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Arpad Miklos ~ Touched By An Angel
I first saw Arpad Miklos in a Kristen Bjorn video many years ago. I remember I was smitten from that very first moment I saw his moving image on my TV. This giant of a man, with quads the size of my torso. That gorgeous, hairy chest, and that face. So very masculine, but with the softest, kindest eyes.
Many years passed. And, as I worked my way up in the Gay Porn Industry, I always held fast to the fantasy that Arpad and I would one day have the opportunity to work with one another.
Finally, in 2005, Red Devil Entertainment approached me about releasing a compilation DVD...My "Greatest Hits" compilation, so to speak. You know you have achieved some sort of notoriety in the Industry when you get a DVD featuring nothing but a compiled selection of scenes featuring you.
Well, Jett Blakk, the former CEO and owner of Red Devil Entertainment has always been one step ahead of the rest of the the videographers and story creators in this Industry. He realized that there were a TON of 'Best Of..." compilations released all the time by all the studios, so to make mine stand out and give it better selling power, he arranged for a Bonus scene to be filmed that would be featured exclusively on my "Best of..." compilation. And, to my delight, he told me I could literally shoot with ANY model I wanted, so long as they weren't signed in an exclusive contract with another studio.
Jett asked me if I needed a day or two to think about whom I wanted to film the bonus scene with. HELL NO!
"I want to shoot with Arpad!", I told him. We were in LA. Arpad was living in NYC. Jett contacted him, sent him my pics, and Arpad agreed to do the scene. He was flown out to shoot with me in LA. I was so nervous. So excited. It really was my porn fantasy come true. The scene was amazing. But, It was also the first time I got to spend time and hang out with this gentle giant.
He spoke with the softest voice and I could intuitively see that he had a sensitive heart.
Throughout the years, Arpad and I would email one another.
He usually was in San Diego every Summer for Pride. He would always email me and let me know which parties he was gonna be at, and of course I was always there so I'd get to see him, hang out with him for a bit, and drive whomever my current boyfriend was, completely insane, seeing me so giddy around Arpad, like a puppy.
The torches that I hold for men that I am attracted to or with whom I am fascinated with are very seldom long lived. My torch for him was sparked when I first saw his moving image, and burned bright when I finally did get to meet him and realized what a sweet, sensitive, man he was as well.
The news came to me out of nowhere. I was at the bank, sitting at a table filling out a deposit slip when I received a text that Arpad had died. I was shocked. Of course I got a hold of Michael Lucas immediately, hoping it was simply a sick rumor that some moron had spread on Twitter. But, it was confirmed. I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me. I immediately went back to my apartment and just spent some time thinking about him. about his life, about what a big heart he had. I said a Prayer to the Powers That Be that his soul made a easy transition to wherever it is that our energy travels to when he leave the physical world.
I do not know or wish to speculate as to what drove this amazing performer and very sweet man to the taking of his own life. I have been hounded by Press and people who have been digging for information revolving around the passing of Arpad Miklos. Why?? Those facts are personal and private. His loved ones and family should only be privy to that information.
All that matters is that there was once a gentle of a giant with a beautiful heart that walked this earth. And though he is no longer with us, his memory lives on.
Wherever you are, beautiful one, I will always carry your memory in my mind's eye.
In loving memory of one of Arpad Miklos...1967-2013
I wrote this fantasy blog about Arpad nearly 5 years ago. You can archive it on this site. It was titled,
"I Believe In Angels"....Written on November 30th, 2008.
And now, more than ever, I know that Arpad is free, happy, and One with the Angels.
DREAMS ~ I BELIEVE IN ANGELS
I was awoken from sleep to the sound of rustling outside my door. Footfall. I distinctly heard someone whispering my name. I couldn't imagine who it could be. More curious then frightened, I edged forward towards the door and quietly unlocked the latch. As I slowly opened the door and looked outside I was blinded by an incredible sight. A tall figure surrounded by a bright light with his back turned to me. He was so tall and defined and shrouded by light that I simply stood there-awestruck. He turned around and slowly came towards me. There was dark hair on his face, so much like the dark hair that grew all over his gorgeous chest. He stood tall over me and wrapped his muscular arms around me. We moved backwards towards my bed as he simply seemed to engulf me. I was lost. His tongue was inside my mouth, probing me. It seemed to be the only form of communication that he knew. His hands were all over my body. He pushed me down on my bed and turned my over on my stomach, mounting me. I felt his saliva, slick around my ass as he lubricated me, then proceeded to penetrate me-deep.
I was crying out, wailing in ecstasy as he pounded my ass slowly,deliberately. The friction of the bed against my cock was insatiable as he continued pounding my ass. Guttural moans were emanating from me as he pushed his weight on top of me. The room began to quake as I felt the heat rising deep inside me. The combination of his dickinside my ass and the friction of the bed was bringing me to orgasm. I arched my back and gyrated my hips in unison with his as I shot my load all over the bed. He climaxed, shooting his load all over my ass cheeks. He yanked my hair and cried out as he did so. I was spent. Dizzy. Exhilarated.
I rolled over and looked around the room. No one in sight. All that was left of him was his sweat and cum all over my body.
I heard the sound of wings flapping and I rose from the bed and looked out into the moonlit sky. I thought I saw the shadow of his body against the clouds but convinced myself it was nothing more than a figment of my imagination.
If ever there was the perfect vision with a set of wings to mount me, I think this is what he would look like...
TRY
Happy Belated New Year, Guys!
It feels so good to be writing about things that are no longer along the lines of bad surgeries, bad boyfriends, bad boyfriends and their bad hair plugs...LOL
I truly feel like 2013 has begun, and the canvas of my life is again painting itself a brand new piece of art. We all have tons of art pieces that we have created, documenting our lives.
Regardless if those pieces are stored through music, writing, actual painting, or the powerful portraits created through the mind's eye. They all hang before us...Some opulent, rich, and beautiful. Some passionate, romantic, and intimate. And some horrific, vivid, and grotesque.
Memories from events of the past are often quite haunting.
If you followed my previous story....You will recall that the past 1 1/2 years were quite tumultuous for me. Sad. Heart breaking. But, I don't think I have learned more about myself than I have through that period of my life.
