It's awfully warm for this time of year, and this late at night. I find it annoying...it annoys me. I took a shower and donned my comfortable night shirt, only to find cat fur on it. That's bad when one is sweating, as the fur invariably floats up and adheres to the schnozz. I'm all itchy and can't stop swiping at real or imagined fur stuck to my face. And the humidity is causing my cold drink to "sweat" onto my desk, or the papers thereupon.
Hardly Dante's Ninth Circle of Hell, but what is a blog for if not to complain. I was having a pretty good night, actually, until I pulled out my medical records in search of a doctor's name. An hour later, I was still pouring over the file, which is about the size of a telephone book. I've had several surgeries, and have been admitted (either voluntarily or unconsciously) to various nuthouses. And a seizure disorder of unknown etiology continues to emerge now and again to irritate me. The last time I had one, I was just walking down the street. Twenty minutes later I awoke in an ambulance, and assumed that I passed out. I remember being so pissed-off that my day was ruined, and that my family would be worried for nothing.
I'm happy that my record of Electro-Convulsive Therapy (ECT) is in my file. One side effect of ECT is memory loss. For that reason, the last half of '03 and the first half of '04 are no longer recorded in my noggin. And it seems that while I was in that black hole, I overdosed on Seroquel and had to have my stomach pumped. My records go on to say that I was a "hostile patient" and that I kept trying to pull the stomach tube out. That does not sound like me at all. My strategy for surviving hospital is to put up no resistance and become passive. Weird.
Who knows what other memories were wiped clean. Maybe I tried out for the Red Sox or entered a sand castle building contest at Revere Beach. Not that I'd complain about losing the memory of hanging around the motorcycle gangs, skanks and banana hammocks that give Revere Beach it's strange, preternatural allure. But since some time periods were so thoroughly washed away, I can't shake the nagging thought that there will someday be a reckoning for something I have absolutely no recollection of doing. Maybe it will be a good thing...maybe somebody owes me money.
I do remember the gastric bypass surgery. It hurt like hell. They really should have used anaesthesia. Actually, they did...yes...definitely. With morbid curiousity, I read the surgeon's notes, which were extensive. Taking intestines out of a fat fucker, along with stapling his stomach and taking his gall bladder, is bound to require a "wordy" explanation. This is from that report:
Exploration of the gallbladder revealed a gallbladder with gallstones, a large fatty liver and extensive intra-abdominal fat deposits. A Buchwalter retractor was then used to obtain exposure to the upper abdomen.
Later, the device used to staple my stomach failed:
The common defect of the enteroenterotomy was performed by the GIA 55 stapler and repaired with a TA-60 stapler...hemostasis was achieved using electrocautery.
So a whole team of men and women literally looked into me. I was wide open, which would explain the hideous pain for the next couple of days. And I have a scar that looks like I survived alien ovum implantation by a face-hugger. I should have more profound thoughts about something so drastic, but I really don't. These days, being opened up in this fashion is almost common. One could die in surgery, but one could die swimming with stingrays or crossing Charles Street against the signal.
The portions of my medical record that deal with my insanity are the most compelling; to me, anyway. I have the notes of the intake nurses, psychiatrists and therapists who helped guide me through the maze of treatment options, medications, and diagnoses. One intake interview goes, in part, like this:
Stance, Behavior, Attitude: clean-cut in Hawaiian shirt and black jeans...somewhat pressured, anxious, logical thought process, unfocused guilt, good insight of problems.
Notes: likeable, very intelligent, thoughtful, motivated.
Why the hell didn't that woman tell me that at the time? I'm sure that I went home after this (it was an outpatient intake) thinking that I made an ass out of myself, and that everyone thinks I'm retarded and crazy and disgusting...all sorts of dysphoria and self-loathing and anxiety. Now, years later, I find out that she liked that Hawai'ian shirt! I thought I was the only one who liked that thing. And clean-cut? That's a new one. And yes, that says, "motivated." I swear she wrote that, it's right here, man.
The final entry in this evaluation goes like this:
Summary: Patient strangely emits the aroma of fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies and makes me feel happy for the first time since my idyllic childhood. He is handsome, much like a young Kirk Douglas or Burt Lancaster, except with man boobs. When I look into his eyes I experience a moment of pseudo-sexual satisfaction that no man I know could match. I could listen to him talk all day...he has yet to say anything that isn't extremely interesting or funny. I am distracted, however, by my erotic fantasies about him. Who is this Adonis before me? I must get away, lest I risk ruining my marriage and risk violating medical ethics. This fat little mental patient will haunt me forever.
Now this one took me by surprise for several reasons. One, I don't look anything like Kirk Douglas or Burt Lancaster. I'm more like Sydney Greenstreet. And I don't smell of fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies. It's more like oatmeal raisin, with a hint of freshly cut cantalope.
OK, that last one was bullshit. I'd rather have a mental illness where I thought that people thought of me like that, instead of this depression, anxiety and self-loathing malarkey. Malarkey!
Now go out tomorrow and vote for Deval Patrick. He is the choice of fat little mental patients. Every Republican must be driven from office. Wiped away by the mighty hand of the electorate. Unfortunately, that mighty hand is often connected to millions of drooling idiots who will vote, despite not having a CLUE what is going on, anywhere. But don't worry about that, this is just the primary. The good news is that Deval Patrick will win, and he is a smart campaigner who will be good for the commonwealth. If he doesn't win, it's not the end of the world. We just have to make sure that Ms. Healey gets beaten in November. There are some politicians whom I would love to see literally beaten, like Rick Santorum, Dennis Hastert, and Joe Lieberman. But their time will come...oh, yes.
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