Let It Bern

12/9/2019

By early September I was taking the full dosage of those Imuran and Mezavant tablets prescribed to me and the effects continued to heal my bowels without introducing me to any of the nasty side-effects. My stools were more or less back to normal and bloody results were becoming far and few between. I also felt my strength coming back and had also put on some weight to clock up 56 kilos on the scale. Still on the thin side but it felt a hell of a lot better than being a sickly 52 kilos.
But the positive developments did not excuse me from my daily routine and going out to enjoy myself, let alone returning to training, remained out of the question. That wasn’t going to happen until I had clearance from Dr. G or Dr. B.

Speaking of training, it goes without saying that my fitness and physique suffered greatly during my exile. Not to sound egotistical but before the ulcerative colitis attacked I was sitting pretty at around 58 to 59 kilos (which is still within the healthy weight range for a vertically-challenged man such as myself) with a ripped, athletic physique complete with chiselled abs. I regularly performed triple digits’ worth of push-ups, pull-ups and squats, a shit load of burpees, worked the heavy bag at home until it was completely bent out of shape and other crazy shit as part of my daily workouts.
In other words I was fit as a fiddle and felt pretty damn indestructable. The colitis changed all that. As stated in previous entries the resulting anaemia had robbed me of my energy, my weight plummeted and the color had been drained from my face, all of which did not go unnoticed by friends and family. And since much of this recovery phase was spent eating, sleeping and taking it easy my ravaged body entered that dreaded ‘skinny-fat’ zone. The abs were long gone, replaced by a doughy mid-section that looked like a semi-deflated balloon, the once-wide shoulders shrank though thankfully never progressed into mild kyphosis thanks to the light arm and shoulder exercises I performed in addition to walking drills, my arms and legs became rail thin and even shadow boxing, which had long been one of my favorite ways to warm-up before working out, became a rather taxing routine if I pushed myself too hard.
The extent of my regression was made shockingly clear when, on one particularly sunny afternoon a week before this entry took place, I decided to see if I could still perform pull-ups from the old swing set in the backyard. Mind you, I had not done a single pull-up since a few weeks prior to being hospitalized so I was well-aware that I would be rusty, but reality hit me harder than than a bar stool across the head followed by an uppercut to the jewels ever could.
I strained to pull myself up from the very first repetition and was completely winded after a mere five pull-ups.

What the fuck!!!???

I immediately stormed back into the house, slumped down on the sofa in the living room and sulked for a good three minutes. What a revolting, soul-crushing revelation that was, years of building myself into supreme fitness down the drain. Getting back into tip top shape was definitely going to be a rather long road once I was cleared to do so. But on the bright side at least I had another goal to shoot for in addition to putting this blasted colitis into permanent remission, it could be a rather fun and rewarding experience.

Not long after my meeting with the immunologist I’d made another trip to see Dr. G regarding the results of the blood test I did. My haemoglobin checked in at the 90s, placing me another step closer to the front door of the triple digits.
“Not long to go now before you’re back to triple digits,” Dr. G mused, “and I’m glad to see some color on your face again.”
My mother breathed a sigh of relief on her seat and crossed herself.
For me, it was mixed feelings. As pleased as I was to know that my levels were climbing and that my body was healing, I was admittedly a little sour at not being in the 100s yet. Yes, Dr. G and Dr. B warned me that it wouldn’t be a speedy process but man, my patience was wearing thin, though I didn’t show it.

So close yet so far.

Looks like I still had many plates of red meat and many doses of sunshine to get through, still, to raise that blood count.

But let it be known that in no way, shape or form was I disappointed with the outcome. To go from the 80s to the 90s was progress and I was happy about that. I was just feeling impatient, that’s all.
Having got that out of the way, my mother and I also informed Dr. G of my upcoming meeting with the haemotologist, set to take place on September 12 at the hospital. Dr. G didn’t say much, this appointment was to keep her updated on my progress. She simply congratulated me on a job well done so far and wished me well on the appointment.
But she added one thing; “They might suggest that you undergo an iron infusion since you lost a lot of blood. That would have affected your iron levels.”
“Fair enough.”
“Don’t be nervous. You’re on the right track, just keep doing what you’re doing.”
My mother and I nodded our heads enthusiastically. She didn’t need to tell us twice.

