Where I Remember the Important Things

Posted on September 14, 2011 by Randy

Something happened between now and when I left NYC, nearly a year ago. I am not sure of what it was, but I know it was/is destructive. I left NYC not just to see the world and the places I have always dreamed of seeing before it was too late, but also because I sought another option. I refused to see the five year sentence I was given as the only way. I was open to any other possibility. Another way. From countless medical professionals I kept hearing “you will not get better.” And while I can not deny that this was a huge possibility, I refused to give in to this reductive thinking. I refused to accept that this was the only way.

And I did just that. I found many things that have inhibited the further decay of my kidneys. I actually raised my GFR numbers, something my doctor told me was impossible. I refused to let his reductive thinking beat me.

Then over the past six weeks or so I forgot about the person who believed any of this. I lost my way. I got stuck in the silt of a swiftly moving river, with no way out and rising water almost overtaking me, as soon as even the idea that my Lupus may have returned. It crippled me. No wonder my body is failing me. I had gone from having faith that a solution may be out there, that I could find another way of living, to living an existence based on the very flawed concept of determinism.

I went from struggling to accepting, without even blinking. I gave into the notion that my prescribed path of dialysis and ultimate quick death was a ever swiftly increasing nonnegotiable fact. I shed a major part of who I have recently blossomed into being and became a sad shadow of myself. And really, I think that is mostly what happened. I became so depressed by recent events that I allowed myself to plummet back into wondering just how long I have left, spiraling downwards just because my Lupus is back.

What could be worse for me to think right now? Why do I tempt fate by giving it an opening to afflict me again? Why do I forget that, even though it was under rather dramatic circumstances, which I refuse to put myself through again, I beat this beast once? With concentrated effort coupled with Tibetan medicine I must believe I can do it again. Anything else is hopeless. And I am not hopeless. If I was, I never would have started this journey.

My nephologist told me that going into remission again is near impossible. As stated above, he also told me raising my GFR numbers was impossible. Yet I did. So just why should I believe him now? Why should I remain in his shallow area of thinking where his desire to treat my Lupus will harm another portion of me? How is this even an option, let alone the only one?

So in order to twist myself out of this funk I have made a big choice. No longer will I stew in the bile of western medical ideology where the plan — “there is no plan B” — consists of something that may “heal” one of my conditions while irrevocably doing damage to me elsewhere. This line of thought is unacceptable. Totally and Completely. I am not going to go so far as to fire my western doctor, but he is no longer going to be whom I refer to as my primary care doctor. As I continue to delve into the Tibetan medical tradition in order to understand it on a physical, mental and spiritual level, I keep coming back to the essential idea that the patient is responsible for his/her own recovery. My primary doctor should only be a guide for my journey to a more healthful existence.

So far my Tibetan doctor has been just this. My western doctors…. not so much.

I am not suggesting that jettisoning western meds in favor of Tibetan meds will cure me or even make my life easier. I have no idea if this will be the effect, but I know just embracing a system that empowers me as the patient, rather than speaks down to me as the ignorant patient, has lead to a swell of hopefulness and likely better health (currently waiting on results from my latest 2 week battery of Tibetan meds*). But once I made this decision two week, I was instantly transported to a far better place mentally than I have been in months. And this HAS to count for something.

As I continue to delve into the Tibetan med tradition, in order to understand it on a physical, mental, and spiritual level, I keep coming back to the idea that the patient is responsible for his/her recovery. My doctor is just a knowledgeable guide on my journey back towards health. And so far she has provided me with a map of well being that I would be extremely foolish to forgo in favor of a more destructive, invasive western treatment that would gurantee further complications. Umm… these are what I want to avoid. My Tibetan doctor’s treatmetns allow for choice. She never dictates to me. She does push me towards the health of my whole being, complete being rather than just in one area, but that is her job.

She does not just focus on medicine based treatment. And neither should I.

* Since I wrote this my results from using the Tibetan meds for two weeks have come in. The level of protein in my urine stayed the same for the 1st time on months. While this is not ideal, decreasing numbers would be idea, it is very very welcome, as before the kept rising so swiftly. Exponentially.
I also got some amazing news on my GFR numbers. They went up a point to 47. Or exactly one point below where they were in June of last year.
So yes, the next battery of Tibetan meds begins on the 22nd.

Posted in i want to live, lupus, things I've learned | Tagged , , , , | Leave a comment

Remission, Just a Fools Game, part 3

Posted on August 21, 2011 by Randy

Part 1
Part 2

After spending a whole day bemoaning the return of unwanted interbody hostilities, where I rejected even the most basic notion of getting out of bed, I used Friday to find some sort of escape for the weekend. I wound up at a monastery, where I shed my ties to the modern world and grasped held of the positive energy there to help me rise above the crushing wave of despondency.

It was hard, but I did not drown.

Through lots of meditation and inner inquisitiveness I reacquainted myself with the concept that allowed me to leap into life saving mode before: extra time. I looked around me and realized had I given up at the beginning of 2010 — which had a serious appeal at the time, like how one often wants to touch a flame — had I not opted for the nuclear option, I would in no way have experienced most of the ups and downs of the past year, if not two years.

I kept hearing my at the time doctor’s voice telling me “if you do not do this I don’t think we will have a doctor/patient relationship a year from now.” He was not trying to fire me as a patient. He was telling me I would soon die without agreeing to change my treatment. A few weeks later I agreed and we scheduled C-Day. And because it worked, because I did not give up, did not quit, I am still here.

So I view anytime after February 2010 as extra time, life I would not have had access to without making a change. And this last weekend, I actually made myself laugh out loud – so hard that I both startled and embarrassed myself – when i realized that I allowed this moment, all this dread, this despair at my current state of health, to occur. Not giving up, jumping into the unknown, was necessary to get me to this state that echos where I was two and a half years ago. I find this incredibly funny.

After I stopped laughing, and it took a while, I really started to consider exactly what it means to have had this extra time. To have chosen to live over the alternative. I have been allowed to travel, to much of the world that only existed in pictures/books/movies/etc. I have meet amazing people that I never would have had the chance to enjoy. I was able to fall madly in love.

It also allowed me to expunge the the toxic, corrosive self that even I spent far too much time numbing my mind to get away from. I got to understand there is joy in just being alive, something that escaped me entirely in my 33 years prior. And it allowed me to invest my time in others, help where I was able and basically become someone that I am proud of. Before, I was never proud of myself. I loathed myself, often not so silently. That has dissipated.

I have become a better person in the two and half years since. In the time I both coined and experienced extra time. So the question now is how do I keep this trend going. I used this to buoy me, anchor me, assure I was not swept under the typhoon of despair that tugged me down this weekend. I looked at last time I was faced with impending doom and saw I was able to stay afloat, so I looked inward for my personal flotation device, and I began to tread water. But how can I keep this as an anchor as I continue to progress away from it?

