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03-23-11

I sit in the chair. Relieved a little bit to be off my wobbly knees. Hands are shaking more than usual. Two chairs over another man is stretched all the way back with his feet lifted up. Needle taped down to his wrist, my eyes trace the clear plastic tube curling above him to the bag as it slowly drips. Drips. Drips the hazy liquid medicine into his veins. Realizing I haven’t in quite some time, I take in a deep breath and turn away. The young nurse asks me how tall I am and how much I weigh. Checking my blood pressure it’s a little high. I tell her that I’m nervous. She turns away from me and mumbles something I don’t hear. A drawer slides open in the desk in front of her. She removes a pair of protective gloves and slides them over her hands. She opens a small refrigerator and takes the bag of medicine off of the middle shelf. My last name is clearly printed in capital letters on the side. She squeezes the bag a few times and then shakes it roughly. The sloshing of the medicine wakes the man resting on the chair. He looks over at me and smiles. I smile back nervously. “Your first time huh?” He says. “Yeah. How about you?” “This is number 37.” I don’t know what else to ask him other than the obvious, “Is it helping you feel better?” “It doesn’t make me feel better. But I don’t feel worse anymore.” Strangely this calms me down a little bit. Turning around the nurse walks back across the room towards me. She lifts my right arm and places a blue sheet between my skin and the armrest of the chair. To find a vein she starts tapping the skin just below my thumb. I guess one pops up or however phlebotomists find them. The alcohol sheet is cold as she rubs the spot. I turn my head away and suck in a tight hiss of air when the needle pinches in. She only sticks once and finds the spot. Tape comes out and her hands move quickly. The locking mechanisms are all twisted into place. More tape holds the tube to my arm. The plastic leads upward as she stretches it taught through the timing machine and closes the door. Once it’s latched, she connects the end of the tube to a bag half full of clear liquid at the top of the I.V. pole next to my chair. The buttons beep and squeal when she presses in the sequence of number or letters to start the process. I can’t see on that side of the machine so I don’t know what it is. She flicks the top of the tube two or three times with her middle finger and the fluid begins to drip down out of the bag. “Here we go.” I say. “No.” She looks at me. “This is just water. The medicine comes next.” My ear buds are uncomfortable, but the music helps. Balmorhea live bootleg recording “Live at Sint-Elisabethkerk”. I picture myself swelling and drifting along with the mournful notes of the cello as it echoes throughout the hall. The piano calls out bright yet soft. Then the low sound of drums from far off in a large hall deep and bouldering. I feel a spreading warmth filling my hand. The nurse has switched bags and medicine has finally begun to enter my bloodstream. All the fear and panic of the past few months has led up to this moment. I force myself to breath. I keep my eyes open to bare witness to the milky fluid easing through the hole in my wrist into my body. Will I have a bad reaction? Will this cure me or kill me? Will I see my boys step off the school bus this afternoon and make them their snack? Will I kiss my wife when she gets home from work tonight? Will I pick up the dog’s turds in a plastic bag when she craps in the neighbors yard tomorrow? Will I finish working on the song my friends sent me a few weeks ago? Will I live? Will I die? I watch as the second hand of the clock slows down. No itching. No hives. I don’t feel cold. I don’t feel hot. A slight uncomfortable burning sensation passes through the center of my chest and then it’s gone. Is that it? Was I terrified of this? It’s two hours later. The nurse takes down the empty plastic bag and quickly removes the needle from my wrist. A cotton ball is taped to the spot to soak up any remaining blood. I ask if we’re done and she tells me to stay seated for a little while longer so she can keep an eye on me. A wheelchair comes through the door. The occupant is green and sweaty. He wears shorts and has long stringy black hairs all over his legs. He leans far forward almost touching his forehead to his legs. I don’t think he’s able to hold himself upright. His wife pushes behind him. She’s very tall and thin. Long, grey hair hanging straight down the center of her back. She looks at me and smiles. It’s a kind smile. A genuine gesture that says, “I know how you feel. We’ve been here for a long, long time.” Her husband cannot get out of the wheelchair on his own. The wife locks the wheels and lifts his frail body over to the chair. She asks if he has a wedgie and adjusts his shorts like a mother would for her little boy. On the tables directly to the right of each chair they have a silver bell. They put them there in case the patient is having a bad reaction to the medicine. Not being able to speak or call for help, it’s easier to slam your arm down and ring the bell to call for help. The man starts hitting the bell over and over and over and over. The nurse comes running in and stops in the doorway. “Harvey, are you messing with me again?” The man grunts and what sounds like it used to be a laugh comes out from his immobile lips. The wife pats his leg and laughs, “Naughty boy!” I blink and it’s me in the chair next to me. Melissa is patting my leg saying, “Naughty boy!” My heart races in fear at the vision. I am seeing the future. My future. Melissa’s future. I don’t want this future. Please let this medicine work. Please let this not be written in stone. I don’t want that to be me. I don’t want this for Melissa. Later that night as we stand in the kitchen I tell her the story. I tell her I don’t want this for her. I love her and she doesn’t deserve this life. She takes hold of both of my hands. Looking me straight in the eye she stops me. “I choose you. I choose us.” Today I feel good. I woke up and for the first time in over a year I do not feel nauseous. I’m still dizzy, but I’m okay. My hands don’t hurt as bad. My balance is better. I have more energy. I literally feel younger. Even Melissa notices. I have been positive today. When the fuck does that happen? I don’t know if it’s psychosomatic or if the medicine is actually doing something. Either way, I’ll take it.

