I don't want to write this entry.
One of the reasons I started this blog so there would be some sort of record of my medical progress as I entered this tunnel of darkness and hope. I hoped, probably a bit arrogantly, that some person going through a similar journey in the future would find some comfort and hope within the knowledge that they are not the only person that has gone through this. I admit that I had high hopes that I would come through the end of this journey and say, "See, it was all worth it, and it worked, and it will for you too!"
Unfortunately, I don't get to say that, which is why I don't want to write this entry.
Life isn't all about reaching the finish line first; sometimes it's about the runner that tripped on the last hurdle and didn't make it to the finish line, as much as he tried. Sometimes it's just about the story, and not the happy ending.
So, I'm gonna take a deep breath and record this anyway.
Last week I met with my liver doctor, and received the test results for which I had been waiting six weeks.
The short version is that the Hep C viral load rose, rather than fell. The medications weren't working. My doctor said that I could continue treatment for another year, but that honestly there was only a 1% to 2% chance of it succeeding.
Maybe it was the fatigue and depression talking, but I just couldn't spend another year being physically and emotionally miserable, all the while spending thousands more dollars that I didn't have for such a small chance of success. He said that he was disappointed that it didn't work, and that he'd like to see me every six months to monitor my liver, and that he also believed that new medications were coming out in three to four years that could help.
I said, "thank you very much for all your help, doctor." We shook hands. I left.
It was over.
There were a couple of people that asked to be called immediately after the appointment. First, I called Michael and told him the news, breaking into tears. Bless him, he immediately broke his plans with another close friend, and told me he would meet me for dinner.
Then, thinking that I had gotten myself under control, I called my father. I was wrong about the control part. I burst into tears again. I told him what was going on, and when he said that I must be very disappointed, I said, "that's one way to put it." He said, "Devastated might be the other?"
Yeah, that's it. Devastated. I had put so much hope into, and had so much riding on being "cured" of at least one fucking life-threatening disease in my life. For the first time, I seriously began to think I would become an old curmudgeon, married to an equally curmudgeon-like, but adorable man, watching nephews and nieces grow up to get married, have children and bring them to visit me so I could dispense my wisdom from the hallowed summit of my advanced age.
I began to think that maybe I'd be able forgive myself for becoming diseased. I had dared to think that maybe I wasn't going to be punished anymore.
When all this coalesced into my mind, I was like "What the hell?" Do I really believe I'm being punished? If so, by whom? For what?
Honestly, most of my being understands that difficult and cruel things happen to people, good, bad and in between. It doesn't matter if you're funny, kind, caring, and saint-like, sometimes things happen that there are no cures for. Sometimes mistakes are made that can't be unmade, no matter how much one regrets them. No matter how much one wishes that they had been smarter, and had made better choices. That's just the nature of life.
But sometimes, just sometimes, in the back of my soul, the locked container where all the fear and doubt and self-loathing breaks open, and I think, "Yes, I am being punished," and I believe with all of me that I deserve it.
Let me make one thing clear. I don't believe in a god that takes pleasure in punishing souls, and I refuse to be a part of any religion that does. I don't believe in Satan or supernatural beings that are made of pure evil to continually test and punish mortals. I just don't, all the preaching and pointing to holy books by our so-called spiritual teachers and politicians, notwithstanding.
It occurred to me that the only person that is truly capable of punishing me is ... me. Again, I don't know if it's the fatigue and the depression talking, but I can't seem to get past the idea that I'm just not worth being cured.
Today, I kept wondering what would happen if I ever lost my insurance, and couldn't pay for medical treatment, and I think I came to the conclusion that I'd just stop being treated medically, and let the diseases take their course. Hopefully, quickly. I refuse to be a burden on my family or my friends.
Won't Rand Paul, the libertarians and the republican parties be proud of me if I don't contribute to the deficit in any way, shape or form?
On the other hand, I'm not too fond of pain, so this seemingly very fiscally and socially prudent course of action will probably fly out the window. I'm weak that way.
Lest this post be completely depressing, there are some things that I'm proud of.
I got through the initial agreed upon course of treatment, and didn't give up. I took all of my medication each and every time, according to instruction. I've paid all my medical bills and didn't borrow a dime from anybody to do it. I didn't bitch too much. I also think that I only annoyed a minimum amount of people with self-indulgent whining. I'm sure there are people that wish I hadn't backed out of involvement with their projects, but I did the best I could. I didn't go over my allowed amount of sick and vacation days at my day job this year; a major feat, in and of itself. As a matter of fact, when I told my boss that the medication was done, and I would be doing a better job very soon, he told me that he hadn't really notice a decline in my work performance, and that he thought I handled it very well. Obviously, I hid the side-effects better than I thought I had.
I think that regardless of the fact that my body missed that last hurdle, my little journey over the past 9 months or so, is something to be proud of. There's nobody that can say I didn't do the very best I could, and if they do, I reserve the right to punch them in the nose.
If you find yourself on this blog wondering about your own journey with treatment for Hep C, I can't guarantee it will work, nobody can. All you can do is put one foot in front of the other and do the best you can and hope. You might reach that magical finish line, or you might not, but you ran the race, my friend. You ran the race with courage and heart. Seriously, there should be a medal for that.
For me, it's time to look to the future, and see what is in store. Hopefully with love in my heart, a smile on my lips, and a joyful laugh in my voice.