Crisis of Faith

I would be remiss if I didn't mention a recent battle that has run parallel with my Lyme and fluoroquinolone toxicity struggles. I haven't yet mentioned this battle because I didn't think it had anything to do with Lyme or being "floxed" but I now think that there must be some connection. The battle I speak of is with...

Basal Cell Carcinomas.

I started seeing a dermatologist back in August, I still see the same one now and I don't necessarily see myself stopping in the very-near-future. A couple -- or maybe a few -- of these basal cells were present prior to me getting ill in the summer of 2017, but these red spots seemed to get worse after getting Lyme and several others seemed to pop up post-Lyme. Is there a connection? Or just coincidence?

Right now, I'm starting to think there's a connection because the timing seems too synchronous. Perhaps a magnesium deficiency is to blame since magnesium is integral to having healthy skin (read about magnesium deficiencies HERE). Or, perhaps, an excess of heavy metals is to blame, which are known to seep through the skin and cause problems (read about heavy metal toxicity HERE). Or, perhaps, a stressed immune system is to blame; my immune system spent so much energy fighting Lyme and parasites and viruses and heavy metals -- not to mention the fact that it was suppressed by steroids immediately after the Levaquin disaster -- that skin cancer may have seized opportunity and came out to play.

Anyway, biopsying and treating the skin cancers has been less than...um...fun. Part of the problem is that, for many of the basal cells, I have no choice but to remove them via surgery, which leaves scars, because the alternative option is to use a chemo cream but, because I'm now overly sensitive to chemicals, I do not want to use the chemo cream (my LLMD also recommended against doing so). I mean, can you blame me? Levaquin was a chemo drug (read about my disastrous experience taking Levaquin HERE). Do I really want to use another chemo drug? Not that the cream would be as strong as Levaquin (at least, I don't think it would be) but I still feel it would cause me problems, even though it's used topically.

So, right now, I'm starting to look like some angry old man put cigarettes and/or cigars out all over my body. Okay, it's not THAT bad...yet...but it may be getting to that point.

As far as the basals on my face and neck go, I must remove them via a special surgery called "MOHS." This is partially a good thing and partially a bad thing. It's good because I don't have to worry about using the chemo cream or having them removed by regular surgery that leaves a cigarette-burn-looking scar. It's bad because it's REALLY friggin' difficult finding a Mohs surgeon that takes my insurance. 

If I haven't made it obvious yet in these articles, I don't have good health insurance. I had to get on the phone for several hours, calling different places: surgeon offices, my insurance company, my primary care provider etc. Just when I thought I found somebody, I was let down. My insurance company would say this surgeon took my insurance; I would call them and they would say no, they didn't. My PCP would tell me another surgeon took my insurance. Nope, they didn't. I would log onto my insurance company website and get the names of several surgeons who took my insurance. Nope, none of them did. It seemed like a wild goose chase.

Finally, after maybe dozens of phone calls, I determined Mass General Hospital took my insurance and I set up an appointment for a consultation. I would've let out a deep exhale...EXCEPT...there was another problem: my knee. The back of my knee. It was still bothering me (see the end of my last blog) and walking in Boston, to and from Mass General, would be significantly more difficult. I had no idea what was wrong (and still have no idea as of writing this), whether it was torn cartilage or meniscus, tendonitis, arthritis or something else. This was very frustrating because the timing was awful. Just a couple weeks earlier, I was walking greater distances than I had been since I was sick. The walk to Mass General would have been no problemo but now it was a BIG problemo and it added to my stress.

Flash-forward a couple weeks later and my knee started feeling better; in fact, I would say it felt about half better and I thought it would only improve more as time went on. I thought the trek into Mass General would be no big deal and consequently (and, as it turns out, foolishly) I started amping up my walking a bit more. The most amped of these walks took place two days before my consultation in Boston. After this walk, my knee flared up all over again. I thought I was screwed and I was pissed at myself for walking too much. Why didn't I just take it easy? At least until the appointment was over? Now it would be much greater a challenge getting into Boston for the freggen appointment.

Waiting for the Blue Line.

I went online and literally mapped my commuting route into Boston, down to the very last step. Parking at MGH was supposedly a major pain in the butt cheeks so I knew public transportation was my best option. I found that I could take the commuter train into Back Bay Station, then take the Orange Line subway to State Street and transfer to the Blue Line, which took me to the Bowdoin stop that was only a four-minute walk from the building my appointment was at. This meant all the walking involved would be the four-minute walk, in addition to some minimal walking inside train and subway stations. Oh, and it would be round trip. Could I do it?

I wasn't sure.

Ultimately, I had my dad come along for the appointment. This way, he could help me out if the walking was too much for my angry knee. Of course, I felt like a dingbat taking my dad with me for the appointment. I'm sure the secretary at MGH was, like, "Why the F does this 36-year-old man have his dad here with him for his appointment?" I wanted to answer, "Because I'm a Lymey Bastard and I hurt my knee and I sometimes need help doing really simple shit!" But I knew I couldn't just yell this out.

In the end, I made it to and from the appointment ok. My knee bothered me a little bit but it miraculously felt better as the day went on. The weather was on the warm side and I think that, for whatever reason, the knee joint feels better when it's warmer and slightly more humid as opposed to very cold and dry winter air. Does this mean it's arthritis? No idea. I'm not a doctor.

So I guess my worry was ultimately unnecessary but, still, I mean, my God! At a certain point, you start to wonder, how much more of all this can I take before I lose it completely? What are the limits of my sanity? How could things have become so bad? Is this all worth it? Am I better off dead? Seems like a total disaster. Total nightmare. Nothing is easy. Lyme = lack of physical ability = lack of ability to make sufficient money = lack of good health insurance = huge-ass hassle for a person who doesn't feel great to begin with. It seems like just when you think things couldn't get any worse (and maybe, just maybe, things are starting to get/look better), they do get worse and your capacity to withstand misfortune keeps getting tested further and further. The question is, when will this all end? When will things turn around? Will they ever??

If this whole "Lyme experience" is good for nothing else, it certainly makes you think about the misfortunate people out there, how they're always out there and you should never forget them. You can easily become one of these misfortunates yourself and you would want people to think about you and not be forgotten or ignored. That's part of the golden rule, I think. Do and think unto others.

Also, this experience humbles you in ways that you never ever could imagine. When you find yourself mapping out a trip into Boston down to the very last step because you can only take a limited, finite amount of steps...well, that humbles a man who, just a year and a half ago, was zipping through Boston on his feet at about 20 miles per hour (see ONE LAST HURRAH WITH DADDY blog). No matter what my future holds, whether I get much better, fully better, back to normal or what-have-you, one thing I will NEVER do again is take my body and my health for granted. Fuck no, I will not do that. I almost feel like everybody should go through the experience of having to map out a trip to a much-needed doctor's appointment down to the very last freakin' step and experience the fear of maybe, just maybe, not having enough steps in you to make it there. People need to feel the stress and frustration of being so physically limited. People also need to feel the embarrassment of needing to depend on somebody for assistance (in my case, my dad). That's the kind of shit that will put perspective into your eyes.

Lastly, this experience could be one gigantic test of faith. I've been tested before but not quite to this extent. If this is a test of faith, it's an epic one and really, really, really (and also really) difficult. In fact, I don't think it's ever been so difficult for me to hold the faith. I've never been so close to losing it completely and I've never been so close to entering a state of deep and total despair. I'm not quite there yet, but, damn, I've never been so close.