Who knew?

My sister says I'm lucky.

I've never really understood that. In my mind, I've been through a fuck of a lot in my life so far and I wouldn't call it lucky. Sixteen years ago, I was struck by a motorcycle when I was a pedestrian. I sustained two broken legs and closed head injuries. I died on the way to the hospital and they revived in the elevator on the way to surgery. I broke my left femur in seven places, within a four inch span. This injury alone could have been fatal. I broke my right fibula and had edema of the brain. They drilled four holes in my skull to relieve the pressure; I can now honestly say that I have a hole in my head. After being in a coma for 2 days, I did come to and was told I'd never walk again without some kind of assistance. I was told I was 'lucky to be alive'. Yep.

At this point, as with almost everything, I had a choice. I could become a victim and look forward to life with a walker, at best, or a wheelchair, at worst. I decided to be a survivor. I fought for every incremental improvement. I had to learn how to talk and write and feed myself again. I weaned myself off painkillers within three days, because they are highly addictive. I had to learn how to stand, let alone walk again. I had multiple operations on my legs, because they kept fucking them up. Anyway, it took me over ten years to recover. However, I got to the point where I was running over 40 miles a week and working out 5 days a week. I was determined to not just recover, but to improve my physical being. Mentally, I have short term memory loss and some word search problems, but I can cope with that.

Now, a short three years after returning to my life, I was diagnosed with a rare auto-immune disorder called 'Myastenia Gravis'. It is loosely grouped under Muscular Dystrophy. Basically, my muscles simply stopped working. All my muscles. My eyelids drooped, I couldn't lift up my arms, I had difficulty keeping my head up. I walked like a drunken zombie. I couldn't roll over in bed and could only get out of bed by cantilevering my body against the wall. Because this is a such a rare condition, it took over 2 years to be diagnosed. During those two years, my beloved dog of 7 years, was diagnosed with lymphoma. I decided to treat him with chemotherapy; I felt he deserved the right to fight as much as anyone else. And he did fight for a year, poor little guy. Must I tell you that the vet, one of the few canine oncologist in Ontario, demanded payment up front; $300-$500 every three weeks, plus meds. It destroyed me financially. When Max finally could fight no longer, I had to euthanize him. I decided to have him cremated, which the vet said he could take care of, which he did. That cost me over $1,000, which I didn't have.

I had an operation in July of 2007, to remove my thymus gland; supposedly the root of this particular disease. I am s-l-o-w-l-y recuperating. The chances of me going into complete remission are slim, as men my age rarely do. I am determined to do so, however. I just have to rely my on body's ability to heal, as there is literally nothing I can do to promote healing. I am broke, living on a pension which does not allow me to continue to live as I always have. I am forced to return to my home town, which I happily left 28 years ago, where I can live much cheaper. So, good bye to my life.

Believe me, there is plenty of other stuff to flesh out the above. I have truncated it, giving you the high lights if you will. Am I lucky? To be alive, I guess so, but what kind of life am I looking at? I guess I am lucky to live in a country where my health care has been free. I am lucky that I have learned to roll with the punches and cope with what life throws at me. Adaptable, that's me.

My sister still says I'm lucky.