Thankfully...it inspired me to push myself harder. Don't get me wrong. Going through the physical pain of a bad surgery and the emotional pain of the betrayal and demise of my relationship was horrendous. And, for a time I did feel like it was a death. But, after the pain came the knowledge. And once I conceded to myself where it was that I went wrong...Once I could see past what He and She and They all did wrong to me.... I could authentically see all of the things within myself that I wanted so desperately to change. That is when the inspiration finally came and I found myself ready to get up and Try again.
Try what??
Try anything and everything that my heart told me to!
I have been living for the past ten years chained to the idea that what other people thought or didn't think of me dictated whom I really was. Bullshit!
All that matters at the end of the day is how I feel about myself, my motives and my behavior. If I'm good with it, then I'm gonna sleep just fine. Once you let go of what other people think of you, your creative process really opens itself up.
I've been living in San Diego for almost seven years. I am not happy in this fucking town.I haven't been for about 3 1/2 years now. But, I have been so propelled by fear of leaving that I swallowed my light and stayed. What the fuck is that??
I told myself bullshit like: My sober support group is here. My mother is here.
If I leave, I wont have that, and If I don't have that support I may end up....blah blahh blah...
Listen guys...That is all fear regulated bullshit. I have been so angry and resentful at myself for staying here these last few years, I've waged war on half of gay San Diego. (Ok. Sometimes I did get a bit of perverse pleasure from it...Lol.) But, ultimately, I want to be a harmonious person and just get along with the people I care for and ignore the people that don't matter to me....regardless of what they may say or do.
My heart has been telling me that I belong in NYC. That I need to become a published writer. That I need to share my stories with gay men around the world, and hopefully let them know they aren't fucking alone. That if they ever felt ugly, unloved by a parent, abused, addicted, dysmorphic, craaaaazy, erratic, or socially retarded, that there is a guy out there named Nick, who is ALL OF THE ABOVE. AND HE LOVES HIMSELF AND HE LOVES YOU, TOO!!
I want all of you men, both young and old to realize your gifts, your talents, your beauty and push past the fucking voice that resounds in your heads, telling you that you are worthless or that you would simply fail if you ever Tried to do what yout heart yearns and beckons you to do.
I have listened to that fucking voice in my head way too often and 2013 is the year I muzzle that fucker and start following my heart.
I'm not gonna just lead by inspirational BS blog entries either. I'm gonna lead by pure example. Unless health should drastically stop me..my ass is moving to NYC this year and I'm gonna start shopping a publisher. I am gonna leave my mom, who is my best friend and biggest emotional support. All of my wonderful friends here and take on the most difficult City in this country to survive in....and Try...and Thrive.
I gotta Try..Cuz this isn't a rehearsal kids. This is life. And it's passing us by every day.
Do you really want to look back on your life and wonder what things might have been like had you simply taken that leap of faith and tried doing something extraordinary? Something that you always yearned and dreamed of?
I know men who have never had a real relationship. I know brilliant artists who have never shared their work with the world. The fear of failure, the fear of rejection, the fear of heartache is too great for them to bare.
My former sponsor used to tell me, "Trying is dying...Just do it!" I don't necessarily agree.
I believe we need to Try. If it don't work, but feels right, Try fucking again. If it don't feel right at all. Try Something else!
I love Pink. And though I know she wrote this song about Love. I interpret it to a much grander scale. I truly believe these lyrics can apply to ANYTHING your heart desires!
So, what's it gonna be... Are you gonna sit around, do your 9-5, come home, dream a little dream, avoid the confrontation of failure, rejection, and emotional pain, and eventually Die?
Or are you gonna get up, follow your heart's innermost desire, take that leap of faith, and Try?
xxx
Nick
"Where there is desire there is gonna be a flame.
where there is a flame someone's bound to get burned.
Just because it burns doesn't mean you're gonna Die,
You gotta get up and Try and Try and Try...."
Lyrics
ink/Ben West/Busbee
ink/Ben West/Busbee
The Gift (Part Six...)
Again...The IV was placed securely in my vein..Again, I was helped out of my clothes and helped into a hospital gown. Again, I was being wheeled to some distant wing of the hospital for God knows how many days. And again, I was scared out of my mind.
My mother arrived shortly after I was settled into the Pulmonary floor of the hospital. She was visibly shaken. All of this had taken such a toll on her. There were dark circles around her eyes and she was thinner. I felt horribly for having put her through so much. She had carried the majority of the weight in taking care of me as well as being my moral support.
Sadly, as I wrote in Chapter 5, my partner Tony..for every reason imaginable, had fallen short.
But, I had to deal with what was in front of me at the moment: The clot in my lung.
I had no idea what an emboli meant. I knew it was a clot. I knew it had traveled from my leg into my lung. And I knew from the look of concern on the ER doctor's face, and by the way he quickly admitted me to the hospital, that whatever this clot in my lung meant, it was nothing good.
My heart never felt so heavy. My mother had already become accustomed to sitting with me for hours in the hospital. She had her UNO deck with her, and she sat with me and played cards until the head of Pulmonology of the hospital came in. She was a very pleasant, very direct Indian woman. She told me that the good news was that the clot on my lung was blocking no major arteries and was pretty small. She did tell me that a pulmonary emboli is always treated with concern because once a clot has traveled from one area of the body to the lung, the only other places for it to go were the brain or the heart. If it made it's way into my brain that would usually entail a massive stroke. If it made it's way into my heart-death.
How does one take that type of news??? I already knew this clot had a knack for travel. That was what scared me the most.Was this a multi geographic vacation it was taking or was my lung the final stop?? I prayed for my life that it was.
I asked how the clot would be treated...The Pulmonologist told me as aggressively as possible. They would keep me in the hospital for at least 48-72 hours because they would need to do a Doppler Ultrasound of all my extremities (arms and legs) to make sure there were no more clots or blockage in my blood flow; as well as get my INR (International Normalized Ratio) in my blood to a "therapeutic" level.
I know...To any of you who haven't experienced this or are not in the medical field, I am speaking Latin. Basically, I was going to be injecting Lovenox (an injectable blood thinner) into my stomach twice a day as well as taking an oral blood thinner, Coumidin, once a day until my blood was thin enough to form a reservoir through the blood clot, which would eventually break it up. The problem with blood thinners is if they get your INR levels too high, you risk internal bleeding.
Jesus Fucking Christ! Was there ANY Good news coming my way???
Oh yeah...My boyfriend was just walking into my room. He greeted me with a kiss and a sad expression on his face. He started to say hello to my mother, but she glared at him and marched out of the room. I explained to Tony what was going on. He listened with concern, held my hand for an hour, then asked me if I minded if he went to City Fest with his ex, who was in town visiting.