September 12 finally arrived and I woke up feeling relaxed. I began the day with another set of walking exercises and shadow boxing, ate my breakfast, did some reading and some more exercises in the backyard under the sun, took a mid-morning nap before lunch and then dressed up for my appointment. Both of my parents had taken the day off from work to accompany me and we drove towards the hospital an hour prior to my appointment.
We made it to the sixth floor of the hospital where the haemotologist’s office was located with twenty minutes to spare. In a refreshing change from all the other places I had been in this hospital, the sixth floor was brightly-lit and spacious and that sickly hospital smell wasn’t as overpowering. I quickly approached the receptionist’s table, confirmed my booking, filled out a document asking for my personal details and then joined my parents in the waiting area. There were many vacant seats, indicative of a rather slow day at the office, and I seemed to be the youngest patient in a room populated by senior citizens, just as it was during my two day hospital stay a couple of months earlier.

A pile of worn-out magazines sat on a table in the centre of the area, beneath a post on which a flat-screen TV was hung playing one of those mid-day talk shows. I had been battling the urge to urinate for the last few minutes, believing that I would be called in quicker than expected just like my blood test following my meeting with the immunologist since there didn’t seem to be too many people before me. Alas, the call of nature became unbearable five minutes before my scheduled appointment. I quickly excused myself, made a beeline for the men’s room and did my business.

Damn, shouldn’t have drank so much water before leaving! I hope I don’t miss their call.

Quick as a flash, I cleaned myself up, flushed the can and then power walked back to my seat.
“No one called you yet,” Mom said.
“Ok, cool.”
It would be fifteen minutes before I was finally summoned. So much for the perception of a slow day.
The haemotologist, whom we shall call Dr. R, was a rather short, bespectacled lady of Hispanic appearance with an upbeat personality that was a sharp contrast to the rather small, colorless room on the sixth floor that was her office. It closely resembled that dark office of the very first doctor I consulted months ago, albeit a lot more organized and with more medical paraphernalia lying around. We began our meeting with some good news regarding another blood test I was required to take a week prior to our meeting (which I did not long after my last appointment with Dr. G) and the results almost caused me to jump out my chair, run out of the room and do laps around the floor.
“Your haemoglobin levels are now 104,” she said, grinning.
Man, I didn’t care that my parents were seated near me and that I was speaking with a medical practitioner, I allowed myself to show some emotion. Consumed by excitement and relief I did a silly little victory dance on my seat, managing to keep a tight lid on the more extreme emotions that threatened to bubble to the surface. At last, I was out of criticaly-anaemic territory.
But there was another obstacle to the victory.
“Your haemoglobin levels are on a decent level now,” said Dr. P, “but your iron levels haven’t quite caught up yet. And since you are currently on medication to treat a digestive disease, putting you on iron tablets could have adverse side-effects. Therefore, you WILL need to undergo an iron infusion.”

Ugh! That fucking ulcerative colitis! Even in a bruised and battered state it was still taunting me, reminding me of its handiwork through months of blood loss.

Get ready, motherfucker. I’ll kill you some more with Mezavant tablets tonight!

My parents, too, seemed quite apprehensive, particularly my mother. Dr. R sensed this and gave us all a quick rundown on the procedure.
“It will take about half an hour,” she said, “you will be hooked onto a drip and the solution will be pumped into your system. There may be side effects but they aren’t very common.

Ok, I’ve had experience with being hooked onto a drip. I can handle that. Hold on, did you say ‘side effects’?

“What type of side effects?” asked Dad.
“Some muscle pain, probably headaches and nausea, and in rare cases fever and chills.”
Yup, uh-huh, ok, doc, thanks for the heads up.
“But again, they’re not very common,” added Dr. P, “but I still have to inform you of the possibility.”
Dr. R leaned in and smiled. “Don’t worry about it too much,” she said, “your haemoglobin levels are at a good level now, you’ll be back to normal before you know it. The iron infusion should speed up your results.”
I love how the doctors and specialists that I’ve seen so far know just what to say whenever they can sense that I’m starting to feel nervous or pissed off. Or both.
Dr. P then did some brief tests on me, checking my blood pressure, heartbeat, breathing and also my lymph nodes, before giving me some printed documents during the conclusion of our meeting; a few pages’ worth of my latest blood test results, a pamphlet that informed us of the formula that they were going to pump into me, and a sheet for…….drum roll, please…….another blood test!!!!!
Yup, that’s right, I was to have more blood drained out of me before we left!

