*This posting is about a real near death experience I had, so at times it does get somewhat graphic. Also, don't mind my despicable sense of humor.*Well it appears I just had my one year anniversary here at GMC. One week after I signed up, I almost left this planet for good, but I'll get to that in just a bit. In that span of time I learned a lot of great lessons and met many great people. Looking back, this website has been a real relief. I could learn lessons at my own pace and no longer had to roam around looking for good free lessons on Youtube. Paying for a service was a big move for me. Being the cheapest man in America, this was a monumental decision. I always try find a way out of paying for things. But now, in hindsight, I think the money I spent was worth it. At the time it was thirty dollars a month, which is the price of a meal and night at the pub. I think its a good trade off.
At the time I was working on developing an optimal practice routine, where my goal was to maximize gains from my allotted practice time. The program was still in its infancy, and was complete shit. But things started to turn around once I came across GMC. I now had solid material to work with, instead of inaccurate tabs with no proper demonstrations.
So for about a week I was working on Lians Amon Amarth lesson and Zsolts "Don't Cry" lesson. Then one Sunday, about half way through the practice session, a slight pain that I had in my lower abdomen all day started making me nauseous, so I cut my session short and just went to bed, hoping it would go away in the morning. I thought it might’ve been the hot wings I ate the night before. (Quick note about hot wings - not only do they burn when they go in, they also burn on the way out, its like lava coming out of your bum bum) But the next morning it became quite apparent it wasn't the hot wings.
I woke up the next morning in a puddle of sweat, and in complete agony. I don't think I have ever felt pain like that before, I couldn't even stand up straight. Strangely, it was somewhat bearable. It felt like serious constipation, so in my infinite wisdom, I diagnosed myself, and asked my roommate to go to the pharmacy and get me every laxative they had, a big bottle of prune juice, and some Pepto-Bismol. I didn't know it at the time, but Pepto-Bismol turns your stool pitch black... this proved to be disastrous. About an hour after downing that concoction of doom, the onslaught of the wicked black liquid began.
The black liquid came out with such force I'm surprised I didn't achieve lift off and shatter the porcelain throne. All joking aside, it was becoming very disturbing, I've never experienced anything like this before. My roommate suggested I go to the hospital, but I refused. I thought I would just ride it out just like every other time I got sick. I am as stubborn as an old goat. Lacking proper health insurance, I was reluctant to go to the ER, because a quick visit to the hospital would have cost me a small fortune.
I didn't know it at the time, but I had a ruptured appendix. Usually it is an emergency that has to be addressed immediately, or else it will lead to death within a short amount of time. I waited a week before I went to the hospital. Like I said, I am very stubborn.
During that week the only thing I could eat was apples, pink lady apples to be precise. I could make a joke with the words eat, pink, and lady, but I don't think it would be appropriate for GMC, so I'll leave it to your imagination. I'm certain Ben will pick up on it. Anyhow, its a very weird sensation when your blood stream is flushed with white blood cells. My vision started to pixelate and melt in hues of yellow and red. Faces emerged out of the flowing pixels. They were speaking to me, but I couldn't understand what they were saying. They were probably saying "get your big dumb ass to the hospital."
Around days 5 and 6, the feeling began to emerge. The feeling that I was dying. I can't find words to describe it, but it was a very unique experience. Looking death in the face wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. Maybe its because my conscious wasn’t completely convinced of what was happening, even though my sub-conscious certainly was.
Day 7 I looked in the mirror, and looking back at me was a skeleton. My eyes had sunken in, and my complexion had taken on a yellow tint. Dislike this. Time to go to the hospital.
Upon my arrival at the Emergency room, I was greeted with a 9 hour wait. Because of our fantastic healthcare system here in the United States, people with no insurance put off medical care till a condition becomes so severe they eventually end up at the ER, and there were many people there just like me. My situation was far from unique. Also, since the ER can’t turn people away, folks without insurance, who have easily treatable ailments, go there for basic treatment, because they can’t go and see a general practitioner. These people were the majority of the patients at the ER that night. Who ever thinks this system is the greatest in the world is either misinformed, suffers from an extremely low IQ, or has wicked motives.
