Plentiful Beatitude!!

A letter to my dear friend Peter Maybarduk. I believe this well summarizes the tumultuous turmoil in my life these days. I hope that any reader will find in their hearts a certain amount of sympathy and compassion for how I am suffering. God Bless you, as he has me...in giving me life, though in suffering. What do you think?

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In hopes to reconcile my hardships and harvest once again the plentiful beatitude of our dear friendship, I write to you know to express a rather tragic story. I trust that in telling you this "petite histoire de ma perte," you will be encouraged to express your own sympathy and understanding to me in my suffering. Always suffering.

On October 7th, 2007, I was discovered by the San Francisco Fire Department, unconcious and deathly ill, laying in a pool of my own blood and urine in the soiled and dirty bed of my sparse, little studio apartment. My teeth were falling out and my face was blackened by a severe bacterial infaction. In addition, I was suffering from a miserable case of PCP pneumonia.

The fire department rushed me to Saint Francis Memorial Hospital, where I remained for two weeks unconscious to the world. the doctors there were forced to perform a kidney dialysis on me for which they were required to contact my father in Massachusetts for permission. The tried to control and defeat the bacterial infection of the face, but unfortunately were unsuccessful.

After two weeks of severe illness, I was transfered by ambulance to UCSF Medical Center to undergo emergency debridement surgery. The doctors there immediately amputated the dead bone and tissue from my face. For all of this, I was still unconscious. when I eventually woke up, I had the dreadful experience of looking in the mirror to see half of my face missing. I no longer had a mouth or half a nose. All that remained was a gaping hole above my chin. It was all together the most terrifying sight I have ever had to witness, and it was all me, myself, my small stature, weak, humorless, contrite self that was suffering from this unfathomable loss of face.

I remained at UCSF for one month (until Thanksgiving) while they worked to upset and alleviate the pneumonia. They were, praise God, successful at saving my life. Then I was transferred back to Saint Francis, where I remained through the New Year and after. I could not go home because the hole in my face keeps me from being able to eat or drink orally. Therefore, I was semipermanently linked to a Gastrointestinal Tube for feeding. I had to learn to talk without lips and to smell again -- all this in preparation for facial reconstruction surgery.

Halfway through January, I was transfered to the permanent acute medical residency at the Laguna Honda Hospital & Rehabilitation Center. This is where I am writing to you now. I remained here for two weeks, until the first of my multiple facial reconstructive surgeries scheduled for January 30th.

On the 30th of January, I was transferred for a two week stay at San Francisco General Hospital, where the plastic surgeons conducted what they attested to be a very successful cosmetic operation to replace the missing bone and skin of my upper jaw. They took a rather large piece of flesh for my lower leg and bone from my fibula to graft on my face.

For the two recent weeks at the start of February, I remained in intensive care, suffering from immense pain and swelling. As the inflammation in my new face began to subside, I was able to catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror to discover that I awfully resembled a cartoon version of a sea mammal: sea lion, walrus (without teeth), or manatee. It was a depressing sight, to say the least. I have to stay this way for 3 to 6 months, until my next surgery. Since November, I have been wearing surgical masks to cover my unsightly visage.

Laguna Honda is an old, antique hospital form the 1920's. I fortunately have a private room in what otherwise would be for me an open ward facility. There are 25 people on my ward: The Positive Care Unit (O4), all living with HIV. Most of the residents are elderly. I am the youngest person in the entire hospital. At 28, I can't say that I feel very at home. In fact, I am suffering form heightened anxiety.

The loneliness of the hospital setting is inexorably unbearable. I can't describe to you well enough the stark silence and motionlessness of laying in my hospital bed with nothing but the steady hum of an area fan and the quiet click and groan of my feeding machine to keep me company. I like to keep the door open to be able to watch people as they pass by: nurses and patients alike. As its rather uneventful on my ward, I generally anticipate with great enthusiasm the arrival of my good friend Curtis Moore, MPH, the Executive Director of Bay Area Young Positives. He is as outstanding a person as I fondly remember you to be.

Despite the humdrum atmosphere of the clinial setting, there are occassional activities organized by a very special woman: Melanie, the Art Therapist. The Social Workers have scheduled various times during the week to keep me occupied and to have my mind remain safe from negative emotions. They are Jackie and Stephanie.

In fact, I just had a sit-in with Stephanie today, and I told here my life story ever since the day you discovered me in our dorm room senior year at William & Mary, trying to end my own life. I told her about you, your studies at Boalt Berkeley Law and your trips to Venezuela to study the Warao. Is that where you are now? I told her that you are my best friend. Is it appropriate to refer to you as such now after such time and distance? I dearly hope that I have your confidence still as such.

Above all else, beyond the pain and terror of losing my face, past all the despair and psychological turmoil, I know one thing to be certain: I miss you!! and I love you with as much of my heart as can be spared. I am terribly sorry that there has been such silence between us ever since you left the Bay Area. I dream to know of what amazing adventures your young life continues to lead you on. I expect that you are still as diligent and driven a social activist as ever I'll know in this world. I yearn to hear your stories, and I gladly anticipate your return to the states.

I love you, Peter! And I wish you the best of health and happiness while you are away from the country. I look forward to talking with you upon your return. Please stay safe and continue to be that super hero we all have learned to love so dearly. You are my heart and soul. I am so proud to have you as a friend. God Bless and good tidings. À Bientôt mon meilleur ami! You are my hero.

