I Got Tube Babe

Many of you have followed my adventures, the past several months, with the mysterious piece of "inner-space junk" that's been wandering around the inside of my person. The doctors believe the object is a long plastic tube, which was once providing IV access through a vein in my chest. The tube broke off during an attempt to remove it surgically, back in Sept. 2009; however, they believed it had permanently attached itself safely to my shoulder – thus preventing its removal.

However, it may not be that particular tube at all. It may actually be some other medical debris, which has been sitting there for decades. Hell, maybe it was put there during that brief time I can't account for while driving down Route 8 that one dark night. There was this real bright light, and... Okay, that part's not true -- nobody in their right mind drives on Route 8 at night.

In any case, the tube (or something like it) was last seen on a CAT scan in May, resting near my liver and stretching up through my heart like a giant plastic gummy worm. The roller coaster of positive and negative news regarding this "mystery tube," over the past several weeks, has been the cause of much stress, worry, and frustration.  I know it really shouldn't bother me; the doctors seem sure (more or less) that it’s harmless. But the idea of some sort of debris inside my body is completely disconcerting.

Just the mention of the heart sends most people into a panic. The heart is our core...our life force...the metaphorical home of our very soul. It's who we are at the most primal level. Messing with one's heart, in any sense, is a very bad thing. And now mine has been turned into some kind of macabre shish kabob.

What makes it worse is that I have a little touch of obsessive-compulsive disorder. Oh, not so as you might notice it; but it's there. I don't like a messy room or desk; I don't like things out of alignment; never been a fan of odd numbers, and have a pesky need to do things just a certain way. I've even been known to fold the occasional piece of scrap paper before throwing it away. I know: goofball.

So now, the guy who can't stand bits and pieces lying about has a giant piece of biological waste running right through his body -- and it's probably not even sitting there straight! Oh, and it's not just this tube. I've also got broken bars and snapped wires in my back from a less-than-successful scoliosis surgery. I even have some poor dead guy's bones in there, from that same event. At various times, I've enjoyed the company of dialysis tubes, catheter tubes, nephrostomy tubes, oxygen cannulas and the late, great tracheostomy tube -- I'm a rolling Med-Mart! Thankfully, most of that is just a memory.

This crazy, inexplicable tube was just the last straw on a giant pile of aggravation, built up over the past year or so of medical misadventures, illnesses, moments of panic, and times where it all seemed pointless. But that's nothing new; the urge to just give up the struggles and call it a life, is a semi-regular visitor to most people with disabilities. It's like that creepy cousin who shows up unannounced, and you just have to put up with him until he's out of your hair. But you sure as hell don't let him move in! The blues come and go, and you deal with them. You know you have to work your way through the funk and come out on the other side. Faith in God and the realization that there exists that "other side" keeps you going in the hard times.

With all this stuff going on, I was having one of those brief trips through the funk the other day...feeling quite sorry for myself, thank you very much. Then an email showed up in my box that changed everything.

It was a notification of a Facebook posting from a woman who had just tried to kill herself.

She posted on a Facebook group to which I belong: desperate, frustrated, hurting and full of self-loathing. Without going into detail, it was clear that this poor woman was suffering from a physical malady which strikes many people like me, who have Spina Bifida. Her pain and mood changes were easily recognizable as symptoms of the condition. I wasn't sure what to do. The woman doesn't even live in America; it's not as if I could rush over there. She needed medical treatment; but first, she needed to hang on emotionally (despite the mental tricks the condition plays) long enough to receive it. I did the only thing I knew how; I tried to reason with her.

Suddenly I found myself arguing the case against the very action I had entertained myself, not that long ago. It was as if I was looking in a mirror and seeing how awful...how useless...how foolish such thoughts are. Here was a woman in a moment of crisis far worse than my own, and I was reaching out to pull her from the brink. I almost felt like a hypocrite. After all, hadn't I looked over that same edge with just as slippery a grip?

I gave her every reason to hang in there until she could receive help. I assured her a sunny day awaited on the other side of the funk. Beyond that, I could only pass her on to some folks I know in her country who are far more qualified than I am to deal with such things.

I guess, sometimes you can only see how foolish you look when you see someone else dressed the same way. How ridiculous it is, to consider such a defeatist attitude. How pious of you to judge what you think best for those around you. How ultimately selfish you are to deprive those who care for you, of a loved one: leaving them behind, in a barren prison of confusion and guilt. For some, suicide is the ultimate expression of cowardice. To most, it seems the only way out. Regardless, it's a tragedy.

I lost a friend to that choice, not long ago. I remember how it left me feeling. And I hope I've learned my lesson. Running away -- in any form -- is never the answer. There is always a strand of hope to hang on to, and sometimes you just have to tie it around your hand.

A dear friend of mine suggested I write this blog post. She said, "You need to work out your frustrations; and writing about it is just how you're wired." She was, as always, right. So I dedicate this rambling post to you, Lisa. You are truly an awesome friend.

Oh, and she suggested I do one other thing as well. So, at her suggestion (and to lighten up the gloom in here a bit), I present the following:


I GOT TUBE BABE

An original parody
Based on "I Got You Babe" by Sonny & Cher

They say It’s done and it won’t grow
We won't find out until the X-rays show
Well I don't know what all it’s through
But the thing broke free and baby I got tube

Babe
I got tube babe I got tube babe

They say this thing won’t get all bent
If all else fails, they can use it as a stint
I guess that's so, they don’t say a lot
But at least I'm sure of exactly what I got

Babe
I got tube babe I got tube babe

Don’t need staples or a string, I got tube to hold my spleen
And when I'm clad, but in a gown
And if I’m scanned, its always around
So let them say my health’s all wrong
'Cause I don't care, it’s been in me far too long
So even if I hate this line
There ain't no pill or treatment they can find

Babe
I got tube babe I got tube babe

I got tube to hold my glands
I got tube, to beat the band
I got tube that moves quite free
I got tube that walks through me
I got tube to fill with lights
I got tube to see at night
I got tube, it won't let go
I got tube that loves me so

I got tube babe
I got tube babe
I got tube babe
I got tube babe

I got tube babe

Maybe I should have gone with Don't Worry Be Happy. ;-)