I was again crushed. This wasn't happening. Was it? Was he really going to march off to another fucking party just hours after I had been admitted to the hospital??
The real me would have said, "Hell No, MotherFucker! Not if you want to continue this relationship!" But, I had become a mere skeleton of the strong Type A personality I had once been before I had gone in to Dr Shmootz' office in mid May for a calf augmentation.
And Tony was again showing me exactly whom he really was. For a moment I finally saw him, crystal clear. Past my delusions of whom I so desperately wanted him to be. He was simply a middle aged, self consumed man, who only wanted the 'glitter' of a relationship, but was not ever willing to do the 'work' that EVERY lasting relationship requires if it's going to be healthy and last.
I said, "Yes.Go ahead"..Frankly, I just wanted him out of my sight.
I was released form the hospital 72 hours after I was admitted. I was put under the care of an amazing Pulmonologist who treated the blood clot in my lung as aggressively as she could without putting my life at further risk.
I injected my stomach with Lovenox twice a day for almost a month. I took coumidin every day for six months. I got my INR's tested through a blood draw at the hospital; sometimes as often as twice a week.
But, best of all for my health..I got up. I got out. I did my physical therapy. I got back to the gym. And I got back into the world of the living again.
In March of this year, I had another Doppler Ultrasound done on my extremities to make sure no new clots had formed. CLEAR!
Two weeks later, I had a cat scan of my chest with a dye contrast to see if the clot in my lung was bigger or smaller. It was gone!
I was given a clean bill of health for the first time since mid-May of 2011.
A simple calf augmentation had turned into a 10 month NIGHTMARE!!
But I was free-Physically.
Emotionally...not so much.
I was still very depressed over the relationship I was still choosing to be in. And I do use the word 'choosing', because I am responsible for that. I chose to stay and hold on to a delusion. Therefore my suffering was brought on by choice.
I was no longer very responsive to Tony, though. I avoided him as much as I could while I was recovering and treating the clot in my lung.
I had to be strong and he made me weak. I was already internally traumatized by my health problems, I wasn't in a place to deal with the emotional trauma that my lover had left inside my heart.
And boys...To be perfectly honest, the pain that I experienced behind Tony not being there for me through most of this nightmare far outweighed ANY of the physical pain and emotional trauma that this botched surgery had inflicted in my world.
I would gladly endure 100 pulmonary emboli before I endured the pain of the betrayal of my partner being virtually absent through all of this. That was truly the Dark Night Of My Soul.
Ok..So, here are my thoughts now, looking back on this ordeal...
With or without a man, I am still whole. Just like I am still beautiful inside and out without amazing calves!
Boys...Take inventory here of the way you beat yourselves up every day for not looking like the perfect 'gay Ken doll'.
For, I promise you that if you look a little deeper within yourself, you will see just how much you have to offer yourselves and this world.
Maybe one of my mistakes will save you from making a terrible one yourself.
Maybe reading about some of my vast insecurities with my body will help you to feel like you are not alone.
Maybe my choices to stay in a bad romance will help you take inventory of your own relationships and help you see you're worthy of better.
But, most of all...my hope is that your darkest, most painful experiences don't turn you into a jaded, hardened person.
I hope that you will see that these moments of darkness will always bring forth some of your greatest Gifts...
All my love...
Nick
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The Fear of the Fall..
I have been giving this whole "Love and Relationships" thing a lot of thought lately. Specifically, gay love and relationships. I have a friend. He's 27. Gorgeous. Great body. Intelligent. He's in school to graduate to a 6 figure income. And, best of all...he's a genuine, sweet, really awesome guy. He had a relationship in another state, (with an Italian-go figure!) and it went sour. He came out of it really broken up and hurt. He obviously was very committed to the relationship and knowing him as I do, I would stake my life that he was an amazing partner to his boyfriend. So...as I'm sure many of you boys can relate..he came out of that relationship really banged up. Scars from their love still seem to remind him daily that falling in love is not a good idea for him. I've watched him start to crush on a guy then pull out quickly when he realizes there is emotion getting involved.
After taking a careful inventory, and reflecting on some of my gay male friends and their own intimacy issues, I realized how many of us are truly, deathly in Fear of the pain that can be associated with Falling in Love.
Unfortunately guys...Love is a game that you only get one chip to gamble with....your heart.
So, what's it gonna be?
How many of you have experienced a Bad Romance or felt fucked over so royally by a partner that you vowed to never endure the pain of a relationship ever again?
Here is the struggle I face today...My last relationship of 2 1/2 years was so filled with turmoil, anguish, resentment, and anger that I feel like I am very weary and hesitant to give myself to another guy.
One of my ex boyfriends, whom I am very close with said to me today, "Maybe you are just not ready."
But, are we ever really "Ready"?
I think it's a matter of Fear or Fall.
I've fallen before. I was wounded. Scarred even. But, I eventually healed. Yes, the scars from my past relationships still reflect images in my mind's eye that scare me to death. But, deep down inside I want to love again.
Am I going to allow the frustrated fears that I carry from past relationships that have gone wrong rule me to sabotage a potentially good present dating situation?
Am I not going to date at all and become another jaded gay man who lives for casual sex because the fear of falling in love and getting hurt all over again rules him?
I recently met a really sweet guy. He's gorgeous.We get along well. The sex is amazing. He's sober. And, he seems reasonably sane. (At least that makes one of us!) And after less than a week, I found myself already starting to investigate him. We have mutual friends and I was asking questions about what they thought of him.
I admitted to him that I had been investigating him and he simply told me that it wasn't cool. He told me he'd rather I let him reveal himself to me as we grew to know one another with every passing day. That gave me such clarity!
I realized that my own personal Fear of the Fall was driving me in a hundred different directions...all of them away from him.
So, I am now faced with the choice...
Am I going to choose to let fear from my past relationship sabotage this current affair, or am I going to leave the past right where it is...in the past?
Today I am choosing to take this new path with this new man one day at a time and to not allow my Fear of getting hurt again prevent me from Falling..