There is a myth about me. That I am strong. That I can weather a storm sans raincoat and have none of my strength erode, even if that storm spews from a volcano. I am sure I have done much to cultivate this myth. For the longest time I even believed it. I thought that I did my best work under extreme pressure. That not folding under pressure was sort of my super power. But I have always folded. Given up things when they became hard, demanded I struggle to achieve them, rather than just get them. But all the same I have heard so many times “you are the strongest person I know” or a facsimile thereof.

I bring this up now because even though I found a fulcrum, a maypole, to attach my hopes on — that I will get better, that I can beat this again, etc… — I feel hopeless. Like my flotation device is a tauntly filled balloon now, but ready to become that sad flimsy balloon that you find behind the couch three months after the party is over. I feel deep within me that this is where I plunge over the waterfall. Even with all the positive thoughts I have cultivated in the past year. Even with an anchor as strong as extra time, I feel like I have used up my “do overs” and am back to having to deal with reality, that my extra time is finite.

I have always know this. But like any sensible person I choose to bask in the possible rather than the probable. I saw the developments of the alternative therapies I found in India as being the start of something new. Something better. I thought I had found my yellow sun, my green ring, my speed force, the cause of my ever desired superpower. But, and this is a big but, I found time to be me, to exist in a bubble where things looked promising. And well, I sort of have the feeling that this life is not supposed to be about promising. That there is a lesson I need to be learning, but I am ever so obtuse and incapable of seeing what it is.

So while I will continue to use the notion of extra time to enjoy every moment I still reside on this giant orb, I also must say that I scared shitless about what comes next. In two days of this round of Tibetan medicine, I have felt no shift, no tremendous momentum that I felt the last two times I used them. I am not counting it out, I am just expressing my disappointment.

Once again, my future seems ambivalent. And while I can certainly see where some might see that as inspiring and even great, I have spent too much time caught in this well to see it as anything than walls closing in on me. I do not currently have the energy to even contemplate what this means. For the past two and half months I have spent an inordinate about of time just lying in bed. Even when I was doing my TEFL class last month, I spent far more time lying down than I did in the months preceding it. My body has been telling me it is suffering since I visited Ankor Wat. I just was tuned to another channel. I forgot to listen.

But at the same time the only light I can see from this well is up. And I must try and climb. Or else the great strides I have made over the last few years will all be for naught. Only, I have no ladder, no rope, and I have never been known for climbing. I need help.

The myth of my strength is that I could do it all on my own. when asked how I could get through something? How I could deal? I would tell them that I had little choice. That not dealing was failing, or something quite similar. I would say it with a pumped up chest, and if I had tail feathers they would be aflutter and spread out for all to see. But I never believed it. It was simply a pose. An act.

I always had help, even when I would disguise it from others.

But now…. Now I need that help. If you have ever met me, you know if I am asking for help, well I sure as hell need it, as I never do it. I am finally at the point where I can no longer trudge against this alone. But that is what I am, even with the people I have met here.

So while I concentrate on the extra time I have given myself and the person I want to stay (not the person I am afraid that I might become). I ask all of you to send as many good vibes my way. A rope, a ladder, or even a golden lasso would be ever so appreciated too. I know where ever I am I am not alone, just sometimes — the dark times — I need to be reminded of this.

Posted in disappointment, lupus | Tagged , , , | 3 Comments

Remission, Just a Fools Game, part 2

Posted on August 20, 2011 by Randy

Part 1

Like being stuck watching an awful sequel to a movie that you never even wanted to see in the first place, my Lupus is back. I got the news late last Wednesday night. And after five days of sleepless nights, I took this to bed with me and finally slept. I slept all night through. But it was really just a restless sleep. I woke up early. I woke up thirsty, parched for sleep.

I tried to meditate. Tried. I could not focus on my breathing. I could not turn off the what ifs, the how comes, and the general sense of despondency that populated my mind. So instead I walked. I tried to take in the sights of the old city section of Chiang Mai. Tried.

All I really could do was want to fast forward time to the time I had agreed to call my doctor. I needed to hear what my options were. I needed to hear him tell me this was beatable. That remission again was around the corner. That he had misread the results.

I need/ed what is clearly impossible.

That basically sums up the six word memoir of my life.

I wanted to eat, but my stomach was a mess, so I opted for a passion fruit juice and then to just eat the minutes, like a glass full of ice chips, till I needed to call.

When I finally got off the phone, err skype, I could not convince myself to get off my bed. I laid listlessly there all day. Flipping between the 8 bad English language TV stations available to me. In fact, I did not even take a shower till 5 PM when I realized I had to get up to go to dinner with a friend. Just listening to the synopsis of what came next was too damaging. My doctor recommended that I combat this new development with Adenosine. Let me rephrase that, my Nephrologist thinks I should take Adenosine. Adenosine, which will tank my GFR score, or you know destroy all the good I’ve done for myself and my kidneys over the past year.

So, yeah, as you can guess I am less than happy about this.

But before that begins, this morning I started to take Tibetan medicine from my doctor in Mcleod Ganj. I have two weeks worth of pills — and some serious dietary restrictions — to take before I have my next blood test, to see if they can control the rising proteins.

If not I have to decide if I want to leap off a cliff, where my GFR numbers seemingly will fall faster than me, to help correct this. My doctors words: “If we do nothing, they will likely fall faster,” well that and the lupus would metastasize and my chances of becoming the “angry me” again grows exponentially. I can not take Prednisone, which would be the ideal solution because it is what ate my bone and forces me to use a cane. So I hold out hope that the Tibetan meds work. That they can control this and while the Lupus will remain in my blood, it will be contained.

My doctor told me not to get my hopes up for going back into remission, as if the chemo treatment could not ensure it, the chances of it happening through some other means is just not very good. So containment is the best possible case here. And to be perfectly honest, I would be thrilled to death with that.

Also, I am not at all disturbed that i would be thrilled to death with containment, or you know an official American cold war policy that was both an extension of the myth of Manifest Destiny and tied up all the isms & phobias (sex, race/homo, xeno, etc) up in a tightly tied bow, shook them like loaded dice, making sure none came out. And those that did, well a certain McCarthy had an idea where they could go in the states and a Marshall had ways of ensuring US hegemony abroad. Yeah… not disturbed at all….

Posted in disappointment, lupus | Tagged , , , , | 1 Comment

Remission, Just a Fools Game, part 1

Posted on August 19, 2011 by Randy

There is a song, that I am sure most of you have heard, by Bonnie Tyler called It’s a Heartache. I feel these lyrics infinitely capture my last week:

“It’s a heartache/Nothing but a heartache/Hits you when it’s too late/Hits you when you’re down
It’s a fool’s game/Nothing but a fools game/Standing in the cold rain/Feeling like a clown”

And not because I am still nursing a shattered heart, but because my Lupus is back.

