Too High In The Sky

During my most recent vacation, I became sicker than I've ever been in my life. It was a very bad and scary experience. Travelling to so many different places the last ten years or so has been awesome, but it appears there are some places that are not for me. At least I think the environment is what struck me.

My wife and I went to Mexico City in January, and I was very hyped for it. I read about the city center in Mexico City during my college Spanish classes and how bustling it was. I'm always glad to go to bustling areas because they remind me of growing up in Chicago. We were also going to go see Lucha Libre, and of course as a lifelong pro wrestling fan I was looking forward to that. What I remembered after we got to Mexico City was that it's a very elevated city, some 7,300 feet, which is 2,000 feet higher than Denver. And I really had not even experienced the elevation of Denver--on a church bus trip to Los Angeles when I was eleven, we went to Pike's Peak, but that was for one day, and I don't remember any adverse effects. This was a five-day trip to Mexico City, and I'm a carrier of sickle cell trait, which was another complication of extreme elevation that I wasn't aware of before the trip. The stage was set for a disastrous trip. I just didn't know it.

The first day was fine. We ate with my wife's travel party outdoors at a restaurant a few hours after we landed. The next day, we took a very long van ride up the mountains into even higher elevation to visit ancient pyramids and ruins. One poor woman in our party couldn't stop throwing up. We had to pull over twice to let her out. We assumed it was just car sickness, but hell, that may have been the elevation striking her the way it would strike me. My wife and I, being not in great shape, didn't walk around too much at the ruins, but we were still exerting and short of breath. After lunch, we had some time to lay in bed before going out to the wrestling match, which was more exertion because there was some walking around the Arena Mexico neighborhood and also a lot of stairs up to the second level where our tickets were. Still, we got back to the hotel in one piece.

The third day is what took me out. We walked around a stuffy market for a while, then we were on our feet for about two hours waiting to get into and then walking around the Frida Kahlo House, then we walked around a park eating ice cream and churros, then we had lunch at a very wide flower market that had all kinds of other shops and merchandise, and I was so dry that despite having water waiting at the hotel, I had to buy bottled water on our way out of the flower market. Our bathroom at the hotel had what's called a water closet, which is when they close off the toilet from the rest of the bathroom behind a door. Great for privacy, awful for smells if the ventilation sucks, which it did at this hotel. I had always felt a little nauseous every time I went in there, but after this long day and after the wife used the toilet, I went in and felt very sick from the smell, and instead of using the facilities as I intended, my stomach cramped and I hurled. I was not happy. Throwing up is very high on the list of things I hate experiencing. Like, top three easy. But it happened, so I laid down and tried to relax. But maybe ninety minutes later, I felt a heartburn-like sensation, which I never feel, and I got nauseous, and I had to barf again. Ninety minutes later, I barfed again. Two hours later, I barfed again. This went on into the morning. I lost count of how many times I got up after nodding off and threw up again. It was either six, seven, or eight. I wasn't eating or drinking anything during this time, so those last few trips were more heaving than barfing because I no longer had anything left to barf. My breathing was also becoming very labored. Every breath was a struggle and was accompanied by a deep grunt that really worried my wife. The only thing that made me feel a little better is when I put on my CPAP mask and was able to start getting some oxygen. Once people from our travel group got word of my illness, they brought items that were useful like electrolyte-infused powder to stir into my water and anti-nausea pills and ibuprofen. The first time I tried to throw down some ibuprofen, though, I was trying to keep the nausea pill under my tongue and let it dissolve. The water and ibuprofen immediately came back up, and that was also the end of the nausea pill.

I did sip some water and keep down some chicken and rice later on, and I saw a doctor who made a house call and prescribed me some drugs for my high sugar and blood pressure. The heavy breathing wasn't present by the time he got there, so he didn't think I needed more serious attention, but he did say I should get to a facility if the nausea or breathing issues returned. They didn't, not until the fifth day when it was time to leave. I had been feeling better and not throwing up, and then I walked outside to catch the van to the airport, and by the time we got there, the shallow breathing was back and I was feeling dizzy. My wife made the smart decision to have airport workers bring a wheelchair and take me to the gate instead of hoping that I made it on my own. The walk through the Mexico City airport would not have gone well for me. It was a very, very long walk to our gate, at the end of the airport as it turned out. The walk to customs after we landed in Houston would not have been fun either, but I really was fine by that point because I was out of the elevation in Mexico City. By the time we landed in Memphis that night, I didn't use the wheelchair at all.

