The Sky Is Falling (Apart)
Tonight should be like countless others. In the Bay Area, drink in hand, bobbing my head to a beloved musical act with the only concern being the dreaded workday greeting me on the other side of an all-too-short stint of sleep.. but it’s not. Tonight the pain has sunk in too deep and a ticket goes unused. Most nights I can put on a grin in front of others and try my damnedest to pretend like I’m not struggling through life but, on this eve, I’m struggling to sit in one place long enough to type this out. For the last fifteen months, only those in my closest of circles have been told everything I’m going through. Today, I reveal all of the cards to everyone willing to read on.
It began on July 4th, 2018, my nephew’s birthday (and the birth date of America, I suppose..). While most were asleep, their only plans as the morning greeted them, being getting wasted and watching explosions burst in among the stars, I woke up running to the bathroom to praise the porcelain altar. Waves of nausea hit me time and again with my side feeling as though the puncture wound I bestowed on a D&D character, acted as some kind of voodoo-totem. I clutched my side, rocking back and forth in my bed until it was my next turn to relive the contents of my stomach from the day before. This continued until I hauled my ass into my car and drove myself to the ER. A 6 hour visit revealed a 1.2cm kidney stone. Dick-rocks have been something I’ve dealt with for the last decade, but this was a stone the size of Conan O’ Brien’s head.. unfathomable, but a reality that stares back at us, with cold, lifeless eyes. And I don’t know if you’ve seen the hole at the tip of a dick, but suffice it to say Conan’s head was never made to fit through one. I was told this would require a surgery, one that the hospital I was in couldn’t perform, but that I’d be transferred for. Then, without a real reason given, I was discharged and told to try and pass it on my own. I overheard several nurses gasp when they were told I’d be sent home. I gathered my belongings and shuffled to the pharmacy to wait around for pain meds. Baffled at what had transpired, and in far too much pain to care about the looks I’d received for being in pajamas, I clutched at my member as if my hand was the only thing keeping it attached to my body. Several days and urologist visits later and I was finally approved for lithotripsy, the procedure involving treating my side the way Rocky Balboa beat his.. ahem.. meat. This pulverized the stone into smaller fragments that I could piss out. The next few weeks felt like I was urinating sand.. ‘cause I was. I had finally been able to put this behind me, but in the time of this kidney stone treatment I’d developed another problem entirely...
“You know when you have a cut, and some lime juice gets in it?”, I’d ask my next friend (victim) who I was trying to explain problem # two’s symptoms to, “It’s kind feels like that, but almost all of the time”. This is how I best described my latest conundrum. Nothing to do with my penis this time, oh no, this time my arsehole was the culprit of my displeasure. Movement of any kind caused a sharp pain that made me momentarily spastic. A quick WebMD searching only elicited my clear demise, but with some diligent weeding out, I came to the more rationale diagnosis that I likely had a fissure, a small tear on the star-kisser that normally heals itself. Only it didn’t. Weeks rolled into months, and it became clear something needed to be done. A number of doctors visits, antibiotics, and far too many fingers up my ass, and it was declared I’d need surgery. Minor, with little downtime, and I’d be back onto my feet with the nicest poop-cutter this side of the Nile. I should have taken a wager on that statement. Post-surgery, several moons passed and I realized I wasn’t getting any better. It certainly didn’t help that during this time I got a job as a barback at a local music venue. In a half-hearted attempt to dip my toes into the world of bartending, a life goal of mine, I landed a job I knew I likely wouldn’t be able to perform. And fuck was I right. Lifting each 160lb keg felt like I was being torn in half along my back-crack. I was struggling to keep up and in complete agony the entire time. After a few short weeks, I decided to step away. Feeling loathsome that I’d quit the only thing I wanted to do in recent memory, I put a renewed focus on recovery in hopes that I’d be able to take another stab at this new career path. Another surgery, this time for a fistula (sidenote: nothing with “fist” in it’s name should come anywhere near the asshole.. just saying). A fistula is a small hole that bores through the anus and can hurt like all get out. After a scan, it was determined I had one. Surgery two. Extra time given to heal. Nada. Same pain resided and I was beginning to feel like this was my life going forward.
Accepting my fate, I doubled down on the things that kept me happy. Scouring every music blog, event info email, and social media post I put in my time to find a show within 100 miles. Nearly every dollar I could spare went to concerts and the nights that went with them. If life was going to be spent in pain, I was at least going out with a killer live soundtrack to accompany my torture. Now jump-cut to three weeks ago. I had just returned from an amazing solo adventure that involved partying with one of my favorite bands in LA, then riding everything in sight at Disneyland, when I struggled to get to sleep my first night home. My bladder felt as though it was going to burst, but only a trickle would come out when I tried. This lasted until the sun greeted me with it’s unwanted presence, but the next day I felt fine. I went about my life like normal, showing no signs that something was wrong (besides the ass on fire thing). Just when I thought my phallus and I were getting along, I pissed what felt like pure flames of Hades. I streamed tears as I went to relieve myself and met with anything but. Another several doctors trips and restless bouts of sleep, I found myself back at the same hospital as I’d began on this adventure. I was once again discharged without any help or any feeling of hope.
And that brings us to tonight. On the eve of when I’m supposed to be scoped, or a cystoscopy in medical terms. If you’re unfamiliar, this is where a doctor forces a tiny camera up your dickhole. I’m going to stop there and let that sink in. A camera. Up your dickhole. I can honestly say I’ve never in more fear in my adult life. The worst part of it, I have zero faith this will help me out. I have a year and some change to give me reason to believe this will do nothing but hurt my wallet, pride, and fix nothing but the mansion of another overpaid guy in a long white coat. I’ve done tests, surgeries, been asked “have you been engaged in any rough sex”, had more fingers up my ass than I care to recall.. and I can honestly say I’m no better off than when I started this downward spiral.
I apologize if this is the first you’re hearing of any of this. This isn’t an easy thing to bring up in a conversation. Sorry if I’ve seemed pissed off or distant. Truthfully, I’m scared. I’m afraid that this is life now and that I’ll never find any level of comfort again. That isn’t a hard thing for me to admit, but I felt the need to state what’s going on. I should be at a concert tonight. But instead of chasing dreams under the stars, I’m looking in the mirror and seeing that Sky is falling apart.