was living on sliced turkey breast sandwiches, fruit plates made with papaya, mangos, honeydew, and watermelon, and frozen fruit bars whenever we went out. My legs were swollen, and when I pushed down on my skin the dent stayed for a few seconds before popping back up.
Our trip was winding down and in a couple of days we'd be boarding the plane for the flight home. Providing my health held up, we were planning to go Hanauma Bay tomorrow, and the day after to Diamond Head. I knew the last few days were going to tough on me because of all the walking, but I was determined to see Gloria and the boys have a good time. Every night I thanked God for the day I had, and asked him to give me the strength to keep going. And I really hoped he was listening to me.
The view from the balcony was breathtaking—I looked out over a giant maze of white hotels in different sizes and shapes. To my left was Waikiki, and when I looked past the sandy beach I could see the breath-taking blue ocean where a handful of surfers were bobbing up and down in the water, waiting to catch a wave. To my right past the Ala Wai Canal was a well-manicured golf course, and in the distance I could see dark grey rain clouds gathering above the Nuuanu Mountains, which were covered with a lush green canopy of vegetation. The morning air smelled fresh and clean, and when my eyes gathered in the striking display of colors that surrounded me, I thought to myself, "This must be paradise."
Celebrating Christmas in Hawaii was different than what we were used to. We didn't have a Christmas tree, there weren't any presents, and we wouldn't be setting the supper table with our special occasion china for our traditional family Christmas meal of roast turkey with all the fixings. Instead, we were going to a football game at Aloha stadium. This year's Christmas meal would consist of hamburgers, hotdogs, french fries, and soda, and I knew that it wouldn't hurt the boys' feelings. I was excited about going to the game, and I could hardly wait for Gloria and the boys to get up and get ready so we could catch the bus to the stadium.
Later that afternoon I sat, covered in sunblock, beside Gloria and the boys, waiting for the Aloha Bowl game to begin. Right from the opening kickoff, the stadium was filled with the sounds of helmets colliding, the banging of shoulder pads, and the dull thud of bone-crushing tackles. I felt like a king, sitting in stands at mid-field watching those highly-trained athletes use their God-given talents to win a football championship. I could see the determined looks on the players' faces while they stood on the sidelines waiting their turn to play. They were focused; they had their eyes on the prize. The competition wasn't just on the field either. Each team had their marching band positioned at opposite ends of the field, and at each stoppage of play they would take turns playing a medley of tunes, trying to outdo one another. At half time we watched the bands, dressed in their brightly-colored uniforms, perform precision marching drills while playing their instruments. The crisp sounds from the brass instruments and cymbals in rhythm with the steady bass beat of the drums made my heart race.
The battle of the bands was as intense and competitive as the war being fought on the field between the football teams. It was a beautiful day for football, with the temperature in the mid-80s and a slight gust of wind blowing into our faces. When I looked out past the end zone I felt peaceful, watching the white clouds that were hovering in the air above Pearl Harbor. However, when I looked around inside the stadium, I felt out of place. As far as I could see, I was the only man in the stadium without a glass of beer in my hand. And that hit me like a brick. It was the first time I could remember not drinking beer at a football game, and when I looked at the people who were holding large glasses of ice-cold beer, with a thick frothy head of foam on top, I started talking myself into having one. "One beer. Well, maybe two. How could that hurt? And besides, a cold beer on a hot day like today—it's probably good for me," I thought to myself, while staring at the bottle of water I held in my hand.
Three days later we were seated on the plane waiting to go home. As I fought to stretch the seat belt over my abdomen, I felt a sudden pressure building in my ears when the flight attendant closed and locked the door to pressurize the cabin before takeoff. The plane wasn't full, and there were many empty rows of seats. The boys were listening to their CD players and reading comic books, while Gloria was skimming through a magazine she purchased in the terminal. I was on edge. We had a long flight ahead of us. We were going to lose four hours heading east because of the time zone change, which put us into Winnipeg at 5 AM. I wasn't sure what bothered me the most about going home. Was it the long flight, the jetlag when I got there, or the thirty-below weather that was waiting for us?