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Happiness/Bewilderment/Sadness/Relief/Anger/Fear

03-21-11

I am in a state of emotional turmoil today. I have been bouncing around like a ping-pong ball between happiness/bewilderment/sadness/relief/anger/fear.

You might be asking, “Alex, how is this different from any other Monday afternoon?”

I might reply, “Hmmm… Well _____ (insert your name here), though it may seem quite normal in the grand scheme of the ‘Great Alex Kimmell Freak Show’, this particular Monday I actually have some concrete reasoning to be experiencing said specific emotions. I will list them for you forth with!

1. Happiness:
My youngest son Gabriel turned nine years old yesterday. NINE YEARS OLD! Already? Wow! (I shake my head in complete and utter disbelief.) He is an amazing kid with the biggest heart of anyone I have ever met in my life. He protects his big brother Jonah with no regard for himself. For example, a group of older kids started to pick on Jonah one day in the park because he wasn’t responding to them when they asked him to do something. Gabriel walks up to the biggest one out of the group, more than a full head taller than he is, puts his hands on his hips and says, “Hey! That’s my brother! Be nice to him or you have to deal with me!” Before I could even get involved they were all playing together having a great time.
He even looks after me. On bad days when I am having trouble getting around or am especially dizzy, Gabe sits down next to me on the couch and rubs my arm. He’ll even get behind the couch and start rubbing my neck and shoulders to make me feel better. I have never asked him to do this. He has what is called a “Servant’s Heart”. He is a wonderful kid who is growing into a fantastic young man. I could not be more proud of him even if I had the capability to be more proud.

2. Bewilderment:
Please review response #1 & How can my boys be so big already?

3. Sadness:
Time just moves to damn fast! How can my boys be so big already?

4. Relief:
I just finished a very important and challenging project that meant a lot to me. It came out well, I am happy with the results and pleased to be getting back to other things. But I find myself missing the panic and adrenaline of it. There is a strange void now I have to fill with other activities that have been pushed to the wayside for a few weeks. So I’ll be getting back to more writing and hopefully be able to put some more music out in the near future. We’ll have to see how the hands deem it worthy to cooperate!

