Venting Spleen

I haven't posted in several days. Not because I don't have anything to say but more because I've been preoccupied. I mentioned needing a spleenectomy the other day. Actually I don't require a spleenectomy, instead my physican hopes a spleenectomy will allow my body to tolerate the ravages of the treatments for hepatitus C. When I take the treatment it works very well with me as far as the Hep C goes. The problem is that, like chemo, it's designed to kill fast growing cells in the body.
It also totally wastes my bone marrow. The first time I went on the treatment I required a transfusion. The second time I had most of my platelets destroyed. We won't go into the OCD aspects. The spleen removes waste products of the immune system from your blood. This includes platelets. It keeps your platelet count in balance. By removing it I should produce tons of platelets thus giving me more chance of staying on the treatment that much longer.
I'm not particularly happy about this.
I'm losing time from work, I'm going to miss Memorial Day, people are afraid around me. I have to eat hospital food. Doctors aren't real clear about what recovery entails. They just say x number of days. Will it hurt? Will I be able to walk around? Not a topic of discussion. I haven't even been able to talk with my doctor's scheduling aide. So later this morning I'll drive to South Jersey with a picture of my innards, a CT Scan, to see if my spleen is small enough to be removed without cracking open my chest.
Perhaps you can see why this means I don't particularly give a fuck about JFK or Mrs Ferrara right now.
I'm going to dutifully post about 3rd grade day after tomorrow. I'm hoping to scan in a copy of my report card because I can't remember what subjects we studied. I've forgotten what I learned. I can remember the name of Mrs. Ferrara's son, Raymond, but not whether we had Social Studies or not.
I dreamed the other night I was in an auto accident. I was waiting with my friends after the accident for the EMT's when I glanced down at my shoes and saw they were soaked in blood. I pulled my pants down a bit and saw I'd been pierced in the upper thigh by a sharp object and I'd been bleeding profusely.
The blood was warm and thick against my skin and starting to dry in some places.
I gather the dream has something to do with a sense of dread. You would think that having survived one near death experience you could gut out a little thing like a minor organ removal. I don't even want to drop off the CT scan. I'd rather talk to people about mice. The oddest thing is how much this feels like the week or two before I went to the hospital in October of 2001. Everyone is going about their normal business, including me, and around the corner is something I know is waiting but can't grasp. Quite.
In 2001 I lost everything I had except for a few pieces of furniture, some bits of clothes and my television. I woke up in South Jersey alone. I have spent the past six years recovering all that was lost. Part of me feels like this was all a futile dream. A good dream but a dream. Trying to recover your life with things seems foolish. Yet I love my new car. I cherish this little computer and my iPod and my new telephone. I relish the chance to work. I take great joy in joking with my friends at work and at home and there are moments when I'm sitting on my porch watching Johanna and her friends and the dogs that life has never been better.
So dear friends, forgive my lapses of judgement, my bad taste, my failures to properly thank you on one occasion or another. Forgive my audacity in writing this story. My foolhardy attempts to capture life. Forgive me and grant me some absolution. I promise to write again of the boys and girls of Wenonah, my brothers and my new born sister. My parents and my grandparents. But it will have to wait a few days till I know better if my chest will be broken open and my heart exposed to the air.