I am a young gay man living with AIDS, who has already on numerous occasions fallen to the detriment and devastation of this horrifying disease. And, I am only 30 years old! This rough draft retelling of my ruination serves a specific intention: to catalog both the tender touching and terribly traumatic moments of my miserable mayhem, for the sake of both posterity and universal accessibility.
My intention here is to be brave and bold in the broad casting of my courage, contentment, and collected wisdom through written narrative, while refining my eloquence through an evocative enunciation of the eternal conflict and reconciliation between external/internal beauty and ulteriorly ultimate, indomitable integrity inspired by such doomsday devastation as disease(s) and disfigurement(s).
In late 2007, I was living a very isolated, lonely life... addicted to crystal meth and ignoring the obvious signs of the deterioration of my health, when I acquired PCP pneumonia (but didn't know it!), fell unconscious (for what my doctors now believe was between ten to twelve days!) alone in my stark, sterile studio apartment. Laying face down on my pillow in bed, I allowed eminently dangerous bacteria to enter my mouth through the constant streaming of saliva and drool that dripped from the curl of my lips and cheek.
At some point during my apparent coma, I was infected by a poly-microbial bacterial infection similar to, but much more destructive, aggressive and incurable than, say, MRSA (staph infection) or Gangrene. This bacterial infection invaded my face and began necrotizing the flesh and bone of my upper jaw, mouth and nose.
On October 7, 2007, I was found less than a few vacant steps away from death, by the San Francisco Fire Department, who came and busted down my door. I remember being woken by their inexorably loud pounding, so I peeled myself out of my urine- & blood-soaked sheets, in the daze of dying, and stumbled to the hallway that directly faced my front door. I saw the door collapse, the fire fighters and my property manager standing there calling my name. Then I in turn collapsed, fainted, again unconscious and was rushed to the hospital, where I remained in medically induced coma for eight weeks.
During this time, my doctors attempted to cure a pervasive PCP pneumonia, as well as the ultimately incurable bacterial infection in my face. While they succeeded in curbing the affects of the pneumonia, the heavy, heavy doses of antibiotics that they were injecting into me had no significant affect on the bacterial infection, which kept eating away at my face. Tragically, during the third week of my hospitalization, while i was still unconscious, my doctors were forced to amputate my entire upper jaw & palette, my upper and left lower lips, my left nostril and septum.
Five weeks later, I woke form the coma and was presented a mirror by a terribly awkward and forcibly compassionate student doctor. He told me to take it into my hands, directed me to lift the mirror above my head and to bring it down slowly, with calm and reserve, so that I wouldn't be too terribly "terrified." So, I did what he said.
I gazed through the mirror, first at the top of my head, where wisps of hair stuck out in all directions, noticed that it was getting long...longer than I had remembered it to be, and that it was pretty awfully disheveled. I brought the mirror down to my eyes and stared intently into them, begging to know what I was about to see, and then I slowly dragged the mirror down the length of my nose.
Before I had any chance to gasp for breath, I saw the start of it: my nose had been cut in half at it's tip; I could see inside of it. Suddenly, I experienced an astounding jolt of excitement, awe and curiosity in such a way that I had never experienced before; so, without fear, i continued to pull the mirror down the length of my distorted, disfigured face, and I saw the rest of it. From the edge of where my nose had been cut off, a large gaping hole obliterated, obscured and obstructed what were once the familiar features of my beautiful face and awkward, crooked smile.
I could see through to the back of my throat, to my uvula. I could see my tongue flinching hesitantly, reluctantly, with reserve, itching the few bottom teeth that remained. I realized just then that I had never once noticed nor recognized how gargantuan my tongue is: just a testament to how big my mouth once was, and still was just then.
I hated what I saw. It certainly intrigued me, but it horrified me very much just the same. So much so that I remained expressionless: my eyes void of emotion, as I continued to stare. I felt so many diverse, painful emotions in that one single instance, that I could not even bear to cry; however, the student doctor was determined that I should. He grabbed my hand and held it tightly, with angst and force; although, I did not want him to touch me. He explained the trauma I had experienced and stressed stoically that with modern advancements in the science and practice of plastic surgery, my face could...would...be restored.
I wouldn't, couldn't find the grace and courage and hope within myself to believe him, so I pulled my hand out of his and tenderly touched it to my my teeth and tongue, trembling. As if, with a single touch, I could denounce and defy the reality of my destruction. He noticed that no tears were coming out, and his eyebrows slumped downward in obvious concern. He said that he wouldn't leave my side until I cried. Almost whimpering, with a quivering lip and trembling eyes, suffering himself the agony of the moment, he desperately cajoled me: "You are supposed to cry, Matthew. What has happened to you... It's devastating."
I realized just then that I hated that word: "devastating," but that from that moment onward, it would be one of the only few words I could ever find to describe the full magnanimous force of the mayhem and misery that had befallen me. I was angry. I was puzzled. I was horrified. I was immensely, terribly, devastatingly saddened by what I saw staring back at me in that mirror: a ghastly, grotesque, gruesome grimace gone awry. And, I was very frustrated with this man who was just sitting there, watching me suffer, urging my suffering on, expecting me... asking me... telling me... to "CRY!!"