Oh man……I hope this doesn’t knock me back into the 90s.

And so we took an elevator back down to the ground floor, over to the blood test clinics and…..you know the rest.

We got home just a little after 5pm, narrowly missing the afternoon peak-hour traffic. We had a nice family dinner before I washed up and got ready for bed.
I lay in bed that night, reflecting on the meeting with Dr. P. Well, I guess I’m about to find out what an iron infusion feels like. I wasn’t too nervous but I still hoped that my body would be strong enough to ward off any side-effects the way it did with the Imuran and Mezavant.
And of course I allowed myself to bask in the glory of having crossed back into the triple digits in regards to my haemoglobin levels. Finally, I was at the home stretch! Barring any serious mishaps I would be back to normal before the month was out.

Was well into my exile when I first heard this tune,
90s slow jam by Bobby Brown, coincided with major breakthroughs,
Making progress with recovery, can almost taste the victory,
Gotta tread lightly, though, no need to be so hasty.

August 24, 2018

WARNING: This entry contains details that some readers may find gross

August was coming to a close and every day, for the most part, continued to be a virtual replay of the last; Eat, read, walking drills, take pills, sleep and repeat. Talk about groundhog day, the only real differences were the clothes that I wore and also the books and random internet articles that I read daily. In addition to taking mid-day naps and watching random Youtube videos (always a fun way to pass the time) I had also taken to doing plenty of reading, a past-time that I usually enjoyed but had largely neglected during healthier times. My sister and I were avid readers during our youths and my parents amassed a rather impressive book collection over the years that we kept in a special room in the house that we nicknamed ‘the library.’ This is not to say that I went through one entire book everyday – that would have been madness – but I chose three books at a time and read bits and pieces of each during a few half-hours that I could steal on a given day, temporarily leaving the confines of house arrest to escape into their worlds. I hung out with Holden Caulfield in The Catcher In The Rye, got a crash course in how to run a kingdom through rather severe means from Machiavelli in The Prince, witnessed the worst of human behavior in Lord Of The Flies, joined Sal and Dean on an epic road trip in On The Road, ran with The Greasers on The Outsiders……..the list went on and on and I am quite chuffed at having been able to get through a decent number of books in a rather short period of time.
But then again, I had all the time in the world to do so.
I even took a trip back down memory lane by revisiting some of the novels that I had to study during my high school and university days. Having spent most of their prime years being bounced, squished and rubbed around inside my school bag the high school books looked every bit the worse for wear, with their crinkled and scuffed covers and dog-eared, yellowed pages. Some pages from the books I read for university still bore highlighted sections and scribbled crib notes that I used for study purposes, reminders of a time long gone.

Did I wrestle with the temptation to break from my routine? Did I consider defying doctor’s orders and starting up the car to set off on an epic road trip or to throw myself back into real workouts? You bet I did! While I had embraced and accepted my temporary (yes, emphasis on ‘temporary’) life as a recovering patient there were days where it felt rather draining for a naturally active lunatic such as myself and during my times of solitude I definitely flirted with the idea of walking on the wild side.
‘To hell with this,’ I would say, ‘I’m gonna go buck wild.’
But something would always stop me, a voice inside my head acting like an all-knowing, all-seeing Big Brother that reprimanded me for my rebellious thoughts.

What the fuck is this? Nineteen-fucking-eighty-four as described by George Orwell!?

Nope, just good old-fashioned common sense.

It was during those moments that I felt, at times, the urge to drill a massive hole through my skull, rip my brain out and boot the motherfucker into the next country but in the end that internal voice of reason and my own strength of mind obliterated whatever reckless streak was trying to get the better of me. It would have been the height of foolishness to give in to impatience and push myself too fast, too soon. Recovery was my top priority and if I had to live like a monk for at least the next few months then so be it.

 

At this point the game of hit and miss continued as far as my stools were concerned but there was some great news; in addition to less bloody results my stools were hardening up and beginning to look normal again. Previously, I was firing off small solid pebbles mixed among blood before it deteriorated to the point where, more often than not, I was shitting nothing but pure blood and that ultimately sent me to the hospital in need of a transfusion.
It made me wonder what became of the food that I ate.
Then once I started taking the medication necessary to fight the colitis there had been less blood – which was a positive sign –  but my stools remained liquid, like a big bowl of caramel porridge that was sometimes topped off with a decent amount of raspberry sauce, not exactly an ‘out-of-the-woods’ outcome.

