The sound of silence.
I'm still trying to piece together things that have happened in the last three years for posterity. This is the first one that comes to mind, even though it's actually an amalgamation of two different stories. They just happen to juxtapose with the other, and in their own way correspond.
The week after I got fired from The Alexander City Outlook in 2011, I started having a sharp pain in my side. I ignored it for a couple of days, but the dull burn from the area around my appendix never stopped. I finally decided to go to the hospital when I looked in the mirror and noticed that my complexion had turned a distinctive shade of baby puke green. I wasn't just green around the gills, I was in full-on Kermit mode.
Pretty bad shape. It took all the strength I had to drive to the hospital, then shuffle into the emergency room. Honest to god, filling out the paperwork pre triage was a struggle. An hour and a half later (Sunday night in an ER-- you know the drill), when I was finally triaged, covered in a cold sweat, my side still throbbing in pain, I was allowed access to a wheelchair. That way when it was finally my turn to go back, I wouldn't have to get up and walk. By this time, the world had started to get blurry and I was lapsing in and out of consciousness.
I thought I was having appendicitis, but the diagnosis ended up being diverticulitis. A pocket had formed in my colon. Something was lodged in that pocket, causing an infection. I was admitted and spent three days in the hospital. My green color was from sepsis. If I hadn't gone to the hospital when I did, I would have died. Now I can't eat nuts or give blood ever again. A fair trade off to, say, continued living.
Anyway, that was in May 2011.
There are a series of journal entries from 2007-08 where I talked about how crazy Heath had gotten from all the drugs he was taking. In the lapse of time where I didn't update, he'd been arrested in several states and started living with a cult that prays to the moon, does drugs and has a front as a traveling renaissance festival. That's how they make their money to buy drugs. I believe he still has a few outstanding warrants out there.
So that brings me to Christmas 2011. He showed up on my doorstep with his pit bull, Kong, and stayed almost a month. I didn't have much to say about it, other than the fact that I didn't want him there. I didn't have much of a right to say more. The house belongs to my mother. It's her call who stays and who goes. I've only been here under her auspices.
Regardless, Heath was absolutely strung out the entire time he was here. One evening while he was here, we got into an argument and he decided to hit me in the back of the skull. I had no clue it was coming. I turned around, only to find his fist connecting with my forehead. It raised a welt, which, in the coming days, drained into my eye. He didn't hit me in the eye, but I had a black eye for a week. My dad had to come up here for the rest of the time Heath was here, just to keep us from fighting with each other. Interesting-- it took a fight to get my divorced parents to spend Christmas with each other.
I had to go to the hospital because of the blow to the back of the head. Because of that, I now suffer from random bouts of vertigo. It's something that's never going to go away. My mother told me if I pressed charges against Heath that she'd throw me out. Nothing new. Always protecting her "widdle Heefy." Thankfully, my last episode from it was in December of 2012. On the other hand, it lasted almost a month. It ruined my Christmas last year.
So those two hospital stories bring me to the third hospital stay-- the trifecta. In February of this year, I started having a sharp, stabbing pain in-- you guessed it-- the area around my appendix. It was 5:45 in the morning. I was supposed to go to work that day, but the pain was unbearable, so I had to make other arrangements.
I stumbled into the ER. There was no guard at the metal detector. The attendant at the window started to pull out the paperwork as I approached the window, doing her typical thing, when I said, "I need to see a-- a--" and I hit the floor. I collapsed in the ER waiting room, honest to god, crying-- nay, wailing in pain. It was the worst pain I'd ever experienced, and I've been through a lot of different types of pain-- heart attack, broken bones, concussion, diverticulitis, you name it. Nothing compared to this kind of pain.
Turns out I had kidney stones.
The second week of February started a prescription drug-induced daze that lasted until near the end of March. I don't remember much of anything. I was sleeping 18 hours a day. The pain was so bad that I'd have to wake up in the middle of the night to take pain meds just so I could go back to sleep.
In that time, BJ's little sister Lauren was getting married. Kyle and I were going to do the music for the reception. But due to my SOB of a kidney stone that absolutely refused to pass, I wasn't able to make it. I couldn't have made it, even if I had actually wanted to go to her wedding (which I really didn't).
That brings me to last month. Kyle and I had a show planned in Tallasee-- a wedding reception, I believe it was. That morning, Heath shows up at my door. Along with two dogs (he got another pit named Echidna) and two people I'd never met before. I had to let them stay for four days.