So, to appease and abet a little the young student doctor's dutiful determination and perhaps, in one way or another, to see if his sympathy was sincere, I let a tear tarry a second on the tip of my lashes, then drip down my swollen, scarred, scarlet cheek to fall into the chasm at the center of my face. And Goddammit! Then, do you know what he did? He immediately swiped the mirror from my tight grip, stoop up, began shuffling backward towards the door and muttered, "So, I guess we're done here. I'll check in on you tomorrow. Don't let this get you down, Matthew. Try to smile!" TRY TO SMILE!! That's what he said to me. The bastard! Then, he walked away, and I never saw him again. To this day, I don't know if I have ever hated anyone in one moment more than I hated that student doctor then.
It's been almost two years since my eight-month hospitalization came to an end. I eventually returned home, again to be isolated, alone in my studio apartment, where I began the tedious, depressive struggle of trudging onward through five consecutive surgical reconstructions, so far. My face is a tattered tapestry of flesh and bone taken from my lower left leg and hanging from my forehead. I'm currently awaiting with great anticipation my next surgery: "a division & revision of the left nasal flap," scheduled for January 4, 2010. Reconstructions will continue well into 2011, progressing at a steady six week pace if, and only if, I remain sober.
One redemptive aspect of my story: a "Saving Grace," per say, is that while my addiction resurfaced just after I returned home to isolation and to a $350.00USD baggy of crystal meth laying next to a dirty, used bulb-pipe at the center of my desk, I have fought long and hard to conquer this ulterior disease of drug dependency, ever since. As recent as July 14, 2009, I entered a ninety-day triple diagnoses residential rehabilitative recovery & transitional housing program called Ferguson Place, through Baker Places, Inc. of San Francisco.
Rehab was an immensely transformative, successful experience, and I have remained sober since graduating the program on October 11, 2009. I feel very secure in my recovery, thanks to my very strong support network, which includes doctors, surgeons, nurses, a psychiatrist, a therapist, a L.I.F.E. coach, a Care Navigator, a sponsor, friends, family and other sober members of my recovery community.
My concern during this tedious time of continuously tentative transformations, is the temptation that will doubtlessly seep through the walls of my studio apartment as I sit alone, day in and day out, in isolation. Isolation and inactivity can only lead to a progression of my disease(s). In fact, that is exactly what got me into the this predicament in the first place, I believe. Truth is: It's difficult for me to get up and get active, and to exercise with lots of strenuous motion, because I'm missing my left fibula.
The majority of the bone (save an inch & a half at either end, where the tendons and ligaments attach) was removed during my first extremely invasive, debilitating (although, quite successful!) maxillofacial reconstruction, only to be sawed, separated, screwed and secured to my face in an effort to recreate my upper jaw. So, I have a lot of trouble walking with stability and speed. I'm also only about five months clean and sober, as I alluded, previously.
For these reasons (and many more!), I am in need of the companionship and responsibility that comes with caring for a supportive service/assistance pet: in order to 1.) maintain sobriety, 2.) to get some exercise on a daily basis, and 3.) to venture out into the world, where I might encounter real people; instead of being always shut up at home.
The next two years of reconstructions are going to be long and arduous, but I maintain hope, determination and ambition. I'm looking forward to going back to school to get my Master's in Social Work (MSW), as well as either an NPA Professional Certificate (Non-Profit Administration) from U.C. Berkeley, or an only Master's in Nonprofit Management (MNM) from Regis University (based out of Boulder, Colorado). I intend to fully utilize all the various resources at my disposal as a resident of San Francisco, California, such as benefits I expect will be awarded to me by the Department of Rehabilitation: a state-run bureaucratic social services division that funds eduction and training for disabled peoples whom are aiming to return to work.
I am fully committed to positively impacting my community through expressions of compassion, courage, empathy & autobiography. I anticipate the moment when I am able and invited to share my story with the broader recovery community, to down my mask and recount the wretched horrifying lowdown depths to which addiction can thrust someone with utmost turbulence, and without the slightest pause in consideration of one's imminent trepidation and trauma.
For now, I practice my telling narrative nearer to the people, passed along via the ebbing, flowing tide of cyberwaves, broadcasting my story to the world here via this dynamic social media infrastructure in the off chance that some solitary sober someone may stumble out of the "ROOMS" and into my "WORDS," before I sound off for once on my own back where we both are bound to face my face, face-to-face, together. C'est à dire, « dans des SALLES!! » At which point, I will always end in saying, "Thank you for your acceptance. Thank you for listening. Next time, I'll be sure to bring some lil' smoked sausages to go with those NUTS!!" ;oP
Respectfully submitted,
Matt(e)o | QHereKidSF
Matthew D. Blanchard
San Francisco, CA USA
[MDB2009.12.06@19:31]
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