Apologies to anyone that was eating while reading that part. If it makes you feel better I just put myself off of my next meal!

But it was also during this period that I started to see solid little logs in the mix again and man, all I can say is that the happiness and euphoria that welled within me was damn near impossible to contain and as corny as it sounds I sometimes had to fight the urge to shed tears of pure joy. I settled for looking skyward and mouthing ‘thank you!’ to the big guy in the sky but while I was home alone, I sometimes allowed myself to let loose. Imagine a skinny-fat, hobo-looking nutjob walking out of the toilet and shouting “YYYEEAAAAHHHH!!!!” like Lil’ Jon on steroids before breaking into a weird dance and you’ll have an idea. And let me tell you right now, I cannot dance to save my life! But to say that it was a relief to finally have confirmation that the medication was working is a massive understatement. For the first time in my treatment I saw that proverbial light at the end of the tunnel.

 

I also had a scheduled appointment with an immunologist on the 24^th of August at the same hospital where I received my blood transfusion and was also ordered to submit another blood test, the results of which would immediately be faxed and e-mailed to Dr. G and Dr. B. My parents accompanied me on the trip back to the hospital where we were greeted by the immunologist, a tall, slim man of Indian appearance who looked to be in his late 30’s to early 40’s, although his smooth features and full head of hair made him look rather youthful. He was soft-spoken but possessed a firm handshake. This lanky fellow was a lot stronger than he looked – or perhaps I was still weak from my health battle.
The meeting didn’t last too long, the immunologist took my blood pressure (which came out normal) and then interrogated me about my current state of health since my hospital stay and I told him nothing but the truth but made sure to emphasize all the positive developments. I admitted that there was still the occasional bloody stool but quickly added that such occurrences were becoming less and less and that the stools were becoming solid again.
“I’m glad to hear that,” he said before adding, “and you look as though you’ve regained some color on your face.”
Well, my haemoglobin levels were still in the late 80s at last check but I took his word for it. My lips, ears, fingertips and the inside of my eyes, however, remained pale pink, even if my skin was no longer as pale.

The immunologist then handed me some paperwork that effectively discharged me as an in-patient from the hospital. Man, what a great feeling! Nothing was going to stop me now.
Not so fast, Kiddo.
The immunologist also ordered me to see the hospital’s haematologist in a few weeks’ time in order to examine my iron levels since my recent blood tests indicated that in addition to my haemoglobin, my iron levels also suffered as a result of the blood loss. No surprise there, with great blood loss comes decreased levels of iron. He gave me a sheet of paper that contained the haematologist’s number before sending me off to take another blood test, the purpose of which was to find out where my haemoglobin levels stood.

 

My parents and I returned to the waiting room and I pulled out a card from a stack near the door to one of the blood testing rooms that contained a number.
Number 3. Cool.
Once my number was called I was to trudge into one of the rooms, roll up my sleeve and have some more blood drained out of me. I slumped down on a chair in the waiting area next to my mother and played with my phone believing that it would be at least fifteen minutes before I would be called in. I had just made myself comfortable and almost drifted off into my own little world when a nurse poked her head out of one of the clinics.
“NUMBER THREE!!!!!”
I was called in faster than anticipated and I scrambled as I frantically put my phone in sleeper mode and then hastily walked into the clinic. This might have been the first time I had to wait for less than ten minutes for a health-related appointment.

Once inside the nurse gently instructed me to take a seat and roll up one of my sleeves. It was a rather chilly day and I was wearing a long-sleeve shirt and so I rolled up the sleeve of my right arm and rested it against a cushion on the table. She clamped a buckle around my arm near the elbow and tightened it, raising a vein in the crook of my elbow.
“This might sting a little,” she said, oblivious to the hell I’d gone through over the last couple of months. I nodded politely, but deep down I was rolling my eyes and laughing sarcastically.

 

No shit. I’ve been jabbed so much I’m surprised my haemoglobin levels are still climbing. I am well aware that it will sting.

 

I made a fist with my right hand to keep that vein raised and then she plunged the needle into my arm.
Ahhhh the bitter sting of the needle! We meet again!
She drew about two or three vials worth of my blood before retracting the needle and placing a patch on the area. I slowly rolled down my sleeve and stepped off of the seat.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Thank you, ma’am. Have a great afternoon.”
I dusted myself off before leaving the room to re-join my parents.

