Fighting Death

 

You know what they say about "jinxing" things. If you say something or write about something, sometimes you're inevitably going to end up going through that thing. I've written a few blog posts on here about cheating death, and though they were prosaic, it seems death may have the last laugh after all, and those green grains of sand running through the hourglass of my life may finally be running out. 

I've been assessed for chronic liver disease for the last 3 years, since my operation to have my gall bladder removed. During the procedure the surgeon noticed levels of scar tissue on my liver that have no reason to be there. Those who know me well enough know that I've been teetotal for over 30 years (and was never much more than a social drinker before that - being married to an alcoholic was enough to put me off having anything to do with booze but I also never liked who I was when I got drunk, I was a nasty bitter drunk). 

I also eat healthily, don't smoke and exercise more than your average joe. These factors don't add up to the sort of damage my consultant was seeing. So what the fuck is going on? 

Then I thought there was a light at the end of the tunnel. A drug I have been taking for rosacea (of all things - a broad spectrum antibiotic) was thought to be a possible cause. Long term exposure to antibiotics (like taking them daily for over 10 years) can lead to liver damage. So I was taken straight off them, with a hope that this might lead to a reversal of the condition. 

Sadly it didn't. Worse still, the results of a biopsy I had 2 weeks ago came back on the day I got back from my holiday. A kick in the guts in letter form, delivered in that annoying distant medical gobbledegook that consultants love to pour into their letters, but essentially coming to the final conclusion. My liver is fucked and it's only a matter of time before it fails entirely. 

Time. How much time? There are no answers to this. Radical lifestyle changes, diets, exercise etc are all they can recommend to try and stave off the day when I wake up, look in the mirror and am yellow meaning that my liver has finally given up the ghost. From then on the chances of finding a donor are fairly slim, and life expectancy for someone with a failed liver is abruptly short. 

But fuck all that. Quite frankly I have never been a quitter, and in the face of something like this I'm going to do what I always do in adverse situations. Fight like fury. I will do all the things I've been advised to do and more, I will make preparations to ensure my loved ones are comfortable if any thing happens to me and once again I vow not to take life for granted. Life is better than you think, even when you're at your lowest ebb and it beats the shit out of the alternative. 

My fight began the moment I got the letter and then recovered from the shock. I've got more consultations coming up in November (they're either not that worried I'm going to crap out before then, or they're figuring that a few more months won't make much difference) but I am grasping death by the testicles and squeezing as hard as I can before the bastard gets me. Just like I said I would in all those other posts. 

If you've found your way to this blog (and I'm aware that if you have, you're probably doing so completely at random) I don't want sympathy or platitudes, I don't want anything really, just an acknowledgement that I said I would fight hard and that's exactly what I'm going to do. I don't really have anyone to vent at other than this blog, so I pour it all out here. Don't pray for me, religion has never done me any good. But stay healthy, and if you're going through something similar, keep fighting just like I'm going to.