The diuretic medication I'd taken earlier was starting to work, and as soon as the captain switched off the seat belt sign I scrambled to the bathroom. I hated those tiny airplane bathrooms. I was huge and they were small. I felt like a Sumo wrestler trying to get into a telephone booth. When I finally did manage to squeeze in and shut the door, I plopped down on the toilet to catch my breath. Directly in front of me the occupied sign was lit up on the door. To my left was a small stainless steel counter with a little sink, and behind the sink on the wall was a large mirror. When I looked into the mirror I realized that I wasn't alone. He was back. The man in the mirror was back, and he was sitting right beside me. He looked exhausted, like he'd been running a marathon in the blazing sun. I was happy to see him. I had something important to tell him, and I was bursting at the seams to let it out.
I was excited and I looked directly into his eyes. I told him that I kept my word to God and didn't drink anything with alcohol in it. I explained to the man in the mirror that I was tempted to drink, and when those powerful thirsty urges hit me, I would simply look down at my body and think about my health, and that made me think about God and how much I needed his help. And that led me to think about Gloria and the boys and how much I wanted to be a part of their lives. I told the man in the mirror that after I thought about all those important things that I wanted in my life, my thirst for alcohol was gone. I watched the man in the mirror's lips curl upward at the corners of his mouth, and he gave me a head nod. I could tell he was proud of me! When I slid the bathroom door open and started to push, pull, and tug myself out, I could feel all the eyes in the front of the plane on me. They were watching me like I was Houdini, performing his milk can escape act. I was beat and I knew I'd be going to the bathroom several times during the flight. So at the first empty row of seats I came to, I pushed the arm rests up and stretched out across the seats like a beached whale. I didn't want to be far away when the need to pee arose. When the flight attendant handed me a pillow, I thanked her and grabbed the pillow like it was a bag of gold. With the pillow tucked under my head, I closed my eyes and listened to the steady hum from the plane's engines, while memories of our last two days in Hawaii danced in my head.
Two days ago while number two son went scuba diving, Gloria, me, and number three and four sons went snorkeling at Hanauma Bay. The morning temperature was in the high 70s; there wasn't a cloud in the sky or a breeze that I could feel on my skin. It was getting hotter, and when we walked across the beach looking for a spot to set up our camp for the next four hours, I could feel the heat from the sand coming through my sandals up into my ankles. My energy was sagging by the time we got to the bay, and I was in no shape to go in the water. There wasn't any shade for me to sit under on the beach, and very unpleasant memories of severe sunburn were emerging in my mind. The boys used our towels and threw together a make-shift place for me to lie down, while Gloria lathered me up with gobs of creamy white sunblock, almost to the point where I looked like a polar bear standing in the sand.
As I watched Gloria and the boys slip their swim fins on and adjust their face mask and snorkels, my mind shifted back to my first visit to the Bay when I went scuba diving. I remembered the weightless feeling I had, forty feet below the surface, and the adrenalin surge that shot through me when a manta ray glided over my head. The only sound I could hear at that depth was the swooshing of air from the tank on my back when I inhaled, and the explosion of bubbles from the respirator when I exhaled. I'll never forget looking out into the dull grey water leading out into the ocean, and wondering what was out there that I wouldn't like to meet up with. I still remember the colorful fish that surrounded me in clusters when I rubbed my fingers together, and the scary face of a moray eel that was tucked away in the rocks below.
This time around my visit was different, and I didn't like it. I wanted to be with Gloria and the boys out in the water, and it hurt me beyond belief to sit and watch. On the bus ride back to the hotel, I eagerly listened to the boys fill me in with their fish stories and tell me in detail about the shells they found on the bay's sandy bottom. I wish I could have been with them, but it wasn't meant to be. As soon as we got back to our room I made a b-line for a spot on the bed closest to the air conditioner. The sunblock worked well, and I wasn't burnt. But after lying in the sun for hours my core temperature had risen to the point where it felt like I was boiling inside. The cool air blowing over me cooled me down, and while I lay there number two son filled me in on his scuba trip and showed me a picture of him, face-to-face with a big sea turtle, that the instructor took while they were diving.
I had drunk several bottles of water while I lay on the beach in order to stay hydrated, and when I rolled from side to side on the bed I could feel the fluid swishing around inside me. It wouldn't be long before I'd be heading to the bathroom, I thought. I decided to stay at the hotel to rest while Gloria and the boys went out to eat. In the morning we were going to the top of Diamond Head. I've never been there before and I wasn't sure just how we were going to get to the top of the ancient volcano.