And as much as I understand this song is about the soul crushing loss of a lover, I keep coming back to this line: “It ain’t right with love to share/When you find he doesn’t care for you/It ain’t wise to need someone/As much as I depended on you,” and thinking it maybe the easiest way to discuss how I currently feel about my body.
My body the traitor.
My body that aspires to eat me from within.
My body, who after years of self abuse and my flagrant disregard for, I thought we had come to a peace, where our desires could coexist.

Alas, I was wrong.

One of the biggest lessons I learned after my trans-formative adventures in chemotherapy was that the great Marshall Mcluhan was absolutely right: “the medium is the message”. Or that it is impossible not to mimic the self destructiveness that your body exhibits. See, for the first 34 years of my life i learned from my home life and my body that self destruction/sabotage/wtfever were normal, if not required actions. When your own body is attacking you, eating vital organs, feasting on your life, it is impossible to ignore – even when you are unaware this is going on.

This is your body, of course there is a connection. Just think how floored you can be when you are tired, have a headache, or the flu. It affects everything you do. It influences your actions, all of them. When something is amiss inside, it manifests itself outwardly. So as my body devoured my kidneys before, my behavior became unacceptable. I learned from it that I was not worth being healthy. And from there the snowball mounted, pushing me further into belief that I did not deserve the important things in life: happiness, joy, love, etc. And as someone that seriously believed this, let me tell you, once you start down this line of thinking, you begin to actively blow up any path that even looks like it might lead to anything other than misery. So much in fact that I wonder if the self destructive nature is that elusive machine of perpetual motion that seems unobtainable.

I bring this all up now because the past two and a half years has been the story of me exiting this pupa of misery and becoming a person that actively cultivated a desire for happiness, joy, & love. And often times even found them. Yes it has been trying at times, but where I in the past would destroy the chances I had at any of those things, now I consult maps on how to get there quicker. Hell, I catch myself smiling all the time now. Not just when I look in reflective surfaces, but I can feel it on my face. And when I do I do not rush to bury it in a frown or a flat stoic expression as I did in the past. I enjoy it. I enjoy this tiny reminder that I so fundamentally shifted myself that I can now enjoy things rather than slicing and dicing them open to find any and all imperfections to complain about.

The news that my lupus has returned — that remission was just a matinee feature — has filled me with dread. But not exactly from the health concerns. I mean really, I have gotten to the point where I am on point with what is happening with my kidneys. Sure I was able to prevent them from dying as quickly as was predicted, but just in the nature of me being alive they are dying. And unlike most of you, mine will not outlast me. The nature of all kidneys are to die. They do not regenerate like the liver. This development most likely will bring about that death faster than I would prefer, but… I have made my peace with this. It is what it is.

No the dread is about how scared I am that the self destructive nature of Lupus will build, become insurmountable, and take me with it — erasing the person I have worked so hard to become. That this dread feels so omnipresent only goes to confirm this. And would I even be able to live with myself if I slip back into the kind of person I was before. That person that seems to loom on the horizon like a cresting storm…

There is that heartache again…

Here is my favorite version of It’s a Heartache done ever so wonderfully by the very under appreciated Wellington International Ukulele Orchestra:

(The next two posts will detail my options and how I am trying to reassert and anchor my positivity.)

Posted in disappointment, lupus | Tagged , , , , , , , | 6 Comments

A Leviathan Returns?

Posted on August 6, 2011 by Randy

Yesterday I restarted my bi-monthly hyperbaric treatments. I was really hoping it would have the restorative powers it often has had in the past. I needed a kick. Only it was not to be. I am either still quite felled by heartbreak, or what I truly do not wish for has happened.

My past three monthly blood tests to chart my GFR numbers (which thankfully have remained a steady 46) have shown a development that I have been quite the head burying ostrich about. The protein levels in my urine have been steadily rising. What does that mean? Well due to my history it seems the most likely cause is that I am no longer in remission: my Lupus is back.

Just typing that seems too much to me. I have an overwhelming desire to just run away from the computer, and if there was not a torrential monsoon downpour out right now, I likely would.

After the success of the chemo I was sure I had made a deal with my body. I would treat it well and it would keep my Lupus locked away in my DNA and out of my blood. It would leave it where it did me no active harm. Now I am afraid my body did not listen to me. That it has reverted back to trudging on without a care for my wants/needs.

After two solid years of the Lupus being driven from my body, I had gotten quite used to it being gone. I let myself believe that it was gone for good. I let myself believe that I had bested something, one thing, that was consuming my body. It was a major victory. It left me in such a better place both physically and emotionally. I felt like a warrior who had slayed a dragon. I opened a door that read possible and never looked back.

But now….
Now I feel like I walked though a door of unlimited potential only to find me butting up against a horizon that never moved. A wall, I could not see.

My doctor said when the first indication came in 3.5 months back that it was likely nothing, but he would monitor it carefully. I thought nothing of it and went about my way even forgetting all about this. Well until the next month. Again the levels rose, I started to become concerned. I had believed it would just go away. But it did not. It rose again. Faster than the month before. Then one month later I got tested in Cambodia. And while it amazingly cost me just over $5, they were unequipped to do all the tests I needed. So I had to wait 15 days till I returned to Thailand to get the latest results. By this time I was worried. I asked them to send the results directly to my doctor as I could not deal with the moments of wondering looking at the stats until he replied to me. I needed to know but I certainly did not want to know. My gut told me they would be bad.

And when I got the message from my doctor, I let it sit in my inbox for over a day. And when I did read it I wished I had not. I read this line over and over again, till it was burned into my retinas: “If it continues to rise at this level next month, we will have to work on the assumption that the lupus is back.” My heart started beating all irregular. I thought this must be what it feels like to fall off a cliff trying to think of a way to avoid impact.

I did everything to avoid thinking about it all last month. It did not work. To cope I returned to the water & food consumption directions that my renal dietitian gave me. The ones I had earlier in the year tossed out as balderdash as I was not getting any worse and losing weight at such an alarming clip. The ones I totally ignored. They now seemed sacrosanct.

I even purposely set up my vitals test for the last day of the week to prolong not knowing, plowing my head deeper and deeper into the ground.

All this is clearly effecting my mental health something awful. The person who opened that possible door and leapt across the threshold last year and kept running all this year seems to be hibernating and I am left with questions that will only prolong this state: What happens if it goes from “it is possible your Lupus is back” to “your Lupus has returned”? How will I cope with this? How can I cope with this? How will I be able to marry prolonging the life of my kidneys with fighting the lupus?

I asked my doctor this exact question only to receive the less than reassuring response along the lines of “lets wait and see if it is back for sure before we worry about that.”

So now I sit here in a cafe on a Saturday afternoon, dodging a torrential downpour, visibly counting the days on my fingers till i know: Sunday. Monday. Tuesday. Wednesday. Four.

And just like that I have another huge variable to account for as I plan my future. A variable that only makes sense with the value of hopeless. See just how much this is effecting my mental health. This is who I used to be. Not the person I have become.