The illness was a trauma on my body. I didn't have my normal appetite for a couple weeks. I felt burning every time I drank something for the next couple weeks. I still feel occasional nausea. I had no energy. I even had hearing issues for a couple weeks. I know it sounds crazy, but I'm telling you, every piece of music I heard, commercials, my iPod, the radio, you name it, sounded like it was at a lower pitch. That really scared me because I couldn't fix it and didn't know if it was permanent, but it went away eventually. Everyone had a joke about the water in Mexico being the real culprit for my sickness, but no, this travel group was not small, maybe a dozen or more folks, and were all drinking and eating the same stuff, and most of them were fine (the woman throwing up in the van notwithstanding). I really think it was the elevation. There was a specific spleen affliction that occurred being in elevation with sickle cell trait, and I had all the symptoms with the exception of a sharp left abdominal pain. So hopefully it wasn't that, but the constant barfing, the nausea, the cramping, I really had never been through that, so I'm thinking it was the air. We were also told that this time of year, the pollution is really bad in Mexico City due to the atmospheric pressure, so that probably didn't help matters. The bottom line is, I can't just go anywhere. I have to research before I visit new places, and my wife and I had fantasies of retiring to Mexico City and living in a more affordable part of the world than here in the U.S. That won't be happening. But I wanted to share the experience in case others have gone through this and wondered why they got so ill. I don't blame the food, the water, or anything else in Mexico City. I think it was running around and going too hard in that elevation having never experienced being that high. It ain't for everyone.

Once Again It's Time...

...for the annual Sick-A-Cell Walk-A-Thon. It's (hopefully) a perfect day for it today, starting around 9A, along the lake starting at 31st St., up to about 67th. Come out for a good cause, and the good weather!

The Weather's Finally Getting Nice

And what better way to get out and enjoy that weather than with a relaxing day along the lake? Yes, it's time for the Sick-A-Cell Walk, Jog, and Bike-A-Thon, next Saturday, June 14. A good time will be had by all, except anyone following me on the walk trail and slipping on my sweat puddles. If you're near Chicago, come on out and have a good time (and bring a cold towel). And follow the link below if you would like to contribute to the cause or participate in the event. All efforts, physical or fiscal, I'm sure are appreciated by the fine folks at the Sickle Cell Disease Association of Illinois.

http://www.scdai.com/

And Now, My One Good Deed Of The Year

I will be attending the annual Walk-Jog-Bike-A-Thon tomorrow, Saturday, June 9, on the lake at 31st St. here in Chicago. As I chronicled in My History (5th In A Series), my mother was the victim of sickle cell disease when she was almost 32, and my uncle has been part of the Sickle Cell Disease Association of Illinois ever since, helping to raise money. I couldn't attend this event for a long time because I was avoiding all memories of my mother. Dealing with a painful loss can do that, but I went a few years ago as a visitor, and a couple of years ago as an active walker, though I didn't walk very far. I won't walk far tomorrow either, but I will walk, so if you've ever wanted to shout obscenities at me or kick me in the groin or just say hi, here's your chance. I'll be the 900-lb. black guy with the shaved head and white headband. Oh, and if you want to help the cause, visit http://www.sicklecelldisease-illinois.org for more information.

A (Long) Saturday Stroll

PREFACE: To those "anonymous" readers sick and tired of hearing about my obsession with "Karen," I will talk more about her later in this post. If you're not interested, don't read. There's millions more interesting blogs online. You don't have to trash mine if it's really that bad.

I participated in a walk-a-thon for sickle cell anemia on Saturday, June 11. Sickle cell anemia is what killed my mother, and I have sickle cell trait, meaning if I created a child with someone else with the trait, that child would be at risk for the disease. It's a very painful disease; my mother was in a tremendous amount of pain all her life. I wonder how she ever went through childbirth, especially my big ass. But anyhow, I never participated in the fundraiser because I didn't want to be so close to something associated with the death of my mom. But last year, when Karen did what she did to me, I decided to go just to hang out with my family, since it became obvious family was the only group of people I could trust, and also to introduce them to "Sarah," who was at the time my girlfriend. I didn't participate, but this year I signed up for the walk, and I can't see a good reason why I wouldn't do at least that much every year from this point on. (There are jog and bike portions as well, but I'm not in shape to jog, and I can't ride a bike.) Now, I didn't come close to walking to the end of the path--this thing started at 35th on the lake and extended down the lakeshore to 69th, and in the heat of the noon sun, I managed to get to 47th and back--but at least I did something. I've realized over the last few years, even before I met that whore Karen, that a lot of my fears about dating and marriage and relationships stem from the simple fact that I'm scared to death to give my love to a woman only to watch her abandon me, which is how I felt when my mom died in 1986, when I was ten years old. And now, walking in this fundraiser, in a way I acknowledged her death, which is something I've always been loathe to do, and I felt like maybe I was on my way to properly grieving her loss and moving on, which is something I feel like I've never done. I "talked" with my mom throughout the walk, and she encouraged me to keep going, even though on the walk back I had to stop several times just because the benches looked SO enticing. But I kept going, and despite how tired I felt throughout the walk, one of the first thoughts I had once I made it back was that I expect to go farther next year now that I've had a little taste of what I have to do. I'll discuss everything to do with my mother in my next post. Maybe it will help explain why mentally I am in the place that I am.

