Gibson Crohn's Disease

A Memoir From the Toilet
1. Auflage 2014
ISBN: 978-1-4835-4763-3
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 107 Seiten

'Crohn's Disease: A Memoir From the Toilet' is a funny and candid look at the author's journey through Crohn's Disease. A must-read for anyone suffering from Crohn's, colitis or any form of inflammatory bowel disease, it is also a revealing and emotional read for any audience. The author, a self-described 'Chronie,' recounts his journey from pre-diagnosis to his current life, telling stories that can alternate from hilarious to heart-wrenching.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Gibson, Kevin

Leseproben

The Journey Home The general manager of the newspaper, the woman who had hired me, calls me into her office on, a Tuesday. It is May 1, 1990. She sits behind a big oak desk, wearing a dark pant suit. She asks me to close the door and to have a seat. I think I am going to be fired, and I begin to tremble. “Kevin, I’m worried about you,” she tells me. “Why?” (Hahahaha. I still can’t recall that moment without laughing.) “You’re clearly seriously ill, and you need to see a doctor,” she says, cutting through my oblivious denial. I tell her I had a talk with Dr. Xanax (his actual name has long been erased from my memory), and she says, “Oh my god. He’s the biggest quack in town. Why didn’t you come to me? I can get you an appointment with a doctor. I know a lot of them in town.” But what she didn’t know was that Mammaw’s letter – along with my mother’s persistent urging – has helped send me over the edge. I have already asked my boss, Dave, for the weekend off so I can go home and see Dr. Wolverton. In fact, I have already made an appointment for Friday afternoon. “I’m going home this weekend for my parents’ annual Derby party,” I tell her – the Kentucky Derby is huge in the Louisville, Ky., area – “and I will go see my family doctor then.” “Thank god,” she says. “I’m afraid you’re going to die.” She emphasizes the word “die” and makes a nervous gesture with her hands as she says it. I laugh. She then shoots forward in her leather desk chair and, with a slight head shake, says, “I’m not kidding, Kevin. You go to your doctor, and don’t come back to Zanesville until you’re well. You got it?” Yes, ma’am. I am ready – something has to be done. And I know I am truly not going back to Ohio until I am well on the road to recovery. Apparently, I actually knew somehow I would not be returning to Zansville; I have no recollection of it, but according to my father, we had the following conversation when I called home that week: Me: “I’m going to pick up Pamela, and then I’m coming home,” Dad:“For how long?” Me: “I’m coming home for good.” Dad: (Silently) “Hell yes!” At this point, the plan was to drive from Zanesville to Morgantown with Toby on Thursday night (the newspaper let me off a little early for my trip home), May 3, and then in the morning Pamela and I, along with her adopted cat Scruffy (yes, named after the band I had seen back in March), would make the six-hour drive from Morgantown to Louisville. With a little luck, we can make it home in time for me to make my appointment with Dr. Wolverton. Meantime, my job in Zanesville will be waiting for me. Well, upon arrival at Pamela’s apartment in West Virginia, I learn that Toby doesn’t like cats. At all. The moment we walk into the place, Toby smells blood. And fear. Poor Scruffy, if I recall correctly, climbed the bedroom curtains that night to escape Toby’s gnashing jaws. So, Toby and I sleep on the couch, while Pamela and Scruffy sleep in her bedroom in relative safety. I again wake up sweating and hearing voices, but they aren’t as prevalent as before. Perhaps the fever-dream parties at Pamela’s place are more subdued. Perhaps the fact I know some relief, in the form of a visit with my old friend Dr. Wolverton, is on its way, and this calms me. Either way, unbeknownst to me at the time, it is the last time I would ever set foot in that apartment. The next morning, if memory serves, Pamela has an allergy attack that necessitates her getting a shot. She calls a local clinic and says she needs to get in as early as possible, as we need to get back to Louisville by 4:00 so I can make my appointment. This clinic’s earliest appointment? Well, it is 11 a.m. Even if she gets in and out in fifteen minutes, that gets me home at around 5:45. Hmmm. Obviously, our plan never has a chance, and that ride home ends up being six of the longest hours of my life. I am, by this point, too weak to even drive my car, or at least to drive it that far. I can barely hold my head up at times. How I made the two-hour drive to Morgantown at midnight the night before, I’ll never know. So Pamela, who weighs every bit of 105 pounds, drives