 

Mission accomplished!

 

The next day, I dialed the number supplied to me by the immunologist and booked my session with the haemotologist. It was a foregone conclusion that I was going to need an iron infusion. Coming off of being ‘severely anaemic’ in addition to the ‘severe pancolitis’ diagnosis there was no doubt that my iron levels would be anything but crash-hot. Looks like I’m going to find out what an iron infusion feels like.

Staring down the barrel of another medical procedure huh? Ok, bring it on!

We shall get to know about this haemotologist very soon. Stay tuned!

Twenty minutes deep through this stretch of road,
Not another vehicle in sight, the silence comparable to the dark of night,
Ventura Highway soars from the speakers, had me bumpin’ to this tune,
No one got to see me looking like a loon,
Mountains and tall hills loomed majestically before me,
Like scoops of green tea ice cream dotted with green jelly beans,
My vehicle held up admirably, just a suburban steed,
Zero breakdowns to ensure a long, smooth journey,
Got no problems other than bugs on the windscreen,
Coupled with dust it’ll take at least an hour to wipe this baby clean.

Straight lines for twenty minutes, barely moved the wheel,
Now I’m locked in a battle against the urge to fall asleep,
The unchanging view ahead offers only a limited thrill,
But the solitude offers the opportunity to chill,
Allowing the mind to wander, perhaps to review the year soon to end,
This is the second last day, may as well pause and reflect,
Seems like only yesterday I was ringing in this year,
Watched the fireworks on TV, even had me a few beers.
Work was ok, had my share of good and bad days,
More of the former, made plenty of coin, yeah I can’t complain,
Dealt with some catastrophes, born from bad luck and incompetency,
Typical workplace mishaps, though admittedly, sometimes the culprit was me!
Explored various parts of the country and for a few weeks another part of the world,
Dented that bank balance but it was all so worth it.

Thirty minutes in now, will take a left in twenty,
At the corner of my eye I see we have company,
A white sports car looms from behind, caught in my rear-view,
Driven by a madman wearing shades with hair dyed a reddish hue,
Barrelling like a torpedo, damn-near rear ended me,
I’m on the left lane, Pal, go ahead overtake me,
The speed freak complies, swerves to the right before re-entering my lane,
Speeds away leaving a trail of dust in his wake.
‘Crazy fool fixin’ to get caught,’ I mutter to myself,
The pink sets into that blue sky to indicate an impending sunset,
I guess it was a good year, I wonder what the next one will bring,
Another winner on the cards? Or will it make my head spin?

It’s all up to me, I’m the master of my own destiny,
A car appears before me, a slow driver running less than ninety,
Had to slam the brakes, resisting the urge for road rage,
Hit the gas hard as I overtook him and drove away,
The sun slowly sinks, the blue sky is rendered red,
Almost at the home stretch, I exit via the left,
It’s been a good day and a great year, and that’s when I saw,
On the side of the road, that speed freak, his antics dashed by highway patrol.

22 August, 2018

 

Up at 5am to get that blood pumpin’,
The early bird gets the worm, got it done and dusted
Rest and breakfast before dressing to thrill,
This aint no James Bond shit, just goin’ to work like a boring git,
Nine to five of hard grind, not always easy but I don’t mind,
The good outweighs the bad, positives aint hard to find,
Feels so good to be disease free,
Took my licks but whooped that UC,
Onwards and upwards from here, nothing can stop me,
The dark times are behind me, now a distant memory……..

 

And then I woke up. It was all a dream.

 

DAMMIT!!!!

 

I guess it was too good to be true. I lay in bed for a while, staring at the ceiling, allowing the bitter let-down wash over me before getting up for my customary morning session on the throne. I sat down and did my business before taking a peek at the results.

 

Pinkish hue present.

 

FUCK!!!!!

 

Talk about a double whammy first thing in the morning. Reality fucking sucks. But on the bright side there was nothing but brown when I went the previous night. The game of hit and miss rolled on and I remained hopeful that it wouldn’t be long before any traces of red would vanish for good.

 

Come on, meds. Do your thing!!!!