I spent last night and most of today vividly remembering the days I waited for the results of my kidney biopsy last June and the days of utter despondency when I found out just how far along my kidney failure was. That despondency is echoed today. I feel overwhelmed by it all over again. At least then I had friends nearby who made sure I was not sinking past the point of no return. Even as I disengaged from them even more after I got the word, as I realized I had to change everything and leave, seek out a better future, they were there to physically support me. Now I feel all alone. I feel like I am finally being tested to see if I am as strong as I have always presented myself as. As I think I am.

Being an ex-pat is extremely hard in this way. You meet people, share intense experiences with them and then move on. The foundations of friendship are surely there, but the emotional attachment one needs is absent. I never knew how hard it would be to not just pick up the phone and call my friend Matthew, which I have done pretty much at least weekly for the past 20 years.

So am I supposed to prove to myself that I am as strong as other believe me to be? How? I am no longer that hard ridged individual that ushers everyone out when something hard or serious is about to happen. I am no longer that person who refused people’s help/support when I underwent chemo or even when I got my kidney diagnoses. I now deeply regret that I did not allow people to be around me during those exceedingly hard times, or any of the many other situations I closed myself off from help. I used to draw my strength from a stoic version of individualism that made my Germanic roots point and laugh as even they thought it was all a bit much. Now I need people, and I just do not have those I need nearby.

And if I am flipping out now with just the potential of my Lupus being active again, what will happen if, as I truly suspect, I get word that it is back and this ______________ is what we need to do? That I am even questioning this out loud says quite a bit about how much this worries me. Normally my worry is done completely in my head where it can not bother anyone but me. But this worry has engulfed me too much to let it continue to ricochet and damage my insides. I had to let it out.

So sometime on Tuesday or Wednesday I am expecting a message that I really want to avoid. But as I learned when I avoided going to the doctor for years, as the Lupus swelled within me and its wolves consumed my kidneys, stalling is not the answer. Not confronting this is akin to disaster. So here I am at ground zero, waiting for the bomb to fall… not fun, but necessary.

I will let you all know what I hear.

Posted in i want to live, questions | Tagged , , , , , , , | 6 Comments

Rescuing a Heart Dismissed

Posted on August 4, 2011 by Randy

One year ago today I met Gaby, the love of my life. We went to see the amazing film Orlando then walked clear across Manhattan talking, getting to know each other. As fates had it, we took the subway to the exact same stop. She went south and I north, but not before I quickly suggested we see each other again that coming Friday — immediately canceling plans that I already had. She quickly agreed.

And nearly ever since whenever she is not around, I deeply wish she was. At every new taste, scent, sight, and experience I find on my travels I want to share them with her. Not through photos, not though stories, not though computers, but actually have her near me, next to me, finding the new together. I wake up and fall asleep to thoughts of her, even when I slept next to her. At many times on my trip, I have even spoken to her, as if she is next to me, hoping that the winds were kind enough to sweep my voice across the ocean to her.

She, like me, has made the leap from living in the states. She moved to Brazil shortly after leaving me in India. Unbeknownst to her, I had planned to fly to Brazil today to see her, to celebrate her, to present her with every ounce of love I have to give, to rekindle my love that burned with such fabulous fury. And if it burned brighter than anything I had ever experienced before, which I assumed it would, I planned to ask her to marry me.

I began making these plans just a bit more than two months ago. I was going to ask a mutual friend to invite her out and surprise her. In my mind it would be this perfect rendezvous. Even better than when she walked out of the doors of the Mumbai airport and into my arms, where the air was charged with so much electricity that I nearly fell over moving as quickly as I could towards her. She told me our embrace brought many others waiting for their friends or family to a stop, either in awe or envy. I did not notice them, I was far too enveloped by her presence.

But… A few nights before I was to head to the Brazilian embassy to get my visa she slayed my heart. She told me she did not love me as I loved her. She was not in love with me. And had not been for quite some time. I sank faster than an anvil in the dark moonless night, sinking in the mighty Pacific Ocean which separated us.

Rather than go to the embassy, I did what I do when my world collapses. I got sick. A nasty sinus infection floored me and just like so many times before, my body began to fail me. I just could not make sense of this. How could it be that I fell so thoroughly hard for someone and she was not able to fall back? It was/is a total gut punch. One that has left my entrails all over the ground from Phnom Phen to Chiang Mai.

My heart aches. So much.

I know this will sound silly to some, but I have never loved a human this much before. I have never loved someone even remotely like this. Never. The only time I have ever experienced this sort of emotion before a feline was involved. And while I love cats more that anything on earth, only really special cats like Nico and Helter.

Part of me, a huge portion really, wants nothing more to get on a plane and try and resuscitate what clearly has died in Gaby’s heart. But that part of me, the foolish, romantic part of me was over ruled by the one that truly understands that this is the end. One from which I somehow have to figure out how to walk again.

So I look towards something else. Anything else. But I keep only seeing that hazy fuzz that everything turns into, disappears, when you stare at one object for too long. And unlike anytime in my life before this, I am choosing to try and see this as an opening rather than the walls all falling in around me that it feels like.

The new positive me wants to burst forth from a gestating phoenix’s egg, but the shadow of me that has kept me company for 36 years does not know how to do this. It keeps trying to pull me back into the digestive hole of utter despair.

Ever since my first foray into the hyperbaric chamber where my health so unexpectedly started to improve and I saw myself with a future outside the limits given to me by western medicine, I began to hope and plan for a life in Brazil. Mind you, I never wanted to live in Brazil before this. Visit sure, but not live there. But Gaby could have convinced me to live beneath an active volcano as long as she was there with me. I began to write my future in Portuguese.

Mind you, I know next to no Portuguese, but I was more than willing to learn.

The irony of so much of how we grew apart is nearly enough to kill me. When I had to return to NYC completely unexpectedly to deal with a problem with my Indian visa, is when my love for Gaby grew in leaps and bounds. Yes, before I left I knew I loved her, but not quite like it felt when I returned. It blossomed far more than I ever thought would ever be possible. I swelled, as if filled with all the helium in the world, when she opened the door to her apartment after I flew all night, hardly sleeping, full of the pins and needles of anticipation. She had to rush off to work, but all I could think of, while wearing her pink winter hat that so did not suit me in the slightest (remember I had given away all my winter clothes), was how ecstatic I was to be in the presence of the one I truly and unconditionally loved. Nothing else mattered. And when my visa mix up continued and turned my unanticipated three and half day NYC adventure into three weeks, I was secretly greatful. I got extra time with her and nothing, nothing, could make that anything less than divine.

But I have come to find out that is when she realized that she did not burn with the same passion for me. So as I basked in her amazing presence, she began moving on, setting forth her future in Brazil. Sadly, one I am not a part of other than as a dearly loved friend.