The following morning when I got off the bus in the parking area I walked over to where our ascent of Diamond Head would start. While I stared up at the steep trail that led to a flight of stairs which seem to go on forever, I began to wonder if it was a good idea for me to go up there. This isn't what I expected; I didn't count on having to hike or climb stairs. The boys were anxious to get to the top, and I didn't want to hold them back. So I told them to go ahead and we'd catch up with them. Gloria stayed with me. She was worried that I would collapse on the way up and go tumbling back down. I believed that I could make it to the top, if I took it easy and paced myself. I developed a simple plan— every thirty paces I would stop for a few minutes to rest and catch my breath. I felt that if I stuck to my plan, I could make it. Half-way up I was beat. I felt like I was climbing Mount Everest instead of Diamond Head. It took us a while, but with Gloria at my side we finally made it to the observation deck at the top.
Every day was beautiful, and today was no exception. The sky had a crystal blue tinge, and there was light breeze blowing into my face. The view was mind blowing. Gloria and I were standing on a volcano, looking out at the brilliantly-colored landscape and ocean below, which blended colors, designs, and shapes into an astonishing masterpiece of beauty that only God could create. Our stay at the top wasn't long. When the boys spotted us they were ready to go down, and that was fine with me. After a brief rest, and having our picture taken on the deck, we started our descent….
Please join me next month for another segment of God & Me and Hepatitis C.
Take care and God Bless!!
Daniel
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[02 Oct 2007 | Tuesday]
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Category: Religion and Philosophy
Dear friends,
Once again thank you for your kind words of encouragement, thoughts and prayers. I apologize if you sent me a message or a posted a comment at my site and I didn't reply. The volumes have been overwhelming and I've fallen behind in my schedule and I'm doing my best to get back on track.
It has come to my attention that some misguided soul may be using my picture to solicit money from people. I want to let my friends know that I am not affiliated with or working for any fund raising organizations, and I am not soliciting money.
However, I am guilty of being late with my latest blog entry and the release of "God & Me and Hepatitis C"……I'm writing as fast as I can to make up time. Hopefully my blog will be posted later next week, and my book released later this year.
Take care my friends and have a great week!!
God Bless!!
Daniel
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[23 Aug 2007 | Thursday]
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Category: Religion and Philosophy
Thank you my friends, your wonderful thoughts, prayers, comments and messages are very encouraging, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart. I hope and pray the chapter segment below from God & Me and Hepatitis C – "The Man in the Mirror" will give you, or someone you know, a little added Hope and Inspiration.
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My health was failing and my dignity was crumbling. While the doctors scrambled to find out what was wrong with me. I was desperately searching for a way to repair my tarnished relationship with God.
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The needle whizzed by the 300 lb. mark and settled at 323. My eyes widened in disbelief. I was only seven pounds from the scale's limit. What's going on? Where is the weight coming from?
How could I be sick? It can't happen to me. I've never been sick. I didn't want to admit something was wrong. This'll pass, sure it will. It just needs a little more time. I'm sure it'll go away. I stared at the number on the scale below me.
Each day I ate less—my appetite was fading. I went to bed before 7:30 each evening. I'd lie in bed, propped up with pillows, trying my best not to cough through the night. The fact that I was sick finally sunk in when my body swelled to the point where I couldn't fit into the bathtub. I just couldn't accept the fact that I was sick. I thought I was bulletproof. Gloria was on my back day in and day out to go see a doctor. After what seemed like an endless pursuit, I buckled under and agreed to go….
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An ugly feeling crept over me while I stood in the corner quietly waiting to see the doctor. I looked out of place. I was bigger than anyone in the room. When I looked down I could see my pant legs tightly stretched over my swollen legs and my shirt stretched to the limit in order to cover my huge belly. My fingers were grossly swollen and I haven't been able to wear my wedding band in weeks. I felt like a freak standing there for everyone to see. I should be in a tent at a carnival or circus, I thought to myself….
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Your symptoms may be related to congestive heart failure—your heart can't pump enough blood into your body's other organs—and we're going to check it out." The doctor's words stunned me, and my mind went blank. I didn't know what to say or do, and I stood there staring at him with the words "heart failure" echoing in my ears. I didn't expect anything like this.
"Do you drink alcohol?"
"Yes, I do," I replied.
"How many drinks a day would you have," he inquired.
"I like beer, and I probably drink anywhere between eight, ten, or twelve beers a day depending on what I'm doing and how I'm feeling," I said.
The doctor's eyes widened and he leaned forward in his chair. "Are you an alcoholic," he asked.