With the greatest amount of love and admiration...
In a state of undeniable despair, but ...
Full of hope and wanting to reconnect.

Your dear friend,

Matt(e)o | QHereKidSF

A Forlorn, Faceless FRIEND!

A letter to Damon John Burns, a good friend that I met two and a half years before my tragic accident. He tried contacting me when I was passed out, unconscious, in my apartment; he even came by and banged on the door. He thought I was angry with him and was not up for communicating any longer, so he just let me be. I wonder, if he had had more faith in the fortitude of our friendship, would he have abandoned our relationship and me near death in my bed so easily? I do not however blame him for the illness and the accident. I blame myself.

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It has been so long since we have spoken with or seen each other and so much has changed in my condition of life that I am not entirely sure how to approach this first correspondence after such distance. I realize that you are at least partially aware of what has occurred in my life since October of 2007, after having spoken with Mr. Paul Poole (my peer advocate from the UCSF Medical Center's 360: Positive Care Center; a.k.a The Positive Health Practice). However, let me reiterate my story from the time at which last we were in contact.

The reason why I had not contacted you toward the end of September / beginning of October, last year is because I had fallen terribly ill in my apartment and I was sickly sleeping in bed. One morning around the turn of those months (I'm not exactly sure of the exact date), I remember watching the Today Show and getting up from my bed to get a yogurt from the refrigerator. Sliding sweaty and sticky sickly out of bed, I fell face-flat to the carpet, unconscious and remained their for what is believed to be 10 to 12 days. Coupled with the infection of CMV (an AIDS related retinitis eye disease) and PCP Pneumonia, the additional bacteria from my dirty carpet infested my face through my saliva and began to eat away at the skin and bones of my mouth and nose.

On October 7th, Liz Longfellow (my former Larkin Street Youth Services Case Manager) came rushing to my door with the San Francisco Fire Department at bay. Having been worried that there had been no contact with me in three weeks, Larkin Street knocked down my door to find my half dead, half conscious body lying on my studio floor. My face was blackened and my teeth falling out. I was extremely dehydrated; my kidneys were failing, and I had fallen to a weight of 110 pounds. I don't remember these events.

Next, I was admitted to the Saint Francis Memorial Hospital Emergency Center and remained in intensive care for 2 weeks. After realizing that the infection in my lower face could not be contained, the doctors at Saint Francis sent me to UCSF Medical Center for an emergency debridement surgery to have half of my lips and nose (the infected tissue and bone) removed. I was in a coma for this entire period of time.

Three days after the surgery, I regained consciousness and was informed by the doctors at UCSF of what had occurred. Five days later, I removed the hygienic dressings for a changing and saw for the first time my new, lesser-than face. There was a giant, grotesque hole where my mouth and nose should have been. It was shocking but I handled the introduction with grace, good will and high hopes. The doctors continued to reassure me that reconstruction would occur and that plastic surgery would improve my situation.

I was eventually moved back to Saint Francis Memorial Hospital for a month, until space at Laguna Honda Hospital and Rehabilitation Center became available for me. I have been here for a week now and things seem well. I am waiting for my first reconstruction surgery at San Francisco General Hospital which is scheduled for January 30th. My residence at Laguna Honda is permanent, at least until I am well enough to return "home," being paid for through Medi-Cal. I anticipate that I will be here through February, maybe longer.

I wear a mask. It covers the unsightly, horrific hole in my face, so that strangers will not gasp and gawk at my deformity. I have trouble talking, unable to pronounce certain labial sounds: consonants B, P, M, etc. I salivate constantly and the warm liquid steadily drips from the gap in my lower lip, wetting my mask and irritating my skin. I am self-conscious and anxious about the reconstruction, but I am nonetheless full of hope and determined not to let this experience destroy me.

What is important for my psyche as well as for the success of my healing is that I am well supported by my friends and family (that includes you, I hope). To that regard, my Dad, whom I have not seen in five unfriendly years, came to visit me in the hospital for ten days, from Massachusetts. It was a very rewarding time I shared with him. We were able to express to each other and likewise comprehend how much love was shared between us. My Dad's mind has been opened wide in his nearly 60 years of life, making him a very caring, courageous man. His support is a treasure. I love him dearly.

This love I feel for my father, I also would like to share with you. You are a dear friend, and I miss you. I know it must be difficult hearing my recent story. It must be even more challenging to confront my situation in light of all recent changes. But please, do not be afraid to come to me to offer your support. I am dearly in need. Please know that I cherish all of our experiences together and hope beyond hope that you will have the strength to come and visit me in the hospital. Maybe even on a regular basis, so that I can have someone to talk to and with whom I can share my new experiences.

Laguna Honda Hospital is located at the Forest Hill MUNI Station (one stop away from Castro on either K, L, or M). I am in ward O4 room 403 at the back of the building. It's the "Positive Care Unit." I hope to hear back from you soon. Please stay in touch.

God Bless you. Stay well.
And Dream big...like you always do.
See you soon, my love!

Your forlorn, faceless FRIEND!!

Sincerely,

Matthew D. Blanchard
Laguna Honda Hospital
Unit O4, room 403
San Francisco, CA

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