So, my question for you as you read this blog is this:
Are you going to let the Fear of the Fall rule you and prevent your future soul mate from finding you? Or are you going to open your heart again? Can you find that inner strength inside of you to go out there and let yourself be open to romance and maybe...just maybe..If that special guy comes along..Walk straight to the edge of that cliff..Turn your back to the open air..throw your arms out to the winds of chance...and Fall...
xoxo
Nick
The Gift...(Part Five)
After 12 days of Hell. 12 days of impending doom. And 12 days of pain in the hospital, I was finally going to be released. The implants were out. The infections were both being treated with the powerful IV meds that were being pushed into the tube that was now strewn inside the artery of my right upper arm, coiling itself into the center of my chest. "You have a very small blood clot in your right leg", the GP at the hospital told me on the day of my discharge. He said it so matter of factly. Like, I had a zit he just noticed. I was gobsmacked. A clot?!? "What are we going to do about it?", I asked. I was slightly panicked.But, I was so fucking exhausted from all that my body and spirit had endured already. I could barely even wrap my mind around what this next development was going to entail. "Oh, for a clot this small, in such a superficial area, you just need to use a warm compress on the area every day, and 300mg of aspirin daily until it breaks up", he responded. "That doesn't seem very aggressive." I responded. "Well, that is the protocol we use for something this slight." he responded. That was it. You would think we were dealing with something as simple as acne. I didn't question it. But now...That conversation resounds in my mind over and over again. I didn't question it because he was the medical deity and I was the patient. Boys...Huge Gift for me and hopefully something for you to take from this story. These doctors are not the demigods they present themselves to be, with their worldly medical knowledge. They are mortal men, who make mistakes. If you feel something is not right with your body that a medical pro is, "Sure of"...Take it to another medical pro or a specialist. Because a medical demigod's simple mistake could cost you your life. It almost did mine. So, there I was..my last day at the hospital...About to be released. A tube with two plugs sticking out of my right arm, taped securely and bound with gauze for the next 2 weeks inside of me.And I was crying again. Sadly, I wasn't even crying because of the clot. I was really crying because through all of this..Through all that I had been through from the day of my surgery. Through the infections. Through the removal of my implants. Through the misery and pain...My mother had been there. My sponsor had been there. 2 of my ex boyfriends had been there. Several close friends had been there..But, my boyfriend, Tony. My partner of almost 2 years..had not. He had visited me 3 of the 12 days I was in the hospital. His reason. He detested hospitals. When I was propped upside down, overnight, the day after my surgery. The day Dr. Shmootz thought I might have a compartmental syndrome, he wasn't there. He was too tired after work and 'not feeling well'. The man I had come to trust and love and desperately needed to hold my hand through all of this was absent. I didn't understand. He always had a reason or an excuse as to why he wasn't going to be there for me. If I argued it, he would threaten me that this was going to cause a fight between us. I was baffled. I was hurt. And I felt abandoned by the love of my life. My mother sure wasn't. She never really cared for Tony, but this had sealed the deal. She seethed.... "This was elective surgery gone wrong and he can't show up?? What happens if, when you are older and I'm gone, God forbid, you should get something like cancer??? You are going to endure this alone? Because your partner doesn't like a fucking hospital?!" My motther is a traditional Sicilian woman. There are no 3 strikes in her world. She forgives relentlessly. But, the code of conduct in our lineage is loyalty to your loved ones. And if you sever that code you are dead to her. I knew there was no coming back from this with her and he, and it broke my heart. The two people I loved most were now at odds. But, I had so many other things to address after I was discharged from the hospital, Back to my mother's to rest. My apartment was located on a rooftop terrace and there was absolutely no way I could make it up and down the stairwell every day for all my appointments. Physical therapy 3 times a week. It was Hell. Mostly because for the first 14 days after my discharge from the hospital, I had to wake up every morning and my mother would drive me to the head of Infectious Disease building to receive IV treatments to continue killing the strep and staph infections in my left leg. An IV attached to a bag full of clear liquid was attached to one of the plugs that was taped to my arm while they drew blood from the other plug. The antibiotics made me very sick. Weak. Dizzy. And, of course...I had to go see Dr. Shmootz once a week so he could look at my legs. This douche never ceased to amaze me. Every time I came in after the implants were removed he ALWAYS made it a point to reassure me that I could still have the implants put back in after the infections were gone. I wouldn't even dignify his insanity with a response. |
I was still walking with a walker. That sucked, in itself. Maybe it sounds trifle to you, but the way people would look at me with such pity in their eyes seeing this big guy using a walker...Like, "Oh that poor guy. What happened to him?" It was humiliating. I tried to get out of my mother's house. If only to try and walk around the block with the walker. Problem is I was starting to suffer post traumatic stress from everything that had happened in the last several months. I began having panic attacks every other day.I tried to use a walker and go to the grocery store with my mother. It had been well over two months of virtual isolation from the world. Even being in a small crowd of people all in one place immediately triggered the attacks. Same symptoms as before. I became short of breath. I couldn't swallow. My heart rate would go crazy. It really felt like a respiratory issue Sometimes the attacks would last for an hour at a time. I was eventually prescribed Klonopin. A highly addictive, disassociative drug used to treat people with panic attacks. My sponsor told me that people in the Program of Alcoholics Anonymous might find this controversial. Because Klonopin is in the Benzo family. I would like for any member of AA or NA to endure what I endured and then experience the exact symptoms that I experienced during these panic attacks. I really don't give a fuck what anyone thinks of me, especially in gay AA/NA San Diego. I have come to learn in over 4 years that this specific group of men can be some of the most toxic, relentlessly evil, gossipy human beings I have ever come across. Anonymity is a joke amongst them as they revel in taking peoples stories and problems out of meetings and make them their topics of social conversation. I am still, to this day taking my Klonopin as prescribed. It has kept me from having panic attacks for over a year. So fuck you and your Big Book if you got a problem with it! |
Were the panic attacks coming from being isolated form normal human social interaction for so many months? I can't say. Were they coming from all the trauma that I had endured with the multiple surgeries, infections, and now this blood clot? I don't really know.
What I can tell you is that I was devastated with how Tony had handled all of this. It had turned me into a complete wreck.
From the first week of my surgery the Red Flags were waving in my face...
He chose to go to a circuit party just eight days after my initial surgery. I was ok with that. It was only one night. Why shouldn't he still have fun because I was laid up and couldn't? But, because he was up all night doing E and whatever else, he was absent from my life for a week. Um hello...That's a problem.
I remember I had to use a walker to go visit him that week in his dark apartment while he was coming off of drugs...trying to take care of him when I couldn't even walk myself.
Boys..Remember this story and take inventory of your relationship. Because there was something very wrong with that picture. And my part in it was that I accepted his behavior and felt that I was not worthy of being treated any better.