"No," I replied, "I just like beer."
"You're drinking too much and that may be part of the problem," he said. "I'm also concerned with your obesity, the large volume of fluid in your abdomen, the jaundice and edema in your legs. Right now, I'll give you a prescription for diuretic medication that will reduce the fluid in you."
Fighting My Fear
I felt his hand wrap around my arm and I heard him say, "Come with me Daniel, I'm taking you to the blood lab for tests." He opened the door and led me across the waiting area, past the reception counter, and down the hallway. He's got a hold on my arm. I can't run out now. My head turned from side to side as we walked. I could see patients in their rooms; some were standing, some were lying in beds, and others sat in wheelchairs. I was scared and I could feel my fear of blood tests following us like a shadow.
We reached the blood lab, and I could feel my fear wrappings its arms around me while I sat there watching the doctor talk with the lab technician. I couldn't hear what they were saying but I knew it had something to do with my blood test. The doctor was standing a few paces away and I realized there was no escaping this time.
I sat in the chair like a hopeless man pondering his future. What will Gloria and the boys do if I drop dead from a heart attack? I felt sick sitting there with all those thoughts rolling around in my head. The technician picked up a few things from a tray then turned towards me. An ice-cold shiver shot through me when I saw the needle she held in one hand and the thin rubber strap and blood tubes she held in the other.
My eyes didn't budge from of the shinny needle. What is my problem? I've played sports all my life and have had my share of bumps, bruises, and cuts. I've been in fights and bar-room brawls and I've been stitched up a few times. So why does a blood test scare the daylights out of me? Is it the test or what the test might reveal? I wanted to turn and run, but what about Gloria and the boys? What would I tell them? This is serious stuff and I need to take control of my life I thought. I can't let fear rule me. I am the boss of my body. Good or bad, I need to find out what's going on.
When I looked up I saw the technician's eyes keenly scanning my arms. "Which arm would you like me to use?" she asked. "It doesn't matter," I replied, sliding my eyes down to the needle she held in her hand. My heart pounded in my chest when the technician wrapped the strap around my arm and pulled it tight. My arm bulged. I thought it was going to burst. I wanted to get up and run. I could feel stomach gas boiling up to back of my throat. I felt sick, but I didn't turn away. I thought about Gloria and the boys, and wondered what would happen to them if I died. I needed to beat my fear right now. I had to find out what was wrong with me. The vicious fight in my head was raging; I fought harder and harder, and finally beat my fear into submission. I'm not leaving. Let's get on with it….
Rekindling a Tarnished Relationship
The toilet in our bathroom is located in a narrow inlet, and I could touch the walls on each side of me with my elbows while sitting on it. Across from me, behind the sink, was a large mirror. When I looked into the mirror I suddenly realized I wasn't alone. Right in front of me was the head and shoulders of a man in the mirror looking back at me. He looked tired and worn out. His face was bloated, there were red blotches on his cheeks, and his eyes were filled with tears. A cold, clammy feeling came over me while I sat there staring at the man in the mirror. Depression was back again, flooding my mind with all kinds of negative thoughts. The doctors words, "I don't know what it is right now, but we're going to find out," floated around in my head. "What's wrong with me," I said to the man in the mirror. "Do I have some sort of rare disease? Am I going to die?" The man in the mirror didn't answer me. He just stared back with a puzzled look on his face. He looked scared and I could see tears beginning to roll down his cheeks.
Maybe it is my time to die. "But what about Gloria and the boys?" I said to the man in the mirror. I remembered a promise I had made to my wife years ago. I promised her that our boys would get postsecondary educations and that we would have a good retirement, and keeping that promise has been my lifetime goal. "And now look what's happened to me," I said to the man in the mirror. He didn't answer me. He stared at me with a hopeless look on his face. It was finally sinking in that I was sick, and I needed help. I knew I was in another jam, only this time it was serious. I wanted to ask God for help but I felt a sense of guilt edging its way over me.
The guilty feeling was sticking to me like another skin. Only a couple of months ago I was asking God to help me, and when things turned around I forgot about him. Now here I am with a serious problem and I need his help. I leaned forward and took a closer look at the man in the mirror. He looked rough, and I thought maybe his days were numbered. The man in the mirror glared back at me. It was if he could read my mind and he didn't like what I was thinking. I didn't want to die. I needed God's help, but I didn't know how to approach him. My track record with him wasn't that good.
