NEW Letter to Donor OLD Letter to Donor
Surprise, surprise here we sit again in the pitch black living room of my home with nothing but the glow of the laptop to keep us warm. Well, I should say hot because this monster puts out a hell of a lot of heat. I learned my lesson though from a few nights ago and am now wearing pants to type this. They should really put a warning label on laptops.
"WARNING - OPERATING THIS MACHINE IN THE ABSENCE OF PANTS CAN RESULT IN EXTREME HEATING OF THE GENITALS AND THIGHS"
Don't worry people, I was wearing shorts last time. I still got bloody hot, and I think I singed some thigh hair.
So, unless they didn't turn off their computer tonight, I'm joined at this ungodly hour by Amy and/or Ryan. Geez guys, go to bed already. Even my kids are asleep, which is getting harder and harder to accomplish at a decent hour these days. It looks like the twins are night owls just like their old man. I'm actually surprised that Caity has adapted so well. It used to be hard to keep her awake past 10pm on a Saturday night, and now she's outlasting me. Well, not that beating me up is a hard thing to do. I'm so weak compared to when I was powerlifting it's pathetic. I know a lot of people say that I look normal, but when you're used to squatting close to 600 pounds, being "normal" is not a positive thing.
Like I've said before, the only tangible thing stopping me from getting back to the weights is this stupid central line. I grow more and more weary of it as life goes on. It seems to be the one remaining roadblock to my rehabilitation. I'm not saying that I'm going to be lifting 600 pounds again any time soon, but I know my body and my mind, and I will not be happy until I'm throwing around some iron. I miss the gym so much, and it's hard to have this thing sticking out of me, reminding me that I'm not allowed to lift.
Now, my problem with the central line right now is this. I have to go into the hospital once a week to have the damn thing flushed. 9 times out of ten, that's the only reason I needed to be there in the first place. I've received fluid a couple of times, and immuno-globulin two or three weeks ago, but I haven't used it enough to warrant leaving it in. I realize that if anything were to go wrong, my central line would let them administer drugs much quicker than a regular I.V. but I'm starting to be of the mindset that the central line has served it's usefulness and needs to go....NOW. Of course, I'm not going to get my wish. I'm pretty sure that Dr. Chaudry wants to wait until after the results from the bone marrow biopsy come back before he pulls the thing out of me.
Enough of the central line, I'm really up because I was typing another letter to my donor. I still haven't sent the last one yet, so I'm printing them both off and giving them to Blood Services at my appointment today. It was interesting to try and find my first letter to my donor in my journal. It took me a while, but I got to revisit a few days in the life of Unit 57 while I was searching. I was a real big mess back then wasn't I? You might not notice it, but I can feel the difference in my writing styles from back then to now. Before, I was happy to make it through a single day and it came through in my entries. Now, I'm more cynical, and I've got more things to complain about. I probably don't have more things to complain about, I probably was so glad to be alive that complaining didn't seem right some how.
Adam in the hospital "Life is good, life is great, I'm so happy to be alive"
Adam now "Fuck this is taking forever, why is this taking so fucking long, I want my old fucking life back"
Sorry for the swearing but that's how my inner voice talks. I've discussed the possibility of toning the swearing down with my brain, but it doesn't seem to work. That's probably why you'll see the occasional swear word in here. If I were dictating this, we'd be much more kid friendly, but as it stands I type without moving my lips so you're going to have to deal with the swearing. I actually think that my inner voice is a reincarnation of Sam Kinnison. God how his material tainted me at summer camp. Teenage male camp counselors and bootleg copies of Andrew Dice Clay and Sam Kinnison are what caused the pirate language that came out of my mouth during, and after summer camp. Mom always wondered where I learned most of my swearing repertoire. And nursery rhymes are forever tarnished thanks to Mr. Clay.
I'll never be able to repeat "Old Mother Hubbard" without hearing the altered lyrics in my head (and maybe smiling and giggling to myself a bit). As a matter of fact, I don't know if I even know the real words to "Old Mother Hubbard". Don't bother emailing me with the real words, as I like my version better.
That's about it for me folks. Let's take a moment to remember those who made summer camp so memorable. May they rest in peace
Goodnight Everyone
P.S. I know that Andrew Dice Clay isn't dead, but his career is, so it's OK to speak of him in the past tense.....OHHHHHHHH
P.P.S. I happen to love the movie "The Adventures of Ford Fairlane". Say anything bad about it and the koala gets it!!!!
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