While I was waiting my turn to be treated, the lady in front of me, who was there to be treated for a migraine,was endlessly complaining about her life. After listening to her for about two hours it became apparent she was a chronic hypochondriac. I didn’t know what was more unbearable, my now liquidated internals or listening to that fat ox complain about her life. Death was looking very appealing.
I have a confession. There was one person there who’s pain gave me much joy. He was there because while driving his car, he put it into drive instead of reverse, and plowed into his house. At the time I thought it was hilarious. Even some of the nurses had a chuckle. Don’t worry though, he wasn’t seriously injured, just a few scratches.
Once I got to see an actual doctor, he asked me what my ailments were, so I told him. By this time I had lost what little eloquence I had. I told him “I have black stuff shooting out of my ass and it feels like an alien is about to burst out of my stomach!” Those were my exact words. Looking at me perplexed, he decided to put me through the X-ray.
The girl operating the X-Ray was drop dead gorgeous. Maybe ending up in the hospital wasn’t such a bad thing. I wanted to go through the X-ray completely naked, but she insisted I wear the hospital gown. I made an oath to myself when I was younger: I will be a dirty minded man until I’m a dead dirty minded man.
Back with the doctor, he still didn’t know what was wrong with me, even though my white-blood cell count was off the charts. So he ran me through the CT scan. Once he got the scans back he found a ruptured appendix and an abscess the size of a baseball in my abdomen. My little baby alien. He was stunned when I told him I waited a week before showing up at the hospital. I was informed that had I showed up a day or two later, I probably would have been dead. He was surprised I hadn’t died yet. The nurse was impressed that I could walk on my own and didn’t complain at all. He used the word “stoic” to describe me, but I think the word “stubborn” or “boob” was more appropriate. I asked the doctor if he could fix it, and he replied, “We’ll do what we can” … very reassuring.
After the diagnosis, I was given a cocktail of drugs for the pain and nausea. I don’t know what it was, but it was
good. Everything I saw took on a blue tint. When I was watching TV, I would close my eyes, and the TV would still be playing.
I could even change channels. I could manipulate shows and have them play out the way I wanted. It was quite an experience.
I was escorted up to a room for the night. While I was laying in bed a nurse walked in the room and said she needed to give me a suppository for my fever. At this point my normally strong vocabulary completely failed me. I didn’t realize what a suppository was. So we were chit-chatting back and forth (yes, she was attractive), and intermittently she kept implying she wanted to give me the suppository. So I said “Just give it to me, what are you waiting for?” “Roll over, please” was her response.
Oh. Thats what a suppository is.
Seeing how this was going to be a little awkward, I tried to break the ice, so I told her “Listen, I don’t know if you have ever came across a hairy Arab/Italian, but once you roll me over you won’t know if you’re a nurse working with a patient or a veterinarian working with a god damn chimp.” She almost died of laughter. As far as the experience itself, it wasn’t that bad. It would have been much worse if it was performed by a 250lbs burly male nurse named Bubba.
The next day the doctor informed me that he decided to drain the abscess for a few days before operating on me. In order to properly place the drain, I had to go back into the CT Scan. Prior to the drain being inserted, an anaesthetic was applied to the skin. Thats only so the original puncture isn’t felt. But the fishing around looking for the abscess most certainly was.
Once the fluid started to drain into a bag I told the nurse and my cousin, who were standing by, that it looked like Thousand Island Dressing with chunks of cottage cheese. The nurse cracked up. My cousin almost vomited. To this day he can’t eat Thousand Island dressing.
A few days passed, and it was time for the surgery. I was taken downstairs to the operating room and was greeted by the anaesthesiologist and the surgeon. The surgeon looked and laughed just like Dr.Hibert from The Simpsons. I was thinking about all the horror stories I’ve heard about people waking up in the middle of surgery and feeling their internals being poked and prodded. So I told the anaesthesiologist I have a high tolerance to alcohol and sedatives. In turn, he upped the dosage. I was then given this mask and told to breath in the gas, so I can be calm and relaxed when I'm given the real stuff. They lied. It knocked me out cold instantly.
