I took a double dose of ganja goddess (ten milligrams sativa edible) today, and expect to do this twice a week – Sun-Day and Jupiter-Day; and, given than I am 80, and on a lot of materialist medicine (which has its virtues), I’m going to not take anything on goddess medicine days, even the Psyllium, although the rat poison Warfarin to keep my blood thin I still keep up, the regular visits to the Coagulation Clinic seem a sane move. I wonder if some of that drug makes me want to eat a lot of meat, and favor sweets.
Doctors are cautious, and to some degree self-police, yet … went to see my eye doctor yesterday. Annual checkup, paid by my retirement present from the Mother (aka: divine providence). I am so poor that between regular Social Security medical coverage, and my Mass-health, there sits a gate keeper, who manages the “money” stuff: Fallon Insurance.
How good is it? I don’t pay anything for drugs. No co-pay. Includes a gym program, … desirable for access to the pool, but my knees can’t handle the necessary walking. Twice in the last four years I had serious “medical issues”.
On one level, the ganja goddess played a role. It took me a while to understand what a “therapeutic level” was, or what was not, helpful. Between the two, which in each case involved several ambulance trips to the hospital – for which I never even saw a bill – there was what I learned by these experiences.
Before the Covid-Adventure, I tended to trust the doctors … that they knew what they were doing.
The first issue came about because I starting feeling faint, and dizzy. Enough so as to worry I might be having a heart-attack. It took three trips to the ER, plus some over-nights, for, in between visits two and three, the home physical therapist told me that I was using the wrong words, such as faint and dizzy. In each of the two prior ER trips, I walked up right into the box of their limits – most of which are institutional – the assumption was that I was having a heart-attack.
There followed much blood letting, and given my knees, a lot of awkward needs.
So, for a third time I took an ambulance to the hospital, the symptoms having continued after discharge 2. When a nurse, followed shortly by the Chief of the ER, stopped by to first talk to me, I said: “If you don’t pay attention to me, you are going to kill me. I not dizzy or faint, but I am weak and exhausted.“
Oh, not heart, gastrointestinal. I was given rest, watched-over, some fluids in a drip, and felt better. Here is the diagnosis, which I still find “fascinating”, as Spock would say: “Severe Protein Calorie Malnutrition”.
On a personal responsible level, I’d been doing too much ganja goddess, was not eating right at all, and my body had started to eat itself.
A secondary wonder was that this “diet” of many weeks, had gifted me with a loss of almost 65 lbs, down from 320 to 255.
On leaving from this admission, I had to wait in a fifth floor corridor for an orderly wheelchair driver to run me safely out of the hospital, … to my Lady waiting curbside. One of the interns, on the four man team which handled me this 3rd admission, was passing by, and stopped to say goodbye.
I thanked him, yet thought to ask him: “What with all the blood that was taken in the two prior visits, why did nobody notice how out of wack it was?” He looked down and to his right, mumbled a view technical terms in a soft voice. Looked a bit guilty, but knew he could not apologize given the entanglement of lawyers in our health care system.
As to the next personal teaching, … again my dark-side relationship with the ganja goddess was my responsibility. One day I felt is if my insides below my heart had fallen out. This was very frightening. The next day there were two more events, and a call to the ambulance (our town is small, the EMTs are becoming comrades).
As soon as possible, the one EMT that was with me in the back of our bouncing in pot holes light and siren vehicle, hooked me up to electrodes. Not too long afterward he is excitedly yelling at the driver to pull over, as he is capturing another drop out event.
Shortly I am in the ER. The name is ventricular tachycardia (V-tach) – a far too fast heart beat. I am hooked up and parked in an empty examine room. The place is busy, I will be moved to a “floor”. At one point a young man, wearing a white coat, stands for a moment in the curtained passage-way. I am in the dark, the light shines from behind him – I see a shape more than features.
He asks me if I know the name of my doctor. I offer what comes to mind. He reacts/pauses, and then after some thought offers this: “He is an interventionist.” On later reflection, I knew Him – my advisor. He had visited me as a youth just before I entered the USAF Academy, advising me to keep my head down, and as much as possible avoid being noticed.
Even given my dark-side ganja-influence, an additional symptomatic element was that I had just – inadvertently (?) – poisoned myself. I had the day before eaten three slices of what I had thought was “gluten free” bread, and was now in full blown distress few can imagine. Significantly bloating of abdomen, with increasing incontinence.
I came spiritually armed, but was still alarmed with the unknown. For virtue’s sake, I had my previous hospitalization’s experience of the ER’s need to make a preliminary diagnosis. Of even great virtue I had just read – twice – Tom Cowan’s “Human Heart, Cosmic Heart, A Doctor’s Quest to Understand, Treat, and Prevent Cardiovascular Disease”.
Brought to the right floor, I was visited by a surgeon and his two interns. When I explained my gluten poisoning, the interns laughed and spoke aloud what a wonderful paper that would be, if true.
The surgeon, my interventionist, leaned in and said: “Association does not prove causality”.