Here's where the trifecta of medical stories comes into play. Kyle was already upset that I missed Lauren's wedding. His wife had to help, instead of me. I wasn't going to leave Heath unattended in the house, around my things, for an extended period of time. The least of which is how much my cat hates his dogs. I learned that lesson two Christmases ago. The first ER visit was the catalyst that showed me I can't screw around with my health, which predicated my willingness to go to the hospital the two other times.
I had to cancel on Kyle. He was furious, saying that our friendship was over. His wife was crying, upset she wasn't going to get to visit her mother that weekend. Not that she made it a habit to come with us on the odd occasion I couldn't make it. Normally his son filled in, but I'm not sure what the deal was and why she had to go. Anyway, Kyle effectively ended our friendship. I haven't heard from any of them since. Been six weeks now.
Now for the moral of our story: I'd been growing tired of Kyle and his wife, along with their biting commentary about my values, political affiliations and choice of occupation. I was constantly getting berated for my pro-union rhetoric (which I will never apologize for). Not to mention, they were openly disdainful of my job and how "beholden" I am to the school system.
I'd gotten tired of it. I was just going to move back to Tuscaloosa and be done with it, but I knew that they'd never leave it alone. They'd be hounding me to book parties for the college crowd. The problem is-- they don't cater to that kind of crowd. They cater to the old blue-haired set at a VA mixer and bingo bash. They don't play modern music, make no attempts to play modern music and they always dumped the responsibility of finding said music on me-- music that they always ended up refusing to pay. Top it all off with seriously shortchanging me financially in regards to effort put in-- that is, if I got paid at all. Which it was about a 50-50% shot if I would or not. So I don't DJ anymore.
Honest truth, I don't regret for a second staying home the entire time Heath and his pot smoking buddies were here. Of course, the two dogs continually fucking each other (and knotting) got old-- as did the overwhelming stench of pot, hobo and incense. It took two days to air our the house. I cleaned everything with Lysol, top to bottom.
I still made the right decision.
I'd reached a point with Kyle where I was curious if I'd keep up a relationship with him. I had no intentions of cutting them out of my life, but c'est la vie. That's the way it happened. I don't regret that either.
I just had no clue it would take three hospital visits to get me out of it.
The week after I got fired from The Alexander City Outlook in 2011, I started having a sharp pain in my side. I ignored it for a couple of days, but the dull burn from the area around my appendix never stopped. I finally decided to go to the hospital when I looked in the mirror and noticed that my complexion had turned a distinctive shade of baby puke green. I wasn't just green around the gills, I was in full-on Kermit mode.
Pretty bad shape. It took all the strength I had to drive to the hospital, then shuffle into the emergency room. Honest to god, filling out the paperwork pre triage was a struggle. An hour and a half later (Sunday night in an ER-- you know the drill), when I was finally triaged, covered in a cold sweat, my side still throbbing in pain, I was allowed access to a wheelchair. That way when it was finally my turn to go back, I wouldn't have to get up and walk. By this time, the world had started to get blurry and I was lapsing in and out of consciousness.
I thought I was having appendicitis, but the diagnosis ended up being diverticulitis. A pocket had formed in my colon. Something was lodged in that pocket, causing an infection. I was admitted and spent three days in the hospital. My green color was from sepsis. If I hadn't gone to the hospital when I did, I would have died. Now I can't eat nuts or give blood ever again. A fair trade off to, say, continued living.
Anyway, that was in May 2011.
There are a series of journal entries from 2007-08 where I talked about how crazy Heath had gotten from all the drugs he was taking. In the lapse of time where I didn't update, he'd been arrested in several states and started living with a cult that prays to the moon, does drugs and has a front as a traveling renaissance festival. That's how they make their money to buy drugs. I believe he still has a few outstanding warrants out there.
So that brings me to Christmas 2011. He showed up on my doorstep with his pit bull, Kong, and stayed almost a month. I didn't have much to say about it, other than the fact that I didn't want him there. I didn't have much of a right to say more. The house belongs to my mother. It's her call who stays and who goes. I've only been here under her auspices.