My legs were numb and I couldn't get off the toilet seat. The only company I had was the man in the mirror, and I hoped morning would soon arrive. When I looked around the bathroom, the closeness of the walls made me feel like the world was closing in on me. Dark clouds of doubt filled my mind when I thought about God, and whether he'd help me. How could I get God's attention? What could I do to show him that I'm serious and need his help, and that I'm not just jerking him around?
The man in the mirror stared back at me. His lips didn't move but I could hear his words in my head very clearly. "You are loud, aggressive, conceited, intimidating, full of arrogance, and you haven't kept your word. Why should God help you? You're never thankful for what you do receive and you always want more. Besides, what about the sack full of sins you accumulated over the years? You don't go to church to praise, worship, or say thanks, nor do you read the bible. The only time God hears from you is when you're in a jam or want something you can't manage to get by yourself."
The man in the mirror's words stung me. But he was honest, and he was right. Why should God help me? My track record with God wasn't very good, and I wondered if God would even listen to me. Deep down in my heart, I still believed that God was merciful and wouldn't turn his back on anyone who needed help. I didn't believe he would send angels to solve my problems; I knew he'd want me to do something for myself. But what could I do? I believed that I had to come up with something positive to show God that I was serious and truly wanted his help.
I recalled the doctor's words, "You're drinking too much and that may be part of the problem." That's it, I'll quit drinking, and that might get God's attention. If he could see that I was helping myself, maybe he'd help me. I looked at the man in the mirror; he had a bewildered look on his face. I knew he liked beer, and I could tell by his look that he didn't like what I was thinking. It had been a long night, and he had been my only company, and at that point I didn't care what he liked or disliked. It was a decision that I had to make. My health was failing and I didn't want to die. I thought about Gloria and the boys, and the promise that I made to her. Then I leaned forward and looked directly into the eyes of the man in the mirror. I said, "God, I quit drinking alcohol, and I will never drink it again." the man in the mirror was there to bear witness to what I said. I wasn't sure if God heard me or not. But I wanted him to know that I was going to help myself….
Please join me on September 28th for more of God & Me and Hepatitis C.
Take care and God Bless!!
Daniel
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[21 Jul 2007 | Saturday]
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Category: Religion and Philosophy
I would like to thank all my friends who sent me Birthday cards, comments and messages. I thank you from the bottom of my heart for your encouraging words. God Bless, you all.
For better or worse, those words don't pertain to me. How could they? Everything in my life is rolling along just fine and that will never change. "In sickness and in health", I've never been sick with anything more than a cold or flu. I'll never get sick; those words can't be aimed at me. "Till death do us part", I'm a young man in excellent health. Dying isn't in my plans. Those thoughts were running through my head while I stood beside Gloria at the front of the church listening to our wedding vows. I wasn't listening closely; my mind was focused on the drinking and partying after the reception. To me all those words were just a bunch of mumbo-jumbo to legalize our marriage. I had good health, a good job, the future looked bright, and I had come to believe that I was bullet proof. When I was diagnosed with Hepatitis C, and told my liver might last a year, my life changed as quickly as flipping a coin. It went from good to bad in a flash. And it was a big letdown finding out that I wasn't as bullet proof as I thought I was.
Thank God, Gloria took our wedding vows seriously. As Hepatitis C slowly ate a little more of my liver each day, causing my body functions to break down rapidly, to where I could no longer care for myself. I've always been proud of the strong role that I played in our family and Hepatitis C stripped it away from me. As time passed, my body wasted away and I soon became a man with no purpose and all of my family responsibilities were heaped onto my wife's shoulders.
The bible says – "A worthy wife is a crowning joy"
Twists, turns, ups and downs, our lives were rolling over and over and being pulled inside out. It was a never ending roller coaster ride, and Gloria was strapped in the front seat. She stepped up and played the roles of mom and dad to a tee and balanced the lives of our four sons. She managed the family finances, dressed and care for me with the delicate touch of a personal valet, drove me to appointments like a top notch chauffer, and stood at my side through thick and thin, without tiring, skipping a beat, or shirking her added responsibilities. And somehow, she always managed to find a way to get the job done.
I was dying, and I needed my wife now more than ever, and she never let me down. Whenever I fell into a negative trap, she ignored my cursing and swearing and soothed my mental wounds of frustration that I was experiencing. She always balanced my negative comments, with positive ones, and at times it felt like we were dueling to see who'd get the last word in. Death had a hold of me, Gloria had a hold of me, and neither wanted to let go. Gloria just wouldn't quit, she never gave up. Her pursuit to keep my spirit strong was relentless. I knew deep down in my heart that she was doing everything within her power to rekindle the raging fire that once burned inside the man she married.