Here, in the depths and darkness that seemed to swallow my soul, in the heart of this seemingly endless nightmare, was another powerful Gift.
This was truly the man I had intended on marrying. Can you believe that? Sick. I was truly a sick man spiritually and emotionally for believing this. Not just physically.
Deluded that because I was almost four years sober, that it had made me a healthy person. A person capable of making healthy choices now that I wasn't under the influence. But, I was under the influence..of him. I would listen to Pink's, "Like A Pill" and cry.
Listen up Boys...if you are truly sick and bed ridden, hospital bound, injured, whatever...And your partner elects to not be there. To not show up...No matter what his excuse is...It's time for you to turn the page.
But, just as I did as a child with my father when he had abandoned me. I tried to understand him. Understand that this was somehow my fault. Make excuses for his unacceptable behavior. It was tragic. I had become tragic.
My ex, Adame was there for me during this nightmare. My ex, Aaron was there for me during this nightmare...My Tony. My Italian. My sweet prince. Was not.
The clot was treatable..So the GP told me..Was this situation with my partner?
I had never felt so abandoned and betrayed.
But, I had already lost and given up so much of my power to this situation, I just didn't have the strength to walk away form him. I laid there in my mother's bed. Holding on to pictures of Tony and I in my mind's eye. Picturing our lives together when we would be happy and together again.. Waiting for his calls everyday.I told myself I needed him.Though, he was never even there
There was something there, though. The second week of August came and I woke up at 4:30am. I couldn't breathe properly. I was gasping for breath. Another panic attack? But, this was different. I couldn't stand up properly because of horrible pain inside of me on one side on my back. I immediately dialed 911. An ambulance came. I was rushed to the ER. They did an EKG then an MRI. Everything was ok. Then they did a CAT scan of my lungs. There it was. The ER doctor came in with a chart. "You have a pulmonary emboli." "What is that?" I asked him. "It's a blood clot in your lung and it can be life threatening. We are going to need to admit you to the hospital"
There it was. I was being admitted to the hospital...again. No infections this time. Just a little clot in a superficial area of my right leg... That had found its way into my lung. It was now 7am Sunday morning. I now had gone from recovering to life threatening...again.
And again...my mother was awoken and rushing to my side.
TO BE CONTINUED....
The Gift...(Part Four)
As we drove to the hospital, I remember texting a few of my closest friends. I had absolutely no idea what was going to happen to me and I felt like I needed to connect with the people that I loved. There were very few people that I had told about this surgery to begin with. They were the ones I reached out to. My ex, Aaron. My friend, Chris. One of my dearest friends, Howie. And of course, my sponsor. Through my tears I just text them and told them I was going to the hospital and that I loved them. In my heart I was dying. I felt so lost. Like a boundless ship at sea that had completely lost it's navigation. Sailing straight into the eye of the storm.
We arrived at the ER. Dr. Shmootz wasn't there yet. The nurse who was taking all of my information and insurance told me she was going to need to check my vitals. I could literally hear my heart pounding in my ears. My head was hot. The pain in my legs jolted through me like a surge of electricity every time I moved.
First she checked my temperature. 103. Not good. Not dangerous. But, certainly not good. I stretched out my arm as she cuffed it to check my blood pressure. Due to the ensuing calamity that was happening in my brain and the panic that was driving me, I can't tell you that I remember the bottom number of my blood pressure reading when the nurse initially took it. But, I specifically remember the look on her face when she read the top number: 220. She looked extremely nervous. Now I know why...
For those of you not familiar with blood pressure readings...Anything below 140 is cool for my age. 180-200 is Hypertension Stage 1-Stage 2. Anything over 200 is a risk for stroke or heart attack.
My body was clearly reacting to all of the physical pain and the emotional turmoil that I was going through.
I was immediately wheeled into an exam room and the ER nurse ran an IV into my arm and started pumping me with ativan to calm me down. Dr. Shmootz arrived. By then the nurse had already taken a Sharpie pen and had outlined the red streak on my left leg. Dr. Shmootz was anxious. He examined my leg. Out of the corner of my eye I could see my mother pacing back and forth. She was glaring at Dr Shmootz. I just kept praying she didn't say anything abusive to him. As much as I disliked this man, I fully realized that he was completely responsible for my life. My mother realized this as well. I believe that is the only reason why she was keeping quiet.
Dr Shmootz finished examining my leg and told us the obvious... He said that these were the symptoms of an infection. He hinted that he suspected I had picked up the infection at the Physical Therapy office. God, he was such a deutschbag! Whatever was in my leg was probably born during the initial surgery, but I knew this man would die before he ever admitted that. He muttered something to the nurse about getting blood samples immediately to make sure that the infection hadn't spread into my blood. Then he quickly left the exam room. As the nurse was drawing blood from my arm, I asked her if a blood infection was bad. The nurse responded that it could be stopped if found in time. I asked her if it could be fatal. She looked at the ground and then looked up at me and replied, "Yes."
I felt the blood drain from my face. The situation just seemed to be getting more and more grim. I was trembling. Shaking with fear. The ativan was doing nothing to control the pain or panic that I was in. The nurse could see that I was visibly terror stricken. She quickly left the room and came back with a syringe. She flushed my IV, and then filled it with a syringe full of dilaudid. Finally, the pain started to subside.
Dr Shmootz re-entered. My mother was asking Dr Shmootz what was going to happen next. He told us that I would be admitted to the hospital until they figured out what bug I had picked up. Then they would treat it with IV antibiotics. He said he was going to need to perform another surgery soon afterward. He said that he would prefer it done at his office. I quickly replied, "Absolutely not. Whatever surgery that needs to be done, I want done here in the hospital." He tried to reason with me.. He explained how much more expensive surgical procedures were in the hospital. Without so much as even looking up at him I replied, "I have good insurance. We're doing the surgery in the hospital." He simply shook his head. I don't think he was used to not getting the last word.
Dr Shmootz went on to explain that this "small surgical procedure" would entail him opening up the incisions behind my knees again. He said he was going to take out the implants, irrigate them, then put them back in. And he finished by putting his hand reassuringly on my shoulder and saying to me, "Then, you will be just like new."
Just like new?? Are you fucking kidding me?!? It was almost laughable that this man would have such nerve to refer to me as coming out of this "...just like new."
I told him he was absolutely right. He was going to open my incisions back up again. And he was going to remove the implants. And they were staying out!