That night I was prepared for surgery in the morning, to take a peak inside my heart by instruments of technological wonder. They were to look for some kind of damage in the cells to support the diagnosis, of which there turned out to be no chemical confirmation. The surgeon also looked around and decided I needed a third stent, having two from two previous heart attacks that had occurred in an ER at the same time, in another town, ten years ago.
My snarky-self thought, while inside he had to do something, didn’t he? Meanwhile, my gluten trauma continues.
Anyway, I was soon advised to get a pacemaker-defibrillator installed in my left shoulder chest asap. So, this was done the next day. Meanwhile, my poisoned bowels continued their ravages, and were not much attended to by doctors or staff, except to keep me clean, and awake. No rest in a hospital what with all the hookups and probing.
Have aliens abducted me?
On the third sleepless night, self poisoned, off my ganja, a hole in my chest, and full of god only knows what chemicals, I was in such despair, that I felt Her there.
I was comforted by the Luminous Dark, and I asked whether She would take me if I wanted? She said yes. Clearly I had to decide. My first thought was what this would mean for my Lady?, … yet seemed a bit off. Then I had the idea that I wasn’t finished loving her, and wanted to stay around doing that. So I said, no.
I was sent home, and Fallon folk paid for a team of home-care workers to visit, keep the wound properly cared for, and begin some physical therapy. I was also supposed to keep my left arm in a device of torture, so that it wouldn’t move.
The problem is this person needs his left arm for leverage all the time. Since there will be a lot of time in bed, and what with too many trips to the necessary, I choose not to wear the arm-sling of arm-slings.
The wound had trouble closing. I knew it was a problem, but Cowan had made me think, and I had to trust my own judgment. At one point the wound-care ladies started seeing the wires from that device, and soon there was a trip to the hospital to remove that treasure, which my body seemed not to like.
While there, the interventionist wanted to insert another mechanism at the same time as the first was removed, this time in the right shoulder area. He insisted, even though I wondered how, with both shoulders unusable, I could care for my behind. So I asked for a second opinion. He said who, and I said my cardiologist was fine.
He was forty miles away … I think it was a Sunday afternoon … and when he arrived we talked. By the way, except for their first night in the hospital there had been no further events. Even the talisman, inserted in my chest, had me hooked up to monitors, and something that would record stuff via wifi magic.
So we were there together, me and my main heart guy – a fine elderly genial man. I asked questions. He gave advice. Near the end I asked him what data did they have on folks like me, who didn’t take the machine inside. He said they didn’t know, they didn’t keep track.
They didn’t know. I’ve had no events since, although inadvertently misread a label, and ate some wheat a couple of months ago. I do have a nice scar, however.
These hospitalizations have made me aware, on multiple levels, how much this Covid-Ordeal exhausts both patient, doctor, nurse, orderly and so forth.
I am fairly certain that the deaths in old folks homes are due to a very bad flu, among people already tired of life, and perhaps themselves wounded by surgeries, and efforts to treat their dementia. They lack the will to live, which is not their fault, their lives often already exhausting and boring.
In the dark they meet Her, and are comforted. Can I go, they ask. Sure, She says.
As to ER’s, they already have an answer for the severe cases of the flu – the pandemic. No need, or time, to look further. That experience adding stress to folk, who enter these halls already worried they will die.
A wall of stuff, making touch impossible, surrounds them, and they are attached to devices to keep them alive. And given medicine, as best that the front-line medical workers know how.
The weight of living and breathing grows, the will to live weakens. They are suffocating. My heart’s mind believes this is one of the seven stages of the passion of Christ, which we call the crucifixion.
I am fairly certain that, in the aftermath in the next few years, the weaknesses of greed, and power, and ignorance will be seen. No there was no pandemic, but an epic flu that is due to all the poisons in are soil, our food, our air, our water, and in our toxic social life … the tyranny of debt money banking, and to be horrible trained to be a mere worker and consumer, instead of being educated.
She and He – the Mystery of Divine Providence dancing with the Artist of Karma – have stopped “Western” civilization in its tracks. Opening gateways of wonder to futures yet to be imagined.
Meanwhile I listen and read medical heretics, and do my own thinking. I discover that Wohan China, the alleged birthplace of the “virus”, was one of the cities in China, with the worst levels of air pollution. Many Chinese are smokers. And just recently this city was gifted with a huge roll-out of 5G cell phone towers.
That’s on top of one of the mostly repressive and controlling governments ever in China’s history, taking full advantage of CTV cameras, and with facial recognition if you don’t look happy, you might get a visit from the neighborhood Party official.
The pandemic dropped a huge load of more stress on populations already over-stressed. Fear of death makes people do stuff, which on more sober reflection they might not do. Children’s dreams of the future are stolen. Meanwhile, a very few already rich with riches billionaires get even richer.
There never will be a return to what once was.
Can there even be hope for humanity’s future? Of course. It is just that when a civilization dies into a new becoming the ride is full of woe and treachery. As a nurse said to me on one of my recent hospitalizations: “There really are evil people in the world”.
Hope, faith, charity, … those qualities are ours to create. Meanwhile, She with He, are baptizing us in fire and holy breath. The school of hard knocks and shared pain still exists. Yet, at the same time, new communities are being born. We endure. We learn. The future is not written.