my stick-shift 1980 Sunbird, which has a clutch so tight that she literally has to lift herself off the driver’s seat and stand on it in order to shift gears, all the way home. And we drive with Scruffy the cat in a crate on the back seat and Toby the dog on the floorboard beneath my legs. Every time Scruffy lets out a meow, Toby growls, and I say, “Leave that cat alone!” Over and over and over. For six hours. We get to Louisville around 6 p.m., missing my appointment by hours. I drop Pamela off at her mother’s house in Louisville and manage to make the short drive across the bridge to my parents’ house in nearby Clarksville, Indiana. I can remember well parking in front of my parents’ house in the gravel. I let Toby out of the car and we walk together across the yard. Along the way, he stops to pee on my mom’s dogwood tree (sssshhh, don’t tell her). My Aunt Rita and Uncle Jeff are supposed to be there on a visit from their home in Macon, Georgia, but I don’t see their car. I walk up to the front door and ring the doorbell, noting how strange it feels to essentially be ringing your own doorbell. After all, I had lived there since we moved into the house when I was eleven, and I had been gone only four months. And now I’m relegated to ringing the doorbell like a Jehovah’s Witness. Very strange feeling indeed. I remember it as my mom being the one who opens the door at this point, although it could have been my Aunt Rita. The memory is blurry. But I greet them and lead with, “This is Toby!” And then they both break down in tears. I mean, real tears – I’d never seen anything like it. My aunt gathers me into a hug, but my mom can only stand there with her hands over her face, sobbing. Apparently, my condition has taken a decidedly negative turn, and it is reflected in my gaunt appearance. The truth is, at this point in time, I am emaciated and pale. I have dark circles under my eyes. I have lost probably 35 pounds at this point, so this is the thinnest they have ever seen me, and yet my abdomen is still swollen and hard. It has only been three or so weeks since my parents visited, but remember that in between is most likely when my colon ruptured. I just didn’t know it at the time. “If I had passed you on the street, I wouldn’t have known you,” my mom recalls years later. “And it hadn’t been that long since we’d seen you.” My dad and Uncle Jeff return to the house from a beer run a few minutes after this tearful reunion, and their reactions are similar to those of my mom and aunt as they walk into the kitchen and see me sitting there. My dad who, along with Pappaw, had been my best friend my entire life, is clearly fighting back tears as he looks me up and down. My Uncle Jeff simply looks incredulous and sad. I remember he kept staring at me that day with a look of helplessness on his face, his cheeks sunken and his eyebrows drooping. I, of course, am making jokes and pretending nothing is wrong. I am in full denial. Stubborn like jack-ass. I crack open a Miller High Life, and we go to sit on the back patio. I am offered food; I believe I nibble on a bratwurst but don’t eat much of it. I simply try to pretend everything is OK, even though I know it isn’t; my appearance is the elephant in the room. My mother recalls that I was “fidgety” that day; her fear was that I’d become addicted to drugs and simply wasn’t coming clean with them about it. In fact, during my initial visit with Dr. Wolverton, he would ask if I had possibly shared a dirty needle with someone. I guess maybe I looked like a heroin addict. (He also later asked me how many sex partners I’d had, and wondered if I may have contracted the AIDS virus. A family “friend” got wind of this and proceeded to spread the rumor around town that I was dying of AIDS. “Just because he has AIDS doesn’t mean he’s gay,” was her response when confronted about it. Really? You think my concern over the spread of this kind of rumor is about sexual orientation? Thank god there was no social media in 1990.) My mom calls Dr. Wolverton’s office and leaves a message, but the call isn’t returned. She vows to call again in the morning, and she admits to me later she is worried that I won’t live through the night. I’m actually surprised now she didn’t insist we go to the emergency room, but perhaps she has been dissuaded by the results of my previous two E.R. visits. I remember the next morning, slouched on the couch in my parents’ den with the awful wood walls, as I listen to her telling the lady on the other end of the line, “This is an emergency. We have to see Dr. Wolverton.” (Even the office assistants in my own town were trying to rebuff me.) They tell her to bring me in at 9 a.m. This is when he asks me what I think is wrong with me and I tell him, “You’re the doctor.” It was during that...