Drowning or living life?

The last few weeks have been pretty incredible.  A little background of what has been going through my mind since January of 2012.  I was pretty much convinced that my mental and neurological health declined pretty drastically.  Increased seizures, consistent lethargy, and no matter how joyful the experience, I have felt an abyss of sadness in my heart.   But finally I got fed up.

Three weeks ago I called my neurologist just ready to let it all go.  Yes, I mean quit, cease to exist.  I am not talking about taking any drastic measures to end my life, but I was just tired of fighting, working and managing every single activity in my life in a way that insure I would be "ok"; seizure free.  That meant turning down invitations to join friends for dinner if I knew it was a crowded restaurant.  It also meant staying inside during the hot summer days to regulate my temperature from overheating.  I found myself isolating in my home, often times nervous to simply walk to the end of my drive to retrieve the mail for fear that a neighbor might engage me in conversation and I might lose my ability to speak in that moment from an episode.

Everyday I woke up, went through my list of things to support myself in having a good day.  Meditation, reading, journaling, making my bed, eating breakfast, working out at home, keeping myself as active as I could within the confines of my home.  Hesitant to work in the yard or even call a friend to talk because my life was beginning to close in on me.  Feeling like I had turned 90 since my 40th birthday I was ready to throw in the towel, fall asleep and peacefully find my way to the phase of life; total rest.  But something in me stirred; a combinations of social interactions with the recognition of fortunate I really I am to be living the life I am suddenly snapped me out of sadness to anger and frustration.

That anger and frustration with managing my health or what I am beginning to understand as "hiding" from life catapulted me to speak out.  I called my neurologist and for the first time in a very long time I find my voice.

"I am not happy, my quality of life has continued to decline in this past year and I feel like I am growing more and more crazy."

I guess feeling more comfortable cuddling in bed all day with my cats Gracie and Jake rather than stepping out my front door to experience the fullness of life began to weigh on me.  Is this the life I want to be living?

So after a normal EEG, an MRI scan of my brain that proved there was no new scarring or bleeding in my brain and a blood test that showed I was no longer on a good therapeutic level of anticonvulsants my medical team and I had some solid information to move forward.  Each step of the way I was frustrated by good news, thinking if my EEG is normal than what is wrong with me?  If my brain has not bled any more or if there are no new scars than when I am suffering so much?  But the blood level results returned me to sanity.  Knowing that the medications I take to manage these episodes were not at an effective level gave me peace.  Finally, an answer that made some sense.  I was not going crazy, I was not losing my mind, I was just in need of an adjustment in my medicine.

This year has been a beautiful year filled with new friends and fun experiences but all were underscored by my own perception of my impending debilitation.  2012, my 40th year of life was beginning to feel like the turning point from living a life filled with beauty, love, adoration for the creation of each day into a year of "lasts" and acceptance of the status quo.  And that status quo was the acceptance that over the next few years I would no longer be able to take care of myself. I would need a live-in health care provider or need to be in assisted living of some sort.  My thoughts were heavy and dark and the hardest thing about it all as I look back on it; it just seemed like the natural course of events to me.  I had accepted my life as being a steady decline to further dependence on others and a slow migration from living life to living out my death.

Today, it is nearly three weeks from my last seizure episode.  Today, I trust that I still have a life to live.  Today, I realize those thoughts of resignation were merely a dream; a collection of tiny fears piled up from many experiences both physical and emotional that began to drown my Spirit in worst case scenarios.

Today, I am alive.  I meditate.  I exercise. I nourish my body.  I make my bed.  I take my medications. I write and I will step outside for a breath of fresh air.   Perhaps through the course of today I will encounter a new miracle of life to remind of how good things can be perceived.

Today I am Kevin.

An average morning...

Gracie’s whiskers tickle my cheek; her purr so loud I can feel the vibrations through the mattress.  I open my eyes to meet hers staring back at me.  She is a full figured beautiful black cat.  Every morning she sits beside my shoulder and waits.  Purring, gazing, making biscuits, anticipating the moment I open my eyes.  I start massaging the scruff of her neck, rubbing beneath her chin, and then holding my fist steady so she can rub her cheek as hard as she wants sending her into a luxurious purring kitty trance.  I savor that moment we share together.  That simple moment cuddling, petting and being with one another.     

 YES! my big girl.   I’m getting up! 

I tell her and pat her on the butt.  She hops off the bed and leaves me be.   It is such a sweet moment.  Yawning and stretching, my body feels good today.  Rolling to my side, I feel my rock hard cock brush against the soft linen sheets.  Thank God for hormone replacement therapy, it has not only given me back my favorite toy but I no longer suffer from insomnia and night sweats.   Tucking a pillow between my legs, I retract to a fetal position sensing the cool soft fabric against the head of my shaft.  Tightly I curl up, holding and cuddling myself within the sheets.  Mmmm, It feels so good to be in my body.  I hesitate to move.  My mind wakes and fear sets in.   

What if during this night, the part of my brain that hemorrhaged 12 years ago, began to bleed again?   What if once I leave the comfort and sanctity of my bed I discover my right leg is paralyzed once more?   Then I get a grip and the optimist in me speaks. What if I get out of bed and stand tall on my own two feet.   What if I feel so good I decide to go mow my lawn.  I imagine the roar of the mower, the combined smells of grass clippings, gas fumes and sweat.  I love grunging up my yard shoes, sweating from manual labor and keeping the sun out of my eyes with a cowboy hat.  What if once I finish the yard I kick off those shoes and sit for a spell, swinging on the front porch, looking out at my beautiful gardens, trying to cool down.  That sounds nice, doesn’t it? 

But the heat is too much and I enter the house and walk fully clothed into the shower.  I am very hot, sweaty and covered in yard debris.  As the cool water passes over me I slowly peel off my shirt, shorts, and lastly my socks.  I stand there naked, cool water rushing over me waiting for some comfort from the heat.  Yet, I never cool down. 

I step out of the shower confused and dizzy.  I wonder what I have done.  Mindful that I just took a shower but uncertain of what to do next.  Instinctively I towel off but notice my hand has cramped up in a tight grip, my right cheek taut.  I stumble my way to the bed frustrated that I have done too much, been overheated and managed to trigger a seizure.      I reach for the glass of water on the bedside table and I drink.  Water makes me feel alive again; it cools me from the inside out, and washes down the extra pills I need to assure my safety through this episode.  Then I remember that scenario to be just a memory; a mere recollection from 2 weeks prior when I dashed outside to cut the lawn early in the morning.   All these tormenting images flash through my mind and yet I am still cuddling safely in bed with serious morning wood.   I really just need to pee.  

Just then Gracie jumps on my hip, claiming the side of body as a runway, she sashays up to my shoulder, purring, nuzzling, extending her neck so her wet nose tickles my ear.  There I am again.  In that moment. 

Alright, alright, Gracie.  I am getting up.   

She jumps to the floor; I toss off the covers and scurry to the bathroom to relieve the pressure of an overactive bladder.    Ah, that felt good.  I stand naked facing the bathroom mirror.    You made it through another night, Kevin.   You woke up to see another day.    I pop back my medications, brush my teeth put on some grungy socks, torn up shorts and a ratty t-shirt.  .   Understanding the possible outcome, having experienced what often times does happen.   I grab my cowboy hat, head for the front door, slip on my grungy shoes and start mowing my lawn.  This morning I feel good.  This afternoon, we’ll see.