Regardless, Heath was absolutely strung out the entire time he was here. One evening while he was here, we got into an argument and he decided to hit me in the back of the skull. I had no clue it was coming. I turned around, only to find his fist connecting with my forehead. It raised a welt, which, in the coming days, drained into my eye. He didn't hit me in the eye, but I had a black eye for a week. My dad had to come up here for the rest of the time Heath was here, just to keep us from fighting with each other. Interesting-- it took a fight to get my divorced parents to spend Christmas with each other.
I had to go to the hospital because of the blow to the back of the head. Because of that, I now suffer from random bouts of vertigo. It's something that's never going to go away. My mother told me if I pressed charges against Heath that she'd throw me out. Nothing new. Always protecting her "widdle Heefy." Thankfully, my last episode from it was in December of 2012. On the other hand, it lasted almost a month. It ruined my Christmas last year.
So those two hospital stories bring me to the third hospital stay-- the trifecta. In February of this year, I started having a sharp, stabbing pain in-- you guessed it-- the area around my appendix. It was 5:45 in the morning. I was supposed to go to work that day, but the pain was unbearable, so I had to make other arrangements.
I stumbled into the ER. There was no guard at the metal detector. The attendant at the window started to pull out the paperwork as I approached the window, doing her typical thing, when I said, "I need to see a-- a--" and I hit the floor. I collapsed in the ER waiting room, honest to god, crying-- nay, wailing in pain. It was the worst pain I'd ever experienced, and I've been through a lot of different types of pain-- heart attack, broken bones, concussion, diverticulitis, you name it. Nothing compared to this kind of pain.
Turns out I had kidney stones.
The second week of February started a prescription drug-induced daze that lasted until near the end of March. I don't remember much of anything. I was sleeping 18 hours a day. The pain was so bad that I'd have to wake up in the middle of the night to take pain meds just so I could go back to sleep.
In that time, BJ's little sister Lauren was getting married. Kyle and I were going to do the music for the reception. But due to my SOB of a kidney stone that absolutely refused to pass, I wasn't able to make it. I couldn't have made it, even if I had actually wanted to go to her wedding (which I really didn't).
That brings me to last month. Kyle and I had a show planned in Tallasee-- a wedding reception, I believe it was. That morning, Heath shows up at my door. Along with two dogs (he got another pit named Echidna) and two people I'd never met before. I had to let them stay for four days.
Here's where the trifecta of medical stories comes into play. Kyle was already upset that I missed Lauren's wedding. His wife had to help, instead of me. I wasn't going to leave Heath unattended in the house, around my things, for an extended period of time. The least of which is how much my cat hates his dogs. I learned that lesson two Christmases ago. The first ER visit was the catalyst that showed me I can't screw around with my health, which predicated my willingness to go to the hospital the two other times.
I had to cancel on Kyle. He was furious, saying that our friendship was over. His wife was crying, upset she wasn't going to get to visit her mother that weekend. Not that she made it a habit to come with us on the odd occasion I couldn't make it. Normally his son filled in, but I'm not sure what the deal was and why she had to go. Anyway, Kyle effectively ended our friendship. I haven't heard from any of them since. Been six weeks now.
Now for the moral of our story: I'd been growing tired of Kyle and his wife, along with their biting commentary about my values, political affiliations and choice of occupation. I was constantly getting berated for my pro-union rhetoric (which I will never apologize for). Not to mention, they were openly disdainful of my job and how "beholden" I am to the school system.
I'd gotten tired of it. I was just going to move back to Tuscaloosa and be done with it, but I knew that they'd never leave it alone. They'd be hounding me to book parties for the college crowd. The problem is-- they don't cater to that kind of crowd. They cater to the old blue-haired set at a VA mixer and bingo bash. They don't play modern music, make no attempts to play modern music and they always dumped the responsibility of finding said music on me-- music that they always ended up refusing to pay. Top it all off with seriously shortchanging me financially in regards to effort put in-- that is, if I got paid at all. Which it was about a 50-50% shot if I would or not. So I don't DJ anymore.
Honest truth, I don't regret for a second staying home the entire time Heath and his pot smoking buddies were here. Of course, the two dogs continually fucking each other (and knotting) got old-- as did the overwhelming stench of pot, hobo and incense. It took two days to air our the house. I cleaned everything with Lysol, top to bottom.
I still made the right decision.
I'd reached a point with Kyle where I was curious if I'd keep up a relationship with him. I had no intentions of cutting them out of my life, but c'est la vie. That's the way it happened. I don't regret that either.
I just had no clue it would take three hospital visits to get me out of it.