Gaby is also the only person I have ever dated that I so clearly saw a future with over five years. Prior to her entering my life, I never was able to get past the five year plateau with anyone else. What is the five year plateau you ask? Well, with everyone else I could always see me with them tomorrow, clear as day. But as I imagined us further and further in the future their presence kept getting cloudier & cloudier or was absent all together. No one ever made it to five years from now, even as I quite wanted a few of them too. With Gaby, while I did not see us at 80 together — I just do not think I will live that long — she breached the previous uncrossed five year event horizon, at no less than warp speed. I could easily see us in five, ten, fifteen years. Not only that, but I could easily see my love for her continue to grow each day. I never doubted it for a moment.

I wish I could capture just how amazing she is in words. Only, mere words can not meet this challenge. Either that or I am just not that apt a wordsmith. I really wish I could communicate to her how amazing I think she is. I have tried and failed to do this so many times. I am incapable. This saddens me greatly.

But all of this is of course sickeningly painful, as up till five/six months ago five years was really all the time I thought I had as a normally mobile person. I often wonder if it is because my future is so precarious that I was so open to fall in love so hard with someone, that for the first time ever, I finally understood the appeal of marriage. Did I need someone to challenge me to find a path where if I did not get better at least I would stall my kidney failure.

I can not lie, when I heard the amazing words from the Oracle of MUNI, it was Gaby that forced me to listen and not haphazardly ignore them. I discovered the clinic in Chennai only because I was so desperate for something, anything to work, to fix me, so I could be able to share any extra years it would give me with her. I was already committed to exploring Ayurvedic medicine while I was in India  (which failed miserably), but listening to a blind soothsayer on a MUNI bus, well I am pretty sure I would not have been so open to listening to her words, dismissed her as a crazy person, had I not had someone I wanted to cling to. It kills me more than I can say that I discovered this clinic and began to plan my trip around it just as she was realizing I was not “the one.”

Again, I am forced to think that the universe enjoys laughing at me.

The worst part of all this: I feel that I am not being the person I need to be to support her now. I have had to withdraw from our normal communication patterns as I can not deal with this much concentrated sadness. See, when she left me in India I decided that no matter what happened (and I even told her to move on without me, that I was nothing more than an anchor whose health issues would weigh her down) I would spend the rest of my life ensuring her happiness and enabling her potential to grow beyond the bounds of her imagination.

And well in the weeks since I have failed at this. Miserably. And that just guts me all over again.

A few friends have asked me why I do not seem mad at her. And this just confuses me. Why would I be angry at someone who is following their heart. Sure I am disappointed that the path her heart is taking her on does not lead to me, but anger has no place here. I can only hope that she continues to move towards happiness and fulfillment and finds someone that she loves that loves her even half as much as I do. I gave her ever ounce of me to fall in love with. In ways I never imagined I would with anyone. I squeezed myself till I was dry as a factory filled with Melba Toast. And if it was not enough to capture her heart, well… I am just not the person she is meant to fall in love with. As much as that sucks, as much as it continues to fillet me to my core, it is what it is.

The question for me now is whatever do I do now? I am no longer bound by this five year mentality due to hyperbaric chambers and the wonders of Tibetan medicine. And as I have had an amazingly good run in Asia, I am opting to stay. France does not call me near as much as it did a year ago. So I am currently trying to find a teaching job that pays me enough to bank a considerable about of cash, so that I can travel more unencumbered by financial pressure/reality and then return to Mcleod Ganj and volunteer to teach Tibetan refugees English. Other than Brooklyn, it is the only place I have ever felt at home.

As for today, what ever could I do to make up for the idea that I totally expected to be on a plane and have that amazing rendezvous… well I treated myself all day to things. A massage. An expensive dinner. Even a beer. I also bathed in the absolute melancholia of the broken hearted love songs from my Magnetic Fields collection. Today was about mourning, something I had tried to stall, hoping it was all just a bump in the road, a horrible dream, a mistake. I doubt I will ever be able to love Gaby less than I do currently, but I have to move on. I have to find a beacon within myself that I can use to want to get better. I have to get to a place where I can be all I want to be for Gaby, without being dashed into pieces against the sharp and jagged rocks.
Clearly I am not there yet, but maybe I’ll be closer to that place tomorrow. I hope so.

And Gaby, please remember that I love you in every possible way. For eternity. You are my favorite human being. I wish things were different, but I accept this, I am moving on. It is so hard, but it is only because you are such an amazingly, awesome person.

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The Killing Fields, part 2

Posted on July 10, 2011 by Randy

When I left the Killing Fields my intent was to visit the Toul Sleng museum, where most of those who were killed were tortured prior to being shipped to their slaughter. The locals call it part of the genocide loop, and while I find this description a bit foul, I can not argue with the term. But I wound up unable to visit the school that transformed into a palace of torture, because something both horrific and amazing occurred as I exited the Killing Fields.

One of the beggers that I passed unfazed entering the grounds hit me up again upon leaving. He looked 70/80 years old, but I could tell he was much younger. He had lost both legs due to a land mine. But the hunger in his belly radiated off his face so much I could not ignore him, pass him by, like I sadly so often do. I asked him if he had eaten today. He said no. I believed him, it looked like he had missed quite a few days of eating over the years. Even if he had both his legs I would think he might have at most weighed 90 lbs.

As it was quite a bit passed lunch time and I had yet to eat all day, I opted to buy him food rather than just give him a few thousand Riels he was looking for. I decided to take him and my driver to get some food about 75M from the entrance of the Killing Fields. We all got fried rice. We started to talk a bit after we ordered, but I never figured on what was about to occur. Not in the slightest.

At some point on my journey around the grounds, I realized it would be impossible to ever forgive a member of the Khmer Rouge. How can one ever forgive someone who helped slaughter 3 million people and destroy an entire country that still to this day is attempting to recover? They turned a once vibrantly growing Cambodia into a remnant of a soaking wet paper towel that holds only the basic, primitive, DNA of a country. I mean, really, who could ever forgive anyone of such a destructive impulse, one who senselessly slaughtered so many. Impossible.

It was not until after we sat down and ordered that it occurred to me to even ask what he did during the conflict. And I was only able to ask because my driver was able to translate. When he told me our “friend” was a card carrying member of the Khmer Rouge did I understand just how prevalent this was in Cambodia. How prevalent it still is in Cambodia.

I read a figure that only eight percent of Cambodia is over the age of forty. And one can easily assume anyone who is over 40 was/is Khmer Rouge, or at least supported them, as they would have been killed if not. There are still a remarkable number who still support the regime. Lunch suddenly became a tense affair.

Once I heard that he was Khmer Rouge, I got sick to my stomach. Once I realized I was going to pay for his lunch, that I was going to feed a murderer, I nearly went faint. He still wore his black cap, an implication that he is still an adherent of the Khmer Rouge philosophy if not the actual party itself. I only learned about the implications of the black cap afterwards. I am fairly certain that had I known before I would never have found myself sitting next to him at a lunch table.

I asked him how he felt about the Khmer Rouge. It was obvious my driver was not 100% comfortable asking this, but after a little encouragement, he did. This was the last question I asked. While it was quite obviously hard for him to tell of his time as a solider, once he started the stories blossomed like flowers bursting forth from the earth above a mass grave.