 

I was unable to work out and couldn’t be as active as I’d like to be since I was still anaemic and was even forbidden from lifting moderate loads since any disturbance in my blood pressure could potentially spell trouble at my weakened state. Winter was slowly coming to an end and so the sun began to make more regular appearances in favor of cameos but it would still be some time before it would once again take the starring role. Still, I took advantage of this and went outside to soaked up the sun’s rays, hoping that the vitamin D would speed up my recovery.
I also did walking drills throughout the day to stretch my legs and keep my body mobile in addition to some light shadow boxing and movements such as arm raises, pulling motions, lateral raises and knee raises, the only real workout routine that I could perform at this point. I undertook this simple regimen every day, usually every hour or hour and a half, on a tiled area in the backyard under the sun, surrounded by the trees and plants that my father planted. Birds would sometimes fly in and out of the yard, frolicking within the tree branches before setting off and at other times they would sit atop the fence that separated our home from the streets, watching this strange man perform what looked like some weird military marching drill, peppered with sessions of shadow boxing. During ‘after hours’ I would perform these exercises indoors in the living room.
These sessions took only fifteen to twenty minutes at a time and did not require much space so it was ideal. More importantly, during those fifteen to twenty minutes I felt strong and free once more and served as a reminder that while I may have been down, I was definitely not out.

It was also around this time that I finally confessed to my friends that I had been battling a rather serious disease and was under doctor’s orders to live like a hermit for the next few months, or however long it took for me to recuperate. Most of them had texted me leading up to, and shortly after, my colonoscopy, asking why I had suddenly disappeared from the face of the earth and even before my hospital stay some had expressed concern over my pale and weak appearance. I was rather cryptic with all of my responses, simply replying that I was ill but on the mend, keeping the extent of my ailment in the dark from all but my immediate family. Let’s be real, ulcerative colitis was a nasty disease and the symptoms that came with it are rather disgusting and embarrassing. But patients ‘on the mend’ didn’t go on lengthy, unexplained exiles. It took some time before I was finally able to reveal the real truth but once I did, I received messages of support and encouragement. They were definitely a big help towards my recovery, I am truly blessed.
And of course I took my medication without fail as per Dr. B’s orders. Thank goodness that any nasty side-effects seemed to elude me.

I also went for regular check-ups with Dr. G, who was now in regular contact with Dr. B. While Dr. B focused on the progress of my bowel’s recovery it was up to Dr. G to monitor my anaemia and overall well-being. I also made the odd visit to some of the specialists at the hospital that I stayed at for follow-ups to ensure that I would not be a repeat guest. They, too, stayed in regular contact with Dr. G and Dr. B and kept each other on the loop about yours truly.
I was also ordered to undergo regular blood tests that both Dr. B and Dr. G would be notified of. Dr. G and I discussed my results after every test and while my haemoglobin levels continued to rise, they did so at a frustratingly-slow pace.

Man, a snail could crawl from New Zealand to Spain at a faster rate than my haemoglobin levels!

Over-exaggerating, obviously, but there were definitely times where my patience ran thin although slow progress is better than no progress or worse, regression.
Can you believe that? I had an army of doctors and specialists monitoring my progress. On good days I felt like an elite athlete with an eclectic team of trainers around me while on not-so-good days I felt like a science experiment gone wrong with a team of scientists forced to work into overtime to fix me up. And of course my family and friends were extremely supportive and regularly encouraged me to keep going. With a solid network like that there was no way that I could lose.

 

A few days after my sister’s birthday, my uncle and aunt that lived interstate had left their car in our garage before going on holiday and a few days after my follow-up with Dr. B they made an overnight pit-stop at our place upon returning to recuperate before driving back home. Both of my parents had left for work earlier that day and so I prepared the breakfast table at the house’s extension room that we nicknamed ‘the glass room’ due to its glass windows and door after I finished my own breakfast (the guests had slept in, as one would upon returning from holiday without having to go to work the next day). My uncle was the first to rise and quickly washed up and got dressed before making his way to see me in the kitchen.
“Good morning,” he greeted before pouring himself a mug of coffee, the drowsiness still evident in his voice, “how are you this morning?”
“Feeling better,” I returned, “still got a way to go before full recovery, though.”
My uncle ran his hand across his grey hair before sipping his coffee and gradually began to perk up as the caffeine made its way through his system. We conversed as I prepared the food for him and my aunt, who was still busy getting dressed. We discussed everything from family to work and my life before ulcerative colitis.

