Continued from Part 4 … (read the first four parts first)
Dr. Dale told me that he would go ahead and obtain the specimens needed to run the culture so as to identify the specific bacteria. As he prepared to begin, I noticed he had a huge syringe and needle that he was intending to push directly into my wound, where my pain was the worst. It truly looked like a syringe for a horse. continue reading…
Karan, the super lady who originally drove me to the hospital on the previous Wednesday, was there to pick me up and take me home. After the hour drive, I asked her to stop by the post office, so I could check my mail. When I returned to the car, and just about to get in, Karan screamed.
The back of my shirt and pants were saturated in blood, but when I had gotten out of the car, my back was dry. Apparently the pressure of leaning against the seat back was enough to contain the blood flow until I got up.
Karan immediately demanded to take me back up to the hospital, but I refused. The top surgeon said it was OK for me to go home, so I felt if we made the drive all the way back up, they’d just turn us around and send me home again. She reluctantly obliged and took me home. continue reading…
All names have been changed to protect my innocent ass.
When I first met Dr Esbe in 2006, I was immediately taken by his charisma. He seemed like someone who wasn’t a psychiatrist — easy going, charming, with a quick and easy-smile; so as far as shrinks go, he seemed relatively normal.
As a comparison, I’ve seen two other shrinks in my life — one would easily fit in the ADHD¹ category, while the other would probably feel at home in the OCD² group. But Dr Esbe seemed more like the LDA³ type to me.
Additionally, since I have no medical insurance, Dr Esbe agreed to take me on pro-bono. Because of that, I wanted to give something in return. Something of value. I knew it would make me feel much better about it, since I was not used to getting stuff for nothing. My botched surgery of a few years ealier has made me see life from vantage points I never imagined. continue reading…
This is one man’s very real story — my nightmare — beginning with my earliest memories, being physically and verbally abused by my alcoholic father, as well as his favorite and first child, my violently 
hostile, oldest sister, Kathy. Another older sister, Marcia, began her own psychological abuse against me sometime in her mid-to-late teens.
Hers were very calmly delivered, pure psychological degradation. She was very narcissistic, such as entering beauty pageants, taking modeling classes, and becoming a varsity song girl (i.e., cheer leader) in high school. She craved the attention, and would walk past me on campus as if we were complete strangers — no, actually she’d probably smile to a complete stranger.
Sometime between his teens and 20s, my younger brother, Alan, emerged with his own narcissistic and violent, sociopathic characteristics. None of us were close growing up. 
The only two siblings who maintained an ongoing relationship into adulthood were Kathy, the oldest, and Alan, the youngest. They also shared the similar violent and hostile temperaments, the charming personas, and the complete lack of compassion, morality, integrity and of course, any semblance of honesty. continue reading…
I don’t know how many more entries I’m going to be able to post here. Unfortunately, I’m no where near finished.
Realizing I was running out of time is one of the reasons I jumped on Semi-related Parallel Trauma to cover another very integral part of my recent past, but I didn’t even get to the guts of it. You see, I was infected with MRSA (Methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus) around my spine during a somewhat routine operation. The majority of those infected, especially in hospitals, don’t survive. I wasn’t supposed to.
For those who don’t know, MRSA is the third leading cause of death in the US. It kills more than those who die in car accidents, those who die of HIV-related complications and AIDS, and those who die of breast cancer … combined. continue reading…
. . . continued from Part 2
Back Surgery, November 7, 2001, 06:00, Piedmont Hospital.
Karan, a woman I had met just a few months earlier, had offered to drive me to the hospital. It was not convenient for her in the least, either.
She had to drive an hour to get to my home from her’s, then travel another hour to get to the hospital. When we pulled up, I told Karan she could just drop me off at the entrance.
Her response was a very firm, “No way, I’m walking in with you.”
Karan won that dispute as she drove right to the parking deck and found a convenient spot. As soon as I checked-in, I was told they were ready for me in pre-op, so Karan gave me a hug, and wished me the best.
Within minutes of arriving in pre-op, they had run an IV, and suddenly, I had not one single care in the world. Shortly thereafter, my life was in the hands of an unnamed anesthesiologist. continue reading…
continued from Part 1 . . .
In late January, I began getting muscle spasms in my left shoulder. Within a week, I could no longer lie down, forcing me to sleep in a chair. The pain in my upper back and shoulders was becoming unbearable.
One evening, I was in my daughter’s room when I tossed her comforter onto the bed. That simple action almost took me out, by a new level of intense, acute nerve pain, unlike anything I had ever felt. continue reading…
Besides the evil perpetuated against me by my sister, Kathy, and Julie, my ex-wife, the 2000-2009 decade was also pay-back time for all the physical *fun* I had growing up. I had a passion for life, and that often meant living on the edge to place it all into perspective. But I must start at the beginning …
This has nothing to do with being placed on restriction, as that would be a bit odd for a toddler. This is about that other ground, the ground that electricity always looks for. Based on my size and the layout of the house, this has to be one of my earliest memories … which also could have ended my race before I ever got out of the gate.
I was crawling on the floor in our family room, and I happened to squeeze in behind an overstuffed chair. There, in front of me, were two things that seemed to go together, at least based on my limited-life experience.
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