Dr Shmootz' eyes bugged out of his head. He assured me that he could save the implants and that it would be a terrible mistake to take them out at this point. He said that taking the implants out indefinitely would leave a depression in my calves from the stretched skin. Basically, he implied that my little calves would dip inwards and look worse then they had prior to surgery. I might have been pretty doped up from the dilaudid and ativan, but I was coherent enough to see through his bullshit. Scare tactics was what this man had resorted to. What was really going on inside this lunatic's mind: He desperately wanted to save the implants because that would still make this surgery a success on his part. If the implants came out and stayed out...He had failed.
My well being, future health, and safety were not on his list of priorities. His ego and reputation were all that mattered to him.
He said that I was going to be in the hospital for several days, so I would have time to think about it before I made a decision.
I was admitted to the hospital. I was wheeled upstairs. Every time a nurse, doctor, friend, or loved one came into the room they had to wear special gloves (purple) and special aprons (yellow) because I was considered "infectious". I felt like someone in one of those killer virus movies who gets sequestered from the masses. It was awful. I was poked and prodded constantly. Blood drawn. Pissing into a portable urinal. IV taken out of my arm and put in to a new vein. Tears. Excruciating pain. This had become my life. This was the gift that I had given myself. The gift that I had visualized just a few months prior to be the answer to all of my insecurities. This gift was supposed to make me a whole person again. This gift had come with one hell of a price.
I was being held prisoner in my own flesh. Every shift of my body brought some sort of physical pain.
My boyfriend came with flowers. I cried. I wailed from the pain. More dilaudid. I was pumped with so many IV pain meds that sleep was soon inevitable. And welcomed. The only peace I had from this living nightmare was whilst I lay unconscious.
The following day I was greeted by the head of infectious disease at the hospital. He was an elderly man. Soft spoken. And very kind. He informed me that the lab results showed I had a Strep and Staph in my left leg. My mother asked what that meant. He replied, "They are both bad actors." He did say that he had good news, though. Neither of these bugs had found their way into my blood. So, we were dealing with two bugs that were hanging out in my left leg. Most likely in the actual implant. He explained to me that this was usually the case because the immune system does not attack or work on foreign material in the body. "The infection likes to hide out in the implants", he said. The doctor named off the three different antibiotics that I was going to be treated with through IV. They would be rotated. In between that, more pain meds. Food. Sleep. Silence. Pain. Impending doom. I stared blankly at the TV. I tried to gather my thoughts. But, they had become muddled. I was truly lost. This was the dark night of my soul.
My mother was there for me day and night. Holding my hand. Playing cards with me. Helping me eat. My sponsor was there often as well. Strangely enough, she once dated the doctor who was head of infectious disease at the hospital.
But, my boyfriend was somewhat scarce. This whole nightmare had taken it's toll on him and he hated coming to the hospital to see me. He had watched his father die of heart disease in the hospital, and unbeknownst to me, he was now caught in the delusion that his own personal nightmare was recurring-this time with me. He thought he was going to lose me, too.
Yes, I took it personally. But, what could I do? We argued. But, I really didn't have the will to argue much with him. I was so exhausted and worried what was around every corner for me.
3 days passed. 4, 5, 6 days. I lay there. Waiting. I hated when they would have to change the IV. I was so bruised and battered that every poke of a needle made me wince. On my 7th day in the hospital, a PICC line was strewn inside an artery on the inside of my right arm. It went into the center of my chest. It was a much more effective way to administer the antibiotics as well as any other drug they needed to get into my system. I hated it. It was uncomfortable. It had 2 plugs coming out of it that were taped to the inside of my right arm. One plug was used to draw blood from, the other plug was used to deliver the powerful and very nauseating antibiotics that were being rotated into my system to treat these infections. I felt so vulnerable. I could not walk. I needed assistance to get to the bathroom when I needed to eliminate waste other than urine. My legs were wrapped in stockings that were tight and uncomfortable. I felt like I was starting to go crazy.
I remember looking at myself in the mirror for the first time since I had been admitted to the hospital. It was Day #5. My reflection in the mirror had become the face of a man I never knew. Drawn. Dark circles. Unshaven. And my eyes...like two pools of sadness swirling in pain and desperation.
The nurses came in often to change the antibiotics and administer more pain medication. They were all very kind and gentle with me. My friends came to see me. .
Dr. Shmootz came in every day to check on me. He brought me pictures of patients who had acquired infections in their implants, with whom he had saved. I looked at the pictures and nodded just to see Dr Shmootz get his hopes up. Then, I would say as he was getting ready to leave, "They are still coming out." My mother just glared at him.
The surgery to remove the implants was set for the following afternoon. I had already been in the hospital for 7 days at this point. Dr Shmootz said the procedure would be relatively quick and easy. I had heard that line before!
I was terrified. I felt how weak my body had become from the infections, the stress, the lack of exercise, but most of all from the powerful antibiotics that were constantly being administered into my PICC line-day and night.
I was so weak and unstable. I felt unsure about being put under again. I was afraid I might not wake up. I was fearful that my body would just give out. My organs might simply fail. It was a rare occurrence. But, it certainly happened.
I cried. My sponsor held my hand and told me that I was in God's care and that all would be well. The next day arrived. I was anxious. Yet, I was so exhausted and beaten down by all that had happened. There really was nothing left for me to do. About 45 minutes before I was to be wheeled into surgery, I started having another panic attack. Same symptoms. Throat constricted, shallow breathing, couldn't swallow. I rang for the nurse. My mother rubbed my back as I sat up, trying to catch my breath. Another shot of dilaudid was administered. I was calm again.
I was wheeled on the mobile stretcher down several floors to the operating room. My mother was right there with me. As I lay on the gurney, getting prepped for surgery, Dr Shmootz came in and out of his pocket he unfolded a picture. It was a Before/After shot of a patient he had who had infected calve implants, that he had managed to salvage. He was, even in these final moments prior to surgery, still trying to convince me to keep these fucking implants! I looked at my mother. She snatched the picture out of Dr Shmootz hand and through it in the waste basket. He looked defeated. I was just thankful my mother hadn't physically attacked him. He muttered something about prepping for surgery and left the room. He avoided eye contact with my mother the entire time.
The anesthesiologist came in, injected a syringe full of something powerful into my PICC line and I quickly lost consciousness.