Someone once said: "Behind every great man there is a great woman". Well' behind my great women, there's a very fortunate man.
My wife was thrust into a life and death support role and I am truly grateful to her for re-living those painful memories. Here are a few of her segments from God & Me and Hepatitis C. I hope you enjoy them.
Gloria:
The day started out uneventfully—Dan had left for work and the boys were at school. But before noon Dan called me from work. Something was very wrong. His voice was slurred and I had a hard time understanding what he was saying. He told me he was feeling very sick and throwing up a lot, and he was coming home right away. I was very worried and told him that I would come to pick him up. I didn't want him to drive home. He sounded terrible and I felt he was not coherent enough to drive safety through the afternoon traffic. But of course he refused my suggestion, told me to be ready to take him to the hospital when he pulled into our driveway, and then hung up the phone. What was happening now? He had seemed okay when he left for work. It felt like forever while I waited and watched out our window, looking for his truck to come down our street.
My stomach was flip-flopping and I hoped and prayed that Dan would make it home safely. Then the phone rang. I was petrified to pick it up. "Oh my God, he's been in an accident," was my first thought. When I answered the phone the sales manger was on the other end. His first question to me was, "What's wrong with Dan?"
"Dan was fine when he left for work. What are you talking about?" I asked.
He told me that he was out of town and had just received a call from head office saying Dan was not making any sense during a recent phone conversation. They were very concerned about him and said he seemed incoherent, and they wondered if he had been drinking. I told the sales manger that, no, he was not drinking, but that had Dan called me and said he was not feeling well and was on his way home. After ending that conversation I went back to the window to look for Dan's truck. Finally, after what seemed like time had stopped, I saw the truck coming down our street. I headed down the stairs to the front door just in time to see him drive past our driveway, across the corner of our lawn, and into a pile of topsoil in the neighbor's yard. As I was running over to the truck I could see that the truck tires had plowed deep tracks in the dirt where the new neighbors were planning to lay sod.
I quickly opened the driver's door. Dan looked horrible; he was slumped over the steering wheel. "Dan! Dan! What's wrong?" I yelled as I pulled him back from the steering wheel. I quickly looked around the street to see if there was anyone there who could help us, but no one was in sight. Climbing up into the truck I pushed and shoved Dan until I had him over on the passenger side. I then backed the truck out of our neighbor's yard and started driving toward the hospital. "Oh my God, what is happening to you?" I said. I can't remember hearing anything he said—it all came out mumbled. I knew he needed immediate help so when we arrived at the Victoria General hospital I drove right up to the emergency entrance. As I struggled to get Dan out of the truck a nurse raced over to help us. Somebody else quickly brought over a wheelchair and started asking us a bunch of questions. After a few more questions from the triage nurse they put him in a bed, checked his vitals, and told us a doctor would be in to see him. Dan was awake but had no idea where he was or what was happening to him.
When the emergency doctor arrived he checked Dan over and asked if he was on any medications. I told him he was taking water pills to remove the fluid from his body. The doctor wanted to know the exact kind of water pills and asked me if I would go home and bring them back. I hated to leave Dan alone, but I said I would. I felt like I was betraying him, leaving him there alone with these strangers and not knowing what was wrong with him. I tried hard to hold back my tears. I told myself I would be alright; I just needed some fresh air to help me settle down. I was walking by the nurse's station when one of the nurses who was looking after Dan stepped into my path. She looked at me and said, "Don't worry; I'll take good care of him. He's where he needs to be right now." Then she told me that I need to take care of myself too. I thanked her and told her I would be back later, then hurried out to the truck. Once inside the truck my tears came like a rainstorm. After releasing all that pent-up emotion I felt my body relax. I knew I would need to be together when I saw our boys, who would be coming home from school, expecting me to be there. And now I have to tell them that their Dad is in the hospital and we don't know what is wrong with him. As I drove home I could feel my eyes welling up again. How am I going to tell them about their Dad?