His full name was sadly a bit beyond my ability to transcribe. He said his name was Duk or Doc with two other words that I never quite caught. When I spoke to him I called him Duk mainly due to the novel Donald Duk and my affinity for it. This caused no problems.

Duk told me that he had no idea that the Killing Fields happened during in his time as a Khmer Rouge solider. He hates that so many people were killed here. At the same time, he had no idea just how many people he killed elsewhere. It was obviously a lot though.

Now, Duk hates that he was ever a solider. Though I wondered if he had remained whole throughout those four years if he would have felt the same way. It was easy to see the regret written all over his presence when he talked about killing. But he still wears his black hat. And as he went on it grew impossible to hate him. It also seemed that I had turned into some sort of confessional, a position I never wanted to be it, but I was captivated by the tales he told. And while it felt really strangely, oddly, horribly voyeuristic, I was enraptured by it all.

I kept asking myself questions: “is this true?,” “is this how he reals in the foreigners?” But as he went on, as his story unfolded, I understood what he said to be the truth. I can not imagine that much sorrow coming from anything but truth. Acting does not have the capacity to convey what he emanated. I was amazed that he kept going, that he simply was able to keep talking. It was equally fascinating and abjectly horrifying.

His power was obviously derived from his limbs and the weapons they held. But when he talked about losing his legs to a landmine, his plug into the structures of power, he changed from monster into a human being. He was so totally human. And even though he helped in such a massive genocide, I could not hate him as I did before I heard his story. It was so easy to despise him when he was faceless. It was easy to displace his humanity. His story, his presence, himself made this impossible.

Today he hates that he was ever a soldier. But he equally understands that had he refused to fight he would have wound up unknown skeletal remains at the Killing Fields or some other field of death. He knew that if he refused to serve as a solider he would no longer exist. So while part of me, the part that has never had to choose from such repugnant options, questions his adherence to such ignorance, a greater portion of me totally understands his reasons for joining a genocidal regime. Well not really understand, more like I can see the appeal. . The preservation of one’s existence is sacrosanct.

Put in the same position I question just what I would do. This realization was far from a happy one. In the past two plus years I have chosen to live above all else. When faced with the closest thing to death I have ever confronted, I did exactly what I always said I would not. If I was ever put in Duk’s position, would I too become a solider to survive? Would I kill indiscriminately to assure my own existence. I would like to think the answer to this is “HELL NO!” But….

Does the survival instinct override morality? Does it erase what one considers right? Does it blur the distinctions of right and wrong till both fail to exist? That I am even asking these questions makes me think I am weaker than I have ever thought. But after hearing Duk’s story, I am confronted with nothing else. It is not a place I want to visit often, that is for sure.

So while it was hard talking to him, and while I thought just an hour before it would be utterly impossible to forgive any member of the Khmer Rouge, before our meal was over, I clasped my hands in front of my chest in a sampeah and told Duk that I forgive him. As I forgave him, I did not even understand what I was doing. It was just a natural impulse. On my ride back to my guest house, I realized exactly what I had done as I replayed the whole incredible experience over and over in my head. At first I was horrified by my action, but as I continued to reflect I understood it. I was thrilled I did it. The act of forgiving is the most human thing we can do. It is instinctual. Somewhere as we grow most of us forget this.

And with this simple act, forgiving a monster of the Khmer Rouge, I realized I could forgive anyone. I finally found a launching point for something I have tried to reconnect with for 30 odd years. And I when I realized this, I blasted off, radiating forgiveness across the globe the next time I meditated. How could I not? Now I am not suggesting that I can forget offensive and/or egregiousness actions towards me or others. I just forgive them. Forgetting them would far too easily allow the same actions to occur again. Forgive, never forget…

And with a simple act of clasping my hands in front of my chest and saying “I forgive you” to a mass murderer, I understood that forgiveness is a power that all of us have, that far too few of us use. It was like magic once I forgave Duk. How could I also not forgive a family member that beat me senseless, or someone that forced me to get a restraining order, etc, etc… if I was able to forgive a mass murderer.

Now will I struggle in the future forgiving someone? Most likely. I know it will be hard, but now that I have forgiven all of yesterdays’ atrocities and slanders, I know that I can do it.

As I departed I left knowing Duk is human today. He was also equally human when he behaved like a monster. I left hoping that as he confessed his past that he can find a more permanent connection to his humanity. I hope he understood my act of forgiveness. Perhaps he did not even notice. Perhaps he can not forgive himself; thus, any outside forgiveness is impossible to embrace. I hope not, but I know just how hard it is to forgive yourself.

My journey to the Killing Fields and the subsequent lunch only took four hours. But the experience will have an overwhelming positive effect on my life going forward. While it was amazingly emotionally hard and left me drained and unable to do much the rest of the day, it is hard not to characterize this as one of the top ten moments of my life.

Posted in things I've learned, travel | 2 Comments

The Killing Fields, part 1

Posted on June 30, 2011 by Randy

A visit to Cambodia without a visit to The Killing Fields is like going to Paris and not visiting The Louve. I mean I am sure many people do it, but I deeply question their sanity. And I am in no way comparing them in any way other than that they are both equally must visits, as each is such a hugely different experience.

I meant to visit early in the morning, as I really wanted to stay out of the roasting sun on what I assured myself was a large outdoor site. But as I knew it would be quite the harrowing experience, I found every reason to put it off till later in the day. Strong sun be damned…

As i procrastinated on twitter, I said I was building up the courage to visit. This was the most spot on description I have uttered of late. Even when I went to hire a tuk-tuk to take me there, I dreaded every step. I even almost turned around twice. Trust me, it is hard to find some/any enthusasim to visit a site of such massive genocide, where at least 15,000 people were senselessly put to death and burried in shallow mass graves.

I had planned to be there when it opened, but did not wind up leaving my guest house till just after 11:00 am. And then only with a serious case of apprehension lingering over me. The 40 minute ride there only caused this to grow as I replayed scenes from The Killing Fields over and over again in my mind, allowing me to question just how humanity could allow an atrocity such as The Khmer Rouge regime to exist. And how my own country facilitated and brought Pol Pot to power in trying to stop the Viet Cong.

Then,  just questioning humanity.

The entire ride over I kept viewing each turn as the one that would force me to confront such genocide for the first time. It is not very comforting knowing when your feet next touch the ground it will be on such profoundly desiccated ground. If you can tell I was not exactly looking forward to this, you are correct. But I also knew visiting Cambodia and not going would be total and utter denial and equally foolish. So when I finally saw the sign that said Killing Fields Genocide Museum 800M, I sucked in as much air as I could and held it till my driver pulled up to the front gate.

I’m not sure why, but I really thought it would smell worse, other worldly, of brimstone perhaps. I think I wanted it to. To signal the slaughter that took place here was out of the realm of this reality. It did not. If it ever was there, in the ensuing years, the evil has been erased from the air. If it smelled of anything in particular, it was the faint smell of farm land that surrounded the site.