When I came to, which felt like a split second, the surgery was already completed. I had no idea where I was, or what was going on, and felt like I just got hit by a freight train. The first word out of my mouth was “damn”. And I kept on screaming it. Over and over. An old nurse with a the face of a horses ass rushed over, put me in a head lock, and told me I can’t swear. I told her I don’t care. Immediately after I said that, I blacked out. I don’t know what happened, but I have a feeling she choked me out. I had a scratch on my head the following day. If I had the ability to stand up I would’ve kicked her ass up and down that operating room.
During the surgery they cut me open, removed the appendix, the abscess, and flushed out my abdominal cavity. Two more drains were inserted into my side. I wasn’t given any stitches, but instead had a vacuum placed on the open wound to suck out any residual fluid. I looked like something straight out of The Matrix.
The next day the nurses forced me to get up and walk so I wouldn’t get any blood clots in my legs. It was only a short walk, just up and down a short hallway no more than 15 yards in length. Physically, it was probably the hardest thing I have ever done in my life. I think my story so far proves I’m not one to bitch about pain, but this was more than pain. My legs were telling me, “You can walk to the end of the hallway, but we’re staying right here.” It took me 20 minutes to walk those 15 yards. Some poor guy in a wheel chair got stuck behind me while I was hobbling with my IV rack. Why made it even worse was my hospital gown was open and he got a view of the full moon. Poor bastard, I made his already terrible day even worse.
Three days after the surgery, the vacuum was removed from the wound. I now could see what my stubbornness had done to my previously unblemished skin. I didn’t look at it the first day. Not really out of disgust, but out of shame. I was pissed at myself, this could have been avoided.
This type of incision could not be closed, and had to be left open. Twice a day it had to be packed with gauze and saline solution. I had to do this until it healed up completely, which ended up taking more than a month.
While in my room, I was visited by a nurse, who stopped by to show me how to properly pack the incision. When she removed the bandage and saw the wound for the first time, she started making cutesy sounds and said, “Awe, that nothing, its so tiny!” I hope she was looking at my incision and not under my gown when she was saying that.
I took her word for it and looked down to check it out. It wasn’t tiny. It was a steep canyon. Its not everyday you look at your stomach and can see the muscle fibers under your skin twitching. Looking back it actually wasn’t that big, but at the time, it seemed enormous. It was about four inches long, an inch across, and an inch deep. I was reminded of a fresh piece of steak sliced in half. Thats almost exactly what it looked like. I soon realized it wasn’t going anywhere, so I decided to embrace it. Seeing how it was a long, pink slit, I called it my “mangina”.
After spending eight days in the hospital, I was finally sent home. The whole ordeal lasted about 15 days, and in those 15 days I got most of my nutrition from an IV drip, as I wasn’t allowed to eat. I went from 195lbs all the way down to 160lbs. I’m 190cm tall, so I was already skinny to begin with. The day before this all went down, I was leg-pressing a 1000lbs - I had just reached my goal. My hairy butt was so muscular it looked like two ripe kiwis. But after what felt like getting hit by a bus, I was left with two dried up raisins. When I looked in the mirror, I could see all my ribs. My eyes sunk in even more than before. And I had these two drains sticking out of my side. I must say though, there is one advantage to being that skinny - it made my mini-me look enormous.
When I was in the hospital, I wouldn’t listen to any music, except for one song. I didn’t want associate any of the songs I liked with that experience, because every time I would hear them in the future I will be brought back to that room. This isn’t to say it was a traumatic experience - I’m too dense to be traumatized - but I like to associate music with good times. There is one song that I listened to over and over again, and that is “Broken, Beat, and Scarred” by Metallica. There couldn’t have been a better song to listen to. It actually made me feel better. I plan on tattooing a line from that song around my scar - “What don’t kill ya makes ya more strong!”
The very first thing I did when I got home was picked up my guitar and tried to work on some GMC lessons, I kid you not. But I couldn’t play anything, all the antibiotics made me too weak to fret the notes. It would be another three months before I picked up the guitar again. But here I am, going stronger than ever.
Remember, what doesn’t kill you will only make you stronger. So carry on.
Edited for language
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