I arrived home just before the kids. When they came through the door I was waiting for them. I asked them how their day was, as I do every day. I usually received the same answers—day was okay, nothing new, can you sign this paper for the teacher? oh yeah I need money for a field trip... Then they would make their way to the kitchen for food then hurry downstairs to play Nintendo or power up the computer so they could get on MSN to talk to the friends that they just seen at school. But today it was different. They were asking me the questions. In my rush to make it home before the kids I had left the truck parked in the driveway instead of putting it in the garage. So now they were asking me, "How come Dads home so early, and where is he?" At that point I just told them that Dad wasn't feeling well, so he came home from work and we decided to take him to the hospital so the doctors could check him over. I felt they didn't need a lot of details yet. I didn't want them to worry about their Dad. I told them I would be going back to the hospital, and depending on what the doctors said maybe Dad would be home tonight or maybe they would want to keep him there to run more tests. I would know more later on. Knowing the boys were not keen on visiting hospitals I told them that their dad was very tired and sleeping a lot so it might be better to visit him tomorrow if he was still in the hospital. They seemed satisfied with that and said okay. I didn't want them to feel pressured about going with me to the hospital that night. We didn't have any clue as to why Dan was so ill, and until we had more information from the doctors I wanted our boys to continue with their everyday routine. My protection mode was on high alert, just like a lioness protecting her young.
After getting the kids settled for the evening I drove back to the hospital with Dan's pills. I was hoping someone would have some answers about Dan's condition. As I walked towards his bed I could see a different doctor talking to him. I stood in the distance for a few moments watching the doctor check Dan over. Hopefully he knows what happened. I quickened my steps to reach them. The doctor introduced himself as a specialist in gastroenterology. He told me he was in the hospital seeing other patients and the emergency doctor had asked him if he would take a look at Dan. The doctor then asked me if I had brought Dan's medications. I handed him the pills. He asked me if I had noticed any other problems with Dan's health. I told him that at times Dan had a sweet, sickly smell on his breath, a pungent odor coming from his skin, and, most noticeably, yellowing eyes. The doctor then told us that he wanted to admit Dan into the hospital and take him off all of the pills in order to give his body a rest.
I was shocked when the doctor said he wanted to admit Dan. I don't know what I expected to hear from the doctor but I knew at this point that this was the best place for Dan to be. The doctor then left to make arrangements for Dan to be admitted upstairs into a ward. Dan's hands and arms were shaking and he didn't look well at all. I had a sneaking suspicion that Dan hadn't told me everything he knew about what was wrong, so I had a surprise in mind for him. Whenever he saw a doctor from then on I would be with him to hear all the information first hand, not just the parts Dan wanted me to hear.
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The room was full of patients and I could hear a steady buzz from all the machines. As we got closer, I could see Dan waving at me to hurry over to him. He did not look happy. I've never been in an Intensive Care Unit before, and seeing all the tubes sticking out of my husband's body frightened me. I tried to keep him as calm as I could, telling him how good he was looking and how proud I was of him. I let him know that I had called our boys to tell them how well he was recovering, that they were extremely happy to hear the wonderful news and would be phoning him as soon. I gently washed Dan's face with a warm cloth, combed his hair, and applied some moisture treatment to his dry lips. Then I sat in a chair at his side, softly gathered his hand with mine, and listened in awe as he told me about the all things that happened to him during his liver transplant operation….
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When Dan grabbed me I was shocked! I could not figure out what was going on. I was confused and very frightened by his actions. I didn't expect it and I didn't know what to think. When the foul words started coming out of his mouth, I didn't know how to reassure him that he was in a safe place. He was quite insistent that I do something right away and get him out of the ICU. He didn't care where he went—he just wanted out! It took me quite awhile to settle Dan down. I continued to assure him that the people in the hospital were not trying to kill him. Then I noticed the blood. When Dan grabbed me, he pulled some of the tubes in his body which then became loose, triggering the bleeding. His nurse quickly went to work to stop the bleeding and check all his bandages. She then gave him some morphine, which helped to calm him down. I was thankful for that, but I was still concerned about why he was afraid of staying in the ICU....
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After Dan settled down I had many thoughts and questions running through my head. Was he really safe here? Or was he reacting to the enormous amount of drugs that they were giving him? Was that the reason for this range of emotions? I could see fear there in his eyes. I wanted to reach out and destroy all those horrible thoughts in his head, but I felt powerless. He needed to feel safe in ICU! How were we going to get through this? I closed my eyes, and asked God to give us the strength….
Please join me on August 25th when another segment of God and Me and Hepatitis C will be posted.
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