Play-Doh, God, and What The Hell Happens After We Die???

Over the past few months, I seriously debated whether or not I wanted to continue writing my blog. A part of me felt like I had an obligation to keep writing because so many people told me they enjoyed reading what I had to say. It was, and continues to be, shocking that people care that much about my ramblings. Another part of me felt like this part of my life was over. I felt like the journey had ended and there was nothing more to say.

Of course, we don’t really have a say in that do we? Just when you think that all is calm and steady, a new bout of rain and hail hits you, and you realize that you were just in the eye of the storm. You have to keep fighting and wait for it to be over, because it will end. This isn’t Jupiter. Storms don’t last for 400 years here. Another storm will eventually pass through, but hopefully it will just be a “3 PM-in-Florida-during-the-summer” kind of rain.

So here I am, sitting in the rain, writing a blog that I thought I had abandoned. Turns out, blogs are extremely loyal and very hard to shake. Even when you try to drop them off at the shelter, they always turn back up. Only adopt a blog if you are willing to be responsible with it.

[Note: I came on here to write a serious post and I’ve already digressed like four times. I worry I am much too funny for my own good.]

This next bit is going to be a tad dry and factual. I will try to throw in a little humor, but I can’t make any promises. My bad.

I got a cold at the end of May, but I got over it after a few days. Then, at about midnight during the first week of June, I got a temperature and my breathing was more difficult. I went to the Emergency Room at Tampa General at the advice of my transplant doctor. After a bronchoscopy, they determined I had a bit of rejection, but nothing that couldn’t be fixed by a round of chemotherapy. I was in the hospital for one week and then went home.

About a week and a half later, my lung function had decreased even more. I went back to the hospital and it was discovered that I had donor-specific antibody rejection. Basically, my body recognized that my lungs were not a part of the original assembly and decided that it didn’t want an upgrade. My white blood cells started attacking the cells in my lungs, causing significant damage. My doctors put me on an intense round of anti-rejection IV drugs. I felt slight improvement, but now I was on continuous oxygen. They told me that it would take 2-4 months to recover, but I may never be back to my baseline. I was released after 8 days.

It was now July. I felt weak, but we assumed it was from the chemotherapy drugs and the new damage to my lungs. I was fatigued for Fourth of July Weekend, but I tried my best to be involved with the activities and spend time with my family. However, by Sunday, I didn’t want to leave my bed. I didn’t feel like eating, and when I did, I immediately threw up. I was extremely thirsty and I was so weak that my dad had to carry me to the bathroom. As the day turned to night, my breathing became more labored and I became more nauseous. At about three in the morning, my dad and Sheena decided to take me to the ER at Florida Hospital. I was struggling to breathe and I was extremely confused and disoriented. It turns out I was in diabetic ketoacidosis, or DKA. My blood sugar was over 1000, which is life-threatening. My body was slowly shutting down and if left untreated, I would have died. Which my doctors liked to bring up over the next few days, even though they were the ones who released me from the hospital with blood sugars in the 400s and 500s and DIDN’T TELL ME. They didn’t even tell me to check my blood sugars. Yet it’s MY fault that I almost died. Actual conversation before I was discharged for the third time in a month:

Doctor *in condescending doctor voice*: “ You do know that DKA is life-threatening? This is very serious.”

Me: “Nah, really?”

Doctor: …

Me: …

Doctor: …

Me: “Can I go home now?”

Oh no, I’m not bitter at all.

Anywho… so the whole time I’m having this rejection and diabetes drama, my doctors are trying to schedule this Nissen fundoplication surgery to prevent acid reflux which they partially believed caused my rejection. At this point, who even knows? My faith in these doctors is so low that it must be wearing Apple Bottom jeans. They had originally scheduled the surgery for mid-June, but then the second round of rejection happened. Then they wanted to do it before I was discharged from the blood-sugar fiasco. However, being the organized and adept doctors that they are, they didn’t realize that there was a test I needed to have done. When do you think they realized this? If you guessed a couple hours before surgery, then you would be correct. Just typing this out gets me frustrated. I was supposed to be at the hospital for my original surgery at 5 AM. IN TAMPA. CAN YOU IMAGINE IF I WOKE UP AT 3 AM, DROVE TWO HOURS TO TAMPA, ONLY FOR THEM TO BE LIKE “OH. JK! WE CAN’T DO YOUR SURGERY TODAY. SEE YOU NEXT TIME!” 

Thankfully, they realized this while I was still in the hospital and I was spared that nightmare. They finally do this test the next week and schedule the surgery for the final week of July. The surgery involves a laparoscopic procedure in which they take the top of the stomach and wrap it around the bottom of the esophagus, tightening the opening of the stomach and prevent acid reflux. Go watch an animation video on youtube if you are still confused. It’s a very weird looking procedure. Totes worth it.