So I made my way past the beggars, paid for my ticket, and then on to the small museum, where the figures and numbers come to life, reanimated with photos, implments of death (clubs, axes, palm knifes, bamboo sticks… they saved money by killing via sheer brutality rather than bullets), remnants of clothing, and fragments of people. It honestly seemed a bit lacking upon going in. How could such a small building hope to convey the tragedy that occured here? But as I exited, I clearly understood why understatement was best. There is no need to talk much when the landscape of horror washes over you like a typhoon outside.

The first thing you notice, even just as you are pulling up, and what dominates the entire complex is a massive 39M tall stupa. It houses the remains of the victims on 17 levels in a glass enclosure so you can see just how brutal and sadly effective the killing fields were. You are asked to visit it first,but for some reason I just could not. My gaze wandered else where, and my body followed. I made my way past the foundations of the two buildings where they imprisoned people before their gruesome deaths and where the beasts who did this documented it all with efficiency that would make IBM proud. I moved past the location where they kept the DDT which they would toss on top of their kills to mask the smell of rotting bodies that would fester under the open sun in this very warm subtropical environment.

I slowly walked to the first excuvated pit where they exhumed all the bodies. I walked there and stoped. I stood there, motionless, reading the sign that said the pit once contained “450 bodies,” once so full of life. I leaned ever so hard on my cane and tried to breathe. It was no longer an involuntary action.

I was sure I would weep upon reaching this point, but my eyes were dry. My eyes just stared at the extremely small pit where 450 bodies once were dumped so unceremoniously. I stood there more shocked that it was so small, maybe 4.5x3M, than shocked it could happen at all. In between reminding myself to breathe I told myself “it looked so much bigger on TV,” “aren’t mass graves meant to be larger?,” “just how could they all fit?,” and the like. But rather than answer myself, I just stood behind the fence enclosing the grave site wondering how this amount of inhumanity is even possible.

The tears did not start flowing until I sat down in a gazebo overlooking a pond that replaced many of the mass graves. I first stopped there to get out of the weight of the massively hot sun that was bearing down on me ever so heavily. I sat there retracing my steps: weaving my way through the 20 or so mass graves, past the killing tree, where babies and infants were swung overhead into the trunk of the tree splitting their heads open and then dropped into a pit, often still with life pulsing though their small bodies, past the mass grave where 180 bodies where exhumed, but nary a skull. It was not until I did this while sitting in the shade of that gazebo that my body started to convulse and tears flowed from those once very dry eyes.

I was not holding back on purpose, but once they started flowing it was like a flood cresting over a levy. So I remained on that bench, under that gazebo for far longer than I had planned. In fact when I emerged again, eyes dry again, body still again, the sky had opened up and it started to rain down upon me ever so slightly. If I believed in higher powers or such, I would say that the universe was crying for what it allowed to happen here, but the universe allowed nothing.

We did.

We, Western powers, supplied the arms and munitions that allowed the Khmer Rouge to abduct power. And then it was not some coalition of “the good guys” that liberated Cambodia from death’s grasp, but Vietnam — THE SAME DAMN COUNTRY WE GAVE POL POT ARMS TO FIGHT. Where the United Nations should have stepped in and stopped the genocide, they left it to a country they had vilified for over 20 years to clean up the mess our actions made into reality.

I kept thinking this, as I walked the rest of the path, around the remaining mass graves back to the stupa, back to all those skulls staring out at me that I was far too hesitant to view upon entry. Their final resting place gives them the honor their previous resting places forbade them, but still it does not feel enough. It has not convinced others to treat their fellow man better. It has not taught us to respect the lives of all living beings. As I stared at those empty eye sockets staring back at me I could not help but repeat the refrain “WHY!?” in my head.

And since leaving I have basically answered this question to the best of my ability. When I was 12, I visited Germany with my parents. And it never hit me till now, but we never visited a single camp while there. In fact, there was not even a mention of one. I am not even sure I knew of the Holocaust at this point, as I am pretty sure my first interaction with it was through reading The Diary of Anne Frank later that same year in school. But somehow my parents thought it best to avoid this important history and act like it never happened. After returning from The Killing Fields I asked my dad why. He responded that they did not think it was appropriate at my age. Um…. Genocide is not appropriate for any age to see, but to deny it, to hide it, to never talk about it is such a profoundly disrespectful way to remember, er… mis-remeber, those killed. To even think about traveling to places where such events occurred and not visit is a crime. A crime that allows us to devolve to a point where we can once again kill and slaughter without care.

And for as difficult as a trip this was for me, and when I finish part two of this, you will see that it got far more difficult just as I stepped off the site, I can not think of being able to be here without going and paying my respects. Of being here and enjoying so much this wonderful country has to offer and not take a few moments to understand what happened here, what we allowed to happen here, just 30 years ago. Of being here and not realizing what reality is here….

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The Worst

Posted on May 31, 2011 by Randy

The absolute worst experience of my trip happened today. I really can not even say when I last experienced something so awful, so vile, so wrong when dealing with other human beings. Just know that I currently want to shove seven aging, disgusting white males through a wood chipper, and I must say that I feel this action would be totally justifiable.

Yes, it was that bad.

Lets see, the day started out just fine. Like I has planned, I got up and made my way over to ride the Death Railroad to try and remotely experience where over 100,000 POWs died constructing a railroad through an unimaginable hell of a terrain. Pure and simple, they were used a slave labor and died at an epic clip. And after visiting the Death Railway Museum, I can honestly say I have a new found appreciation for just how evil mid 20th century Japan was. Horrifying….

But I rode the train north and had nothing but a somberly enjoyable time. Many of the views were as astonishing and I just kept struggling to comprehend how any one was able to cut a railroad into such impassable terrain. Acknowledging the ominous evilness prevalent in the construction, I have to also say the Japanese had some amazing engineers to get this designed, constructed and running in a little over a year.

It was the ride back where things went sour and makes me seriously question my new found respect and growing compassion for humanity. The first few stops were totally uneventful outside the fact the train was late. It was not until a large group of seven white wealthy, at least in appearance, male tourists got on that everything changed. They were amazingly lewd and crude, to put it kindly. The main point of conversation was how they wanted to find and fuck young Thai girls. Somehow they thought discussing this very loudly was totally cool on a train populated mostly by Thais.

As if on cue, the next stop an entire class of school girls got on the train. We are talking 10-14 yr olds here. The comments got worse. Far worse. What were once hypothetical girls became “that one,” as they continued to discuss whey they wanted to do to “these Thai girls.”

This is where it finally hits me that I am on a train w/ a tourist group of freaking pedophiles, complete with a minder/guide who does absolutely nothing about their reprehensible behavior. They seem to have boarded the train expecting to troll for underage girls. And this is where I get closer and closer to being physically sick. All the while, I am thinking these are the grossest most lecherous men I’ve ever come across.