I awoke. I was alive. My legs were still in pain. Especially my left leg. But, the heavy masses of silicone that had been stretching out my skin and weighing my legs down were finally gone. My mother came into the room with a cup of ice chips for me to suck on. Dr Shmootz came in. He told me that he had successfully removed the implants. He also said that he had syringed about 3 CC's of a straw colored liquid from my left leg. My mother said to him briskly, "Don't you think you ought to be notifying the doctor who is head of infectious diseases, so that he can have the fluid tested in the lab??" Dr Shmootz nodded his head, looked at the floor, and quickly left the room.
I asked my mother if I was going home now. She told me they wanted to keep me for several more days and then I would be released. I thanked God.
I was told that I would need to keep the PICC line in my arm for approximately 10 days after I was released from the hospital. This was necessary so I could receive out-patient treatments of the IV antibiotics used to treat the infections I had acquired in my left leg. I was not happy about that at all. The PICC line was so uncomfortable.
But, all in all I felt grateful. I felt blessed. From what I gathered, all that was really left for me to do was finish the 10 day IV antibiotic regimen after I was released form the hospital, remove the PICC line from my arm, heal, and begin Physical Therapy again.
This nightmare was finally starting to look like it was coming to a close. I was fairly certain that I had made it through the darkness and I was finally emerging into the light.
Life can play out like a fairy tale sometimes. There is a Once Upon A Time, some drama, then a Happily Ever After...
Life can also play out just like a Hollywood slasher flick. The star goes through the entire film facing one nightmarish scenario after another. Just when you think they have overcome and killed the demon, there is a devilish twist that sends the character spiraling into another abyss of carnage and terror.
Well, this story was certainly no fairy tale for me...And, just like one of these horror movies, my seemingly bright future and happy ending was about to take another shocking twist that would not only jeopordize my happiness...but this time, my very life as well.
TO BE CONTINUED...
The Gift...(Part Three)
I slowly started regaining consciousness. The smell and sight of the operating room are still so vivid in my mind's eye. The smell of sterilized equipment and the bright florescent lights. So inhibiting. It made me feel like an animal that had been wounded and captured by a hunter. From what I understand, it was best that I did lose consciousness after the painful incisions. Though numb from the local anesthetic that Dr Shmootz had administered, the irrigating process involved much scraping and pressure. Dr Shmootz had opened the incision on my left leg, went inside of it, and squeezed as much of the fluid out of my leg as possible. He then scraped away all of the the potentially infected tissue with a scalpel. He sterilized the inside of my leg with whatever type of antibiotic one uses for that specific procedure, and stitched me back up again.
Fortunately, I was still quite numb from the anesthetic. Unfortunately, any progress that I had made in physical therapy had now been swept away by the scalpel that Dr Shmootz had used to scrape away at the inside of my my leg. I felt so broken. So wounded. All over again. Tears streamed down my face as I attempted to limp, then nearly fell to the floor. I was put in a wheelchair by one of his nurses and rolled outside where my mother had just pulled into the parking lot. I was slowly helped into the car. My mother had a look of utter panic and ferocious anger on her face. Dr Shmootz would barely look her in the eye. He was visibly intimidated by my mother. Much more than he was of me. That is kind of funny, considering my mother is only 5'4" tall. Dr Shmmotz reassured us both that he had taken samples of the fluid and was sending them to a lab to see if it was infectious. He told my mother and I, as he had been telling us for almost 2 weeks now: Compress, elevate, rest....
Had I any strength left in my body, I would have reached through the open window of my mother's car and grabbed him by his neck. I really did despise this man. Not because this surgery had obviously gone awry. But for the sheer fact that he still refused to acknowledge that he had played any part in this disaster. I knew I was to blame for signing up for this mess in the first place, but this man's ego (like so many doctor's) was untouchable.
I was given more pain meds. Almost 45 min later, as the anesthetic began to wear off, I was overcome with a sharp, piercing pain in my left leg. It felt like the blade of his scalpel was still inside of me. Slicing through my tendon and nerves. I cried out in pain. The meds were doing absolutely nothing to thwart this excruciating pain that was enveloping my entire being.
I called my sponsor. She came to visit me at my mother's house. She was an angel to me through this whole nightmare. She never once reminded me how she had advised me against this surgery. She never once patronized me either for this foolish decision. She was just there for me.
My boyfriend came over. He listened to me wail and cry in agony. I could see how horribly he felt. Just as my mother did. There was nothing either of them could do to take the pain away. Nor was there anything they could do to help me walk again. I ate very little. I vomited everywhere. The pain meds just didn't agree with my system.
At 11:30pm that evening I had a horrible anxiety attack. It came quickly like a storm. I was on my mother's couch, watching TV, trying to defocus my mind from the terrible pain in my left leg. All of a sudden I couldn't swallow properly. My heartbeat accelerated. My breathing became very shallow. I bolted up. I literally thought I was having a mild heart attack. I cried out for my mother. She came rushing into the room. She helped me move to a sitting upright position. I was gasping, trying to catch my breath. My chest was tight and it hurt. My poor mother literally had one arm around me and the other hand clutching her cell phone. She wanted to dial 911. I wouldn't allow her to. I swallowed more pain meds along with anxiety medication that Dr Shmootz had also prescribed. I sat there on my mother's couch for 45 minutes. Completely terrified of what might come next. Not knowing if I needed medical help, or not. As the pain meds and the anxiety meds started to take affect, my breathing slowly restored itself to normal and my throat stopped constricting so I could swallow properly again.
I was still in unbearable pain. Sharp pain. Hot pain. Throbbing pain. It all ebbed and flowed like a sea of misery engulfing me. I barely slept-again.
I awoke at 6am. My head was very hot. I didn't have any other cold symptoms, so I ruled out a possible fever. I just lay there in uncomfortable silence. Waiting. For what, I don't know. I was still very warm by the time my mother awoke at 7:30am and came to check on me. She took my temperature. The thermomotor read 102 degrees. I did have a fever. My mother put a cold compress on my forehead and proceeded to change the gauze that was wrapped around my newly wounded left leg and my still healing right leg. As she unwrapped my left leg, we both noticed that it was much more swollen. That was expected due to the "irrigation" that Dr Shmmotz had just performed on me the previous day. But, what didn't look right was the bright red streak that had formed on my left leg, midway down my calve, and headed toward my ankle. My mother called Dr Shmootz immediately. She told him I had a fever. She then explained the red streak to him. He responded, "Are you sure?" My mother screamed into the phone, "What the hell do you mean?! I'm looking at his leg right now!" Dr Shmootz told her to have me come see him immediately. I wasn't surprised. This was always his response. I was still very fuzzy from lack of sleep. All of the pain meds that had polluted my system also blurred my train of thought. I listened incoherently as my mother jotted down information from Dr Shmootz over the phone. I did find it strange that my mother was writing down the address to Dr Shmmotz' office after we had already been there about 15 times in the last several weeks. She hung up the phone. I asked her why she was writing down his address. She looked up at me with tears in her eyes. She told me it was the address to the hospital he had a residency at. She was trying to keep it together. But, I knew. We both knew..Whatever these symptoms were that she had described to him....they were beyond the medical capabilities that he had at his own practice.