5. Anger:
It has come to my attention that in its infinite wisdom, the Los Angeles Unified School District has decided to cut and possibly remove the entire budget for the Hamilton High School Academy of Music and Humanities Magnet programs. Why do I care? Well first of all Hami is my Alma Mater. I was a proud member of the Music Academy’s first graduating class all the way back in 1988.
In my short time spent attending that school I learned more about music than all of the years of my life that preceded it. Other students of that school have gone on to fantastic accomplishments in life. Many have won Grammys, Oscars, Emmys, as well as producing and performing on Multi Platinum albums. Some of us may have grown up to achieve these types of successes, but somehow it seems doubtful to me.
Other classmates have gone on to wonderful accomplishments in other fields as well, but those that I am still in touch with look back at Hamilton with the same sense of admiration and gratefulness as I do. That school and the environment it provided to us, played such an incalculably important role in our lives that none of us would be who we have become without it. I am sure that in the future we will find the current students there will all feel the same way too.
Isn’t it time that we hold our politicians accountable for actually taking care of our students instead of making hollow promises? Every single politician tells us that they will protect our children’s future and make the schools better. Why is it then that the first things to be attacked when budgetary issues arrive are the schools?
The oil companies don’t ever have to raise money by selling candy bars and chocolates. Our military has a larger budget than the rest of the first world’s military budgets combined. Soldiers don’t have to share guns. Oil magnates never have to share their desks or worry that their computers are so out of date that they can’t even get on-line.
Why do we as a country accept this treatment of our children? Why is education so marginalized? Why is intellect so vilified and demonized? The arts are bad. Science is bad. Reading is for nerds and that’s bad. And then politicians can’t understand why our school test scores are raking lower and lower throughout the world every year.
I just figured it out. Their parent’s were able to afford to send them to private school. Public schools are for us downtrodden and poor sheep that just do the dirty work. Our kids don’t need an education. If they get one, they just might learn something and be smart enough to catch them when they lie and cheat us out of everything this country and it's freedoms are supposed to help us achieve.
So yeah, I’m a little angry today too.

6. Fear:
You might remember me posting a while back about a new medication I might start taking for my M.S. that has some pretty scary side effects. Well, I go in for my first infusion tomorrow morning. While it is very doubtful that I’ll actually get the scary side effect that could in fact kill me, I am scared shitless. I got all the bad side effects from all the other drugs they gave me, so why wouldn’t I get this one too?
Unfortunately there just aint that many treatments for what I got. And going with no treatment at all has been close to downright unbearable. So after many hours of late night conversations about it and second opinions from new Neurologists, we’ve decided to go ahead and take the next step forward.
I am most likely being very melodramatic about all of this, but if you are reading this blog you know me already. That’s just how I roll!

(Cue the dramatic entrance of Samuel Barber’s “Adagio for Strings” here. The author stands center stage lights down. A sole spotlight slowly grows to full brightness directly in front of him. He steps forward into the bright circle illuminated on the floor and stands straight-backed head held high. He takes the fedora from his head with his left hand and whips it bravely behind his back. His right hand lifts up in front of his chest, cape dramatically falling over his forearm down to the floor. Slowly his eyes move across the audience. His eyes linger on every person for a short moment giving each pair of eyes his acknowledgement. He takes in a loud breath of air through his nostrils and with a resounding deep voice emanating from the soles of his boots to the shine atop his baldhead he finally speaks…

“No tears for me! I will be… okay. Though I swim forward into unknown waters, I will not be alone. The trembling of these frail limbs shall not be a hindrance to my procession. I may not be able to squeeze these fingers, but I will hold fast to the knowledge that you are… each and every single one of you… with me.

When fear crashes down in waves, YOU are my umbrella!

When darkness clouds my sight so I cannot see, YOU are my flame!

When hunger scrapes the crumbs from the walls inside of my belly, YOU are my sandwich!”

In other words I just have to get over myself and take my medicine like a big boy. In all seriousness I am afraid of starting this new treatment process. It’s some scary shit. But the risk of side effects is outweighed by the probability this stuff will actually help me tremendously. Most every one I have spoken with that is on this program cannot say enough good things about it.
So cross your fingers for us! Hopefully the next time I write on this blog I’ll have a few less things to bitch and moan about!

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