I close my eyes and imagine them getting shot. It does nothing to make the situation better. But I fail to do anything, say anything, because — that most horrible of thought impulses runs though me: “It’s none of my business”.

These fellow males, yes somehow not only are we the same gender, but also species, kept learing and spewing bile and filth and amazingly some of the girls are visiably uncomfortable. And I just look out the window at the trees and plants moving by ever so quickly, trying to ignore that all this is happening 4 meters away from me. I feel AWFUL. But I am impotent to act.

I am a coward.

I just want the train ride to end. The car feels like a prison. And I am just a bystander. Think how the girls must feel. I do, yet, still do nothing. I shreak my responsiblity to my fellow humans to ensure the world is decent.

Finally one of these god awful human beings moves over to talk to two of the girls. I see the cowering fear in their eyes. They are no more than 13 years old. This so beyond not right. And finally I plough though my impotence. And I tell firmly say to this horrible human being to stop. I wish I was recording what I said, as I sort of dropped out of time and space when I began to talk. It was terrifying. But I stood up and told him to stop. To these girls alone. To leave girls alone.

I continued to exclaim what type of horrendous people they were. And this is where it gets ugly. There are seven of them and one of me. They do not enjoy being called lecherous assholes. They certainly do not like to be called pedophiles. They begin talking over my words about how I am “out of my league”, “don’t understand the culture” and how it appears I need a good ass kicking.

By now I am standing in the aisle of the train between the two girls and this gang of bastards. I see that the rest of the car seems rather empty and my fear escapes as my speech is nothing but trembling stutters. All the same I move towards them to ensure the girls who were being harassed are out of the way. I am pretty sure I am shaking. My cane: the only thing holding me up.

And as things get ugly, the conductor comes in and stops what ever was about to occur. I am moved to the front of the car, they to the back. I am told I will “still get mine” as this is “not over.” So I sit in the front row, directly opposite the girls who were harassed and I am near epileptic in my shaking and tears roll down my face. And I am not sure if I was crying due to fear, my utter hatred for humanity at that moment, or that it took me so long to react and do the right thing. I look over at them and they clearly are avoiding looking at me. I have created a scene, called attention to them, something of a faux pas in their culture.

I want to tell them that they need to learn how to kick the junk off these type of assholes. I want to tell them how what happened was seriously not okay. But I really do not want to embarrass them anymore. Their day has been ruined enough. Though it easily could have been much worse. I just hope they do not obtain permanent scars from this. I hope this has never happened before and never happens again.

They got off one or two stops later. In fact all the school girls had exited the car. The assholes remained though. I kept staring outside all the while wishing their heads would explode a’la Scanners. And then if on cue, as they knew all the girls would be gone, at the next stop they all got off and went to a tourist minibus. Off into the wilds of Thailand to perform more criminal activity no doubt. Bloody crap…

Thailand is sadly known for its sex tourism and that includes catering to pedophiles it seems. Call me culturally insensitive all you want but the age of consent here is 15, and that I am sorry to say is FUCKED. TOTALLY, WHOLLY, RIDICULOUSLY, FUCKED.

I also know that if I did anything, I helped two girls for one day. This shit does not happen in a vacuum. I should never have had to get involved as this should NEVER happen, but it does all the time. And clearly, the girls should never have to worry about a gaggle of aggressive men seeking to use them in horrific ways. But again, should and reality do not meet.

I really have no idea what more to say. I started this last night when I returned to my hotel after it happened, still shaking like a junkie waiting on a fix. I had to stop as I could not keep reliving it and continue being a decent human being. So I meditated to try and access peace. It took nearly an hour to be able to shut off my brain, but am I glad I have this practice in my life or I would still be a steaming bowl of anger right now. Not the person who contacted officials of two countries today to report the criminal activity I saw. But I know full well this will likely lead nowhere. But if there is a chance these assholes are caught, I will assist anyway I can.

Also, sorry for any typos, errors, etc, I have decided to not reread this before publishing, as I just can not go over it all one more time right now.

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The current fallowness of my blog

Posted on May 28, 2011 by Randy

For those unaware, I am writing a book on my experiences in India. Before I went it seemed like it would be a very good idea chronicling what I was sure would be the start to my last adventure. I also thought it would be interesting to chart my attempts to find a cure, which I assumed would be unsuccessful.

And well, I can conclude, without a shadow of a doubt, I did not find the cure I was looking for. I am pretty sure it does not exist. But I did find a pretty good stay of execution, at least as currently reality seems.

In nearly the year since I discovered I was far more walking wounded than previously suspected, my GFR numbers have only gone down four places, from 48 to 44. Even if this trend continues, that would mean I have over ten years till dialysis. And while yes, this totally ruins the name of this blog (i seriously can never catch a break……), well just how much do you think I care about that?

But with me currently jumping back in the hyperbaric pool again, on a bi-monthly basis for the present time, my adoption of Viapassana meditation and the amazing results of traditional Tibetan medicine (far more on this in upcoming post, as I am having to read a book to understand the principals of what occurred/is occurring, to be able to talk/write about it — just know, more super positive things burst forth in my last simply amazing month in India), I am convinced this current 10+ year projection is far off the mark. I am near positive that I am cultivating a rebirth of sorts within my kidneys. And while I have little doubt they will give me trouble for the rest of my life and likely what will be the end of me in this existence, I have far more time than advertised.

I have to say, six months ago, when I landed in Delhi, this outcome, while highly desired, was the furthest thing from my expectations. I more than sort of feel like a cliche about journeying to an exotic foreign country and leaving it transformed spiritually, mentally, and even physically. But again, do you think I am going to argue much about this? I mean really.

But, the point of this post is to say I have not forgotten to write, I have just not really made the time to blog write since I got to Thailand. I am spending tons of time writing what I hope turns into my book — though it is a struggle to see it all coming together right now. I did find a narrative hook that at least to me seems very compelling. I swear though, I am fairly certain that I will compose 1500+ pages for what will certainly only be a 280-330 page book.

I have some posts that I have started and just need to complete as well (ie. my favorite & my least favorite things about India and the aforementioned post on the wonders of Tibetan medicine). So, there are posts on the horizon, I just need to budget my time better and get to them. I am hoping this post will prompt me to do so.

And just so you know what I am currently up to in Thailand, I’ve been hanging out in the wonderful city of Chiang Mai for the last week. And now I am off to Kanchanburi in a few hours. This is where there is a bridge over a certain Kwai river. I am told I may even get to hang out with Alec Guinness, if he is about… But there seem to be some amazing musuems and memorials to the death rail way there. I am highly looking forward to it. I also will take a somber ride along on the railway itself, where over 100,000 people died constructing it. Then it looks like I am off to Cambodia and Ankor Wat, which fellow travelers cannot stop raving about.

Now lets see if this re-seeding of the blog will spur more regular posts from me. Lets hope so.

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