Make sure your hands and feet are secure as well as any
personal items. This rollercoaster ride
is intense. After being inspired by
Steadman Graham to play up my own quirky individuality in one of the most
powerful speeches I’ve ever heard, I can no longer contain the bubbling,
straining sickness in my gut. Something
I ate for lunch is unhappy being cooped up in there.
While everyone else stands to clap, I hurry for the door,
but James says they will interview Mr. Graham.
Damn! I hate to miss that.
I only make it as far as a trash can where I throw up. Classy.
At least almost everyone else is still inside. Back at my room, I get sick a few more
times. Knowing how fast and serious it
is for a kidney transplant recipient to become dehydrated in this situation, I
have the hotel call paramedics. This
will take IVs to fix, no matter what it is.
Minutes later, I’m seeing the bright lights of L.A. on a
Friday night from the back of an ambulance on my way to Marina Del Rey
Hospital, the nearest one. The next few
hours are a blur of throwing up, listening to other patients on the other side
of the curtains, pricked fingers, high blood sugar(!) and insulin
injections. It doesn’t take me long to
realize something’s wrong with my pancreas.
They admit me to the hospital, perform several tests: CAT
can, X-rays, an untrasound on the pancreas.
Between all that are more finger sticks followed by insulin shots. I’m told I have several gall stones. There’s a slim chance this is causing the
elevated blood sugar.
I’m missing the last half of the conference. That feeling of being on top of my game, of
it all coming together like magic has been replaced by dread. I’m in a daze at how fast it happened. To go from such a pinnacle to a failed
transplanted organ is a huge drop even by my standards. Mostly I just sit in the hospital bed without
the TV on. I’m trying to listen to my
body. I’m trying to listen to God. All I can ask is, “Why now?” Not even “Why?” but “Why NOW? When I’m on the verge of telling my story to
millions of people and helping millions of people. If it’s what God wants me to do, then wny one
more obstacle? Why one more delay?”
My consolation in all this is the excellent care I get at
the hospital. The absolute nicest doctor
to ever treat me is there. They call him
Dr. H because his name is hard to pronounce.
The caring attitude of the nurses and everyone I encounter puts me at
ease. Yes, it sucks being in a hospital
a thousand miles from home, but they are making it much easier.
On Sunday, I miss my scheduled fight home. I was looking forward to sitting with my
friend, Kim, on the plane and talking about the conference. All those ideas I had, knocking down the
door, will have to wait until my latest health crisis is behind me. It’s frustrating.
On Monday, a woman with a thick “Fargo” accent tries to
explain the talking glucometer. I can
understand her accent, but she has a strange way of phrasing her words and it
sounds like gibberish. Finally, I think
I get it.
I’m back in the world of the diabetic. For fourteen years I was a fugitive, though I
thought I was a legal parolee. This
time, I’ll be a diabetic with worse vision than before and with a transplanted
kidney to take care of as well. This
realization weighs on me. It starts to
draw me under.
I came to L.A. thinking I would be different when I returned
home. I was right, but this part was
totally unexpected.
Do me a favor-PLEASE sign up on blogger.com to follow my
blog. With twists and turns like this,
you won’t want to miss one.
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