I was panic stricken. I text my boyfriend immediately. I knew he was at the gym at this time of the morning and didn't have his phone. My mother helped me up and she walked slowly behind me as I hobbled with my walker to her car. I couldn't even see where I was going. The tears pouring out of my eyes were blinding me.
This was it. I was going to be admitted to the hospital. And though some might be happy, feeling safe that they would be under medical supervision 24/7. I was not. Fear of the unknown whirled around in my head. There was no telling what lay ahead of me in the hospital. There wasn't any promise of a full recovery for me now. Nor was there even a prognosis as to what condition I was currently in.
Was I going to get better? Was I going to get worse? Would I be permanently disabled? Was I going to be able to keep all of my extremities, or end up an amputee?
I had gone into this procedure a beautiful, yet insecure man. Now there was no telling how I was going to be coming out of it.
TO BE CONTINUED...
The Gift....(Part Two)
I lay there in Dr Shmootz' office. I was strapped into the exam chair, head toward the ground with my feet toward the ceiling. I lay there in that position for 24 hrs. A nurse watched over me throughout the night. Despite all of the pain and sleep medication, I didn't sleep for a single minute. I was terrified. The sound of my heart, beating in my ears was deafening. The nurse kept trying to calm me. She helped me urinate into a portable urinal (humiliating) and fed me. I was envisioning that I might be losing my left leg from below the knee...Yes, that might be the most farfetched thing that could happen, given the circumstances. But, that was how I was perceiving things at the moment.
The following morning Dr Shmootz arrived at his office at around 8:30am. He unwrapped my legs and felt for the pulse in my swollen foot. After he was convinced that there was no compartment syndrome, he sent me home. He wanted me back in his office the following morning. I could see by his facial expression that he was still worried. My mother helped me in and out of the car. She had dark circles around her eyes. Obviously, she hadn't slept a single minute either. I was weak from the sleep deprivation. But, more than that... I was terrified.
I would touch my calves every time I changed the gauze. They felt awful. Completely numb. The implants felt like stone. I broke down sobbing. I wanted them out. I told my mother I wanted them out. She told me not to make quick decisions based on all the fears and pain that I was in. She said that the pain would eventually subside and my legs would heal. I dried my eyes and nodded my head. But, I knew in my heart that these foreign lumps inside of me were not going to work.They certainly hadn't fixed me. In fact, they had made me so much worse.
My mother massaged my feet. She changed the linens on my bed. She helped me get up and down every time I wanted to move. She cooked for me. She was literally my round-the-clock nurse. I was so helpless and broken.
My boyfriend came to my mom's house every night. He brought me gummy bears (my favorite candy) and ice cream. He held my hand and kissed my tear streaked face. He was miserable, too.
Every morning I was taken to see Dr Shmootz so he could exam my legs. The incisions were stitched tightly together behind each knee. My legs were both swollen, but the left still much worse than the right. Dr Shmootz was not able to give me any reasonable explanation as to why that was.
At my mom's, I was just trying to manage the chore of trying to move from one place to the next. I had a walker. It was really difficult to use, though. Both of my legs were weak and swollen. I couldn't even stand in the shower. I had to sit in a plastic chair and try to wash myself as best as I could. The pain was unspeakable. Worse, was the way my body was metabolizing the pain meds. I was initially given Vicodin, which made me vomit every time I took them. Next, Percoset, which for some reason was giving me horrible panic attacks.
Days went by. I was not adjusting to the implants physically or psychologically. They really freaked me out. They felt so hard and foreign in my body. I felt like a monster. I had gone into this surgery as an overly insecure man. I came out so much worse. Physically crippled. Frail. Broken. I felt monstrous.
A week passed. Still no change. Left leg still far more swollen then the right one. I even saw Dr Shmootz on Sundays when his practice was closed. He would have me come to his office. He would show up in his biking shorts and perfect tan and check on me. He would mutter something about an improvement. My mother would ask him in a cold, angry tone, "What improvement??" He told her that I was wiggling my feet much better. She rolled her eyes at him and asked him when I would be able to walk again. He had no answer for her. All he could do was order me back into his office the following morning.
**Note to anyone who has never had cosmetic surgery: Being seen by the surgeon every day after surgery is NOT normal protocol. Normal protocol is for the surgeon to examine you the day after surgery for post op. Then you get cleared because the surgery went successfully and they see you in another week.
What happened to the promise that I would be walking with a slight limp just a few days after surgery?!? Dr Shmootz knew that something wasn't right. He tried to reassure me and my mother that he was just watching this closely to make sure nothing was wrong. But, there was something wrong. It just hadn't manifested with physical symptoms quite yet.
I was sent to physical therapy. There, I was massaged, worked out lightly, and pushed to try to walk with the assistance of a cane. It wasn't really working. I still needed a walker. This was so humiliating. I am a 6'2", 210lb man whom, prior to surgery, worked out 5-6 days a week!
Misery ran deep inside of me like a vast ocean encompassing my world. Depression was an understatement. Sometimes I was borderline hysterical. Trapped inside this crippled body. Every night I would break down crying in my boyfriend's arms. I just wanted the fucking implants out! But, everyone kept telling me to give them a chance. The people in my inner circle just kept telling me to wait until I wasn't feeling so emotional before I made a decision. But, I had already made a firm decision in my mind. These fuckers were coming out of my legs! And thankfully, the Universe was quickly working to guide me.
Our thoughts manifest energy that is received somewhere out there in the Universe. If I think about something long enough, faithfully enough, it usually always seems to perpetuate situations that arise to support my thoughts.
Almost 2 weeks after the surgery, I was still not walking on my own. Dr Shmootz ordered me to see the physical therapist 3 days a week. On the 11th day after my