It wasn’t long before the conversation inevitably led to a sermon from my uncle, who was a pastor. His homily lasted probably all of five to ten minutes, interrupted only by sips of his coffee. No, he didn’t use any dramatic hand gestures nor did he raise his voice like the preachers that one might see on TV and in the movies. He was rather laid-back and conversational in his approach and touched up on the usual subjects, like how we will all be tested throughout our lives, that even the strong can feel broken at times but that in the end, the strong rise to the occasion and carry on and that God will help those that want to be helped. All I had to do was place my trust in Him.
In other words, he was merely echoing the same sentiments that my mother, who was quite religious herself, would remind me every single day, sometimes more than once.

 

Trust me, Unc, I know.

 

Still, I sat in silence and let him have his say. It’s nice to know that I also had his support. My uncle drank the last of his coffee once he had finished preaching and folded his arms across his broad chest.
“Do you understand?” he inquired.
“Yeah. I appreciate it, Unc.”
“Anytime, Son. Anytime.”
And with that he helped me set the dining table in the glass room and I laid out the food; some eggs, bacon, bread and fresh fruit. My aunt eventually joined us and she greeted me with a hug and kiss and asked me about my health.
“All good,” I answered, “I’ve been taking my medication and the doctor prescribed me some additional medication that specifically targets my bowels.”
“What types of medication are they?”
“Imuran and Mezavant. Don’t worry, I am aware of the side-effects and I haven’t felt any.”
A registered nurse, my aunt was glad to hear that.
“Just follow your dosage,” she smiled, “you’ll beat this in no time.”
“Yes, I will.”

I cleaned up the table and washed the dishes after they had finished while they returned to the guest room to pack up their bags before beginning the long drive home interstate. It was around 10am when I helped them load their bags into their car – mind you I was only allowed to carry the light loads – before they drove off.
My aunt gave me a quick hug and kiss and wished me well. “Stay strong, Kid,” she said, “you’ll get through this. We’ll pray for you.”
“Thanks and will do.”
My uncle shook my hand before giving me a hug, echoing my aunt’s words. But he was also sure to add that I should do my share of the praying, too.
“I sure will.”
Their car slowly reversed out of our driveway and my uncle checked both directions of the street for any oncoming traffic before reversing into the road and driving off. I stayed in the driveway until they were out of sight before returning to the backyard to begin another round of my exercise routine under the morning sun.

 

By the way, later that night I told my Dad about the dream I had. He responded by encouraging me to use it as motivation.
“That’s a glimpse into your future, Son,” he said optimistically, “this is only temporary. You will be back to normal in no time. Just fight back.”

I had every intention of heeding his advice.

 

Listening to this track by Jadakiss about his man Biggie,
Got me thinking about my old best buddy, how ya been, Homie?
It’s been a while since we’ve crossed paths,
Deep into double digits now, the number of years that passed,
We were tight one time, shared plenty of laughs,
Acted as each other’s confidant, shared stories no-holds barred,
At the time it was hard to believe that one day you would leave,
Or perhaps it was I who did the deed, hard to pinpoint the guilty party,
I sucked at maintaining friendships, that part I admit,
Hold it against me, I won’t begrudge you one bit.

But don’t think you’re in the clear, you’re hardly innocent,
Takes two to end a friendship, you were also complicit,
You could have e-mailed, texted, picked up the phone and called,
Asked me why I’ve been slacking off, but I didn’t hear from you at all,
I should have done the same but I didn’t, that shit’s on me,
But in reality we just grew apart, that was always a possibility,
I guess that’s just the way life is,
Fate had the final say, we’re no longer teammates.

It’s weird, isn’t it? We were like siblings from different parents,
Acted like fools talking random stuff on a daily basis,
It seemed like we’d take the friendship to our old age,
Up to when the story’s down to the final page,
Still talking shit while sitting on rocking chairs,
Maybe playing cards or video games in between bitching about our grey hairs.

Would you even recognize me if we passed one another?
I guess I can’t talk, the question’s more than mutual, I don’t have much ground to stand on,
‘See you later’ was our last words to one another,
Shit was a lie, so consider this the final good-bye,
I wish you well, Pal, wherever you’re at,
That you’re happy and healthy, simple as that,
We may never meet again but those good times we shared won’t be forgotten,
Count on it, cuz you played your part well,
Keep living a good life because you deserve it.