So after a five day recovery, they finally let me leave the hospital. If you are counting, you would know that this is stay #4 in two months. It was now August. I canceled my lease with an apartment complex near school at the advice of my doctor. I switched from 4 classes to 2 online classes. I hadn’t worked since June. My lung function was low and I was on continuous oxygen. Things were looking pretty dismal, but I had a bronchoscopy scheduled for mid-August and I was looking forward to the next step. The bronchoscopy would tell us if there was still rejection and how we could go about getting me back to normal.

Good News: There was no rejection.

Bad News: My lungs are so damaged that they don’t think they will heal.

What does this mean? I am going to be evaluated for re-transplant.

I know what you’re thinking.

“Why does all this crazy shit happen to you?” The truth is, I don’t know. I’ll never know.

“Is that even possible?” Yep. I know a few people who have had two double-lung transplants.

“When will you get your transplant?” Well, I haven’t been listed yet. If I am listed, I still won’t know.

“Will you get your transplant in Tampa with those terrible doctors? What if they give you the wrong transplant? What if they put in Play-Doh instead of organs?” These are all valid questions. I am hoping that I will be able to be listed at Florida Hospital in Orlando. It is where I got my original transplant. I love the staff, it is close to home, and it is a beautiful hospital. However, if I can’t, I am going to go wherever I have the best chance of survival. That may be Tampa General or it could be Mayo. At this point, I’m just praying for Florida Hospital. I would really like to have lungs for lungs and I trust Florida Hospital to give me human organs instead of Play-Doh.

So that’s a not-so-brief summary of the past three months. Now on to Part 2 of this extremely long post that I just can’t seem to stop writing!

Since I’ve been up to nothing lately, it gives me a lot of time to think and reflect on all sorts of topics. These topics range from feminism to Harry Potter to “Where could I have possibly placed that Pokemon video game?”

I was filling out my Will and Advanced Directive the other day (like any responsible adult) and I got to thinking about death. Well, I was also thinking about how I don’t really have that many possessions, thus making my will quite short. But mostly death. Not that I think I am going to die, nor do I want to die. I just started thinking about what really happens after we die.

I don’t like to talk about religion a lot. I’m actually pretty educated on many different religions, so it’s not because I am not informed. I was raised a Christian and was very involved in the church. I still believe in God and the morals that I obtained from Christianity. Those morals are present in almost every major religion. Be kind to one another. Do not steal. Do not murder. Do not hate. Love. Basically, be a good person. In Christianity, we are taught that only those who believe that Jesus died for their sins go to heaven. I used to believe it, too. Now, though, I’m not so sure. I have a hard time believing that the God I was taught about, the one who loves us unconditionally and created this whole world, would not let good people into heaven just because they didn’t follow a certain religion. I guess that doesn’t really make me a Christian by some people’s standards, but I still consider myself one. I think that if you are a good person, you go to heaven. It’s that simple.

I know a lot of atheists like to point out that there is no proof of God. They’re right. I’m not denying that. Logically, it doesn’t make sense to believe in something that you can’t prove. But I believe in God and an afterlife because I’m hopeful there is one. I feel like its kind of sad to think otherwise.

“But what if you’re wrong?”

What if I am? Who cares? If I die and nothing happens, then I won’t even know. I won’t know that there isn’t a heaven or an afterlife or even a God. It will just be “fade to black…END SCENE” I will just cease. There won’t be any disappointment or moment where I’m like “Well, dammit. I was wrong. I totally should not have been a good person because there isn’t even a heaven! All my goodness was for waste.” I’m not a good person because I want to go to heaven or wherever. I’m a good person because why would I be anything else?

[On the off chance that I am wrong, I’m still comforted by the thought that my body may one day, in millions and millions of years, be a part of a star in another galaxy or some alien species on a distant planet. Science rules.]

This is my suggestion: Believe whatever makes you happy. If you are a Christian, a Jew, a Muslim, a Buddhist, etc., keep on doing you. As long as you aren’t bullying, hurting, harassing, or restricting anyone’s human rights, I’m happy that you found something to believe in. If you believe there is something out there, but you don’t follow a religion, no worries. Religion isn’t for everyone, but respect those who do practice. If you don’t believe in a god, that’s cool too, as long as you don’t condescend those who do. If you believe in Santa Clause and the Tooth Fairy, I’m honestly jealous that you have maintained that childhood innocence for this long.

In conclusion, be a good person. That’s really all I’m asking.