I think my uncle, my mom's brother, was extremely pleased to see me participate, since he organizes part of the fundraiser and never saw me be a part of it in the years past. On the drive back afterwards, he said something that almost made me choke up. He told me that I remind him of my mom in that we were both very sensitive to how others perceived us, me because of my weight and her because of her delicate condition. We both were self-conscious about relationships. I found that hard to believe because my mom was such a beautiful and intelligent woman. My uncle told me that she settled for my dad, an overweight, sloppy man by anyone's standards, because she was afraid that she would be alone, just as I have settled for evey woman I've ever dated because I am afraid of being alone. But, he said, he hoped I would be patient and do what my mom didn't have a chance to do--find a person with as big a heart as me, because, just like my mom, I have a very big heart and I deserve someone who matches it. I think that's one of the things that's keeping me from jumping off a bridge right now. Somewhere deep down in my heart, I still hold out hope that someone will come into my life that realizes that I am a good man, while being a good woman in her own right, a good woman that's not living an alternative life and not lying to me or herself. My mom went through hell to give me life. I'm hoping to do what she wanted, which is to be in a partnership with someone who values me and herself. It ain't looking good right now, but I guess I'm still holding out some hope.

My father and I, speaking of my sloppy dad, had banana splits on Father's Day this past Sunday. Because he beat me as a kid, and because he can be rather embarrassing sometimes, I've always hated every second I've spent with him. But we had a long chat about my situation with Karen, and he gave me some advice beyond the "Women are crazy" spiel he usually gives. I told him that I'm having a very hard time with the fact that I don't have the balls to go up to Wisconsin with a bottle of bleach and a funnel because it means that it's okay for Karen to do what she did to me because she got away with it without any retribution from me. I feel that it means that anyone can fuck me up the ass and it's all good because I'm going to let them. He pointed out that it doesn't mean anyone can do that to me, just one person, and no matter how unfair it is, it's better to let her get away with it because the alternative is showering with a bunch of horny men in the federal prison before they stick a needle in my vein. My dad has a way with words. I told him that I had already considered all the ramifications of going up there and killing Karen, and that I'm close to accepting them if it means that at least she didn't get away with screwing me. He said that I can't do that, because then she'd really be screwing me. I was trying to install my printer back on my computer all day Sunday, and because I had two papers due Monday morning, I had to get it done, but the installation disk simply wouldn't cooperate. Yet I stepped out of the apartment to spend a couple of hours with my dad, and if I hadn't, then he wouldn't have called his brother in Florida, his brother the computer whiz, and his brother the computer whiz wouldn't have told me, the computer boob, that I can go to the website of my printer's maker and download the drivers onto my computer, therefore installing the printer without having to beg and plead with the installation disk, and I wouldn't have done those two papers by pulling an all-nighter and finishing my work around 5:30A Monday. So, and I never thought I'd be saying this, thanks dad. My father, actually good for something. Go figure.

And now for the latest Karen news: I e-mailed her new phony Tawanda account Monday morning "congratulating" her on the good news about her new house and car that she wrote on that account. She replied to me that evening. She continued to insist that I misunderstand everything, that her appearing on a bisexual BBW website half-naked next to her best friend wasn't what it looked like, she was just helping her friend promote the website, but she's not into that at all. Oh, okay. She told me that she still thinks about me, but that we were "doomed from the beginning," whatever the fuck that means, and that my angry letter to her the morning after I found out about her destroyed any future between us, but that "I wish you well." I know exactly what she's doing. She's trying to make me pause and think that she really is a misunderstood woman who just wants to help promote her friend's wild lifestyle but isn't really involved with it. Every second that I pause and wonder if she's really not the bitch that deceived me and ruined my life is another second that she has bought herself to keep deceiving and living the life she wants to live, breaking hearts and destroying anyone stupid enough to love her along the way. That's why I feel like a decision has to come from me very soon, a decision on which direction I am going to choose--to let her go and let her get away with what she did, attempting to move past her and ignoring the fact that she's going to keep on truckin' as if what I felt and what my family felt when we found out about her doesn't mean shit, or to go up there and defend myself and my family against this human waste and let her and every other woman know that you can go around fucking with other guys and getting off scott-free, but I cannot allow you to do that to me and get away with it. I have to choose which way to go now. I can't keep going the way I'm going, saying I'm going to get past her but knowing that all I think about when I am awake is wondering what guys or girls she's persuading to think that she's a sweet, innocent girl and if she feels any remorse for crushing another person's heart, and all I think about when I'm trying to sleep is how good it would feel to hear her last breath before I break her neck or choke her out. It's time for me to decide, for good, for once and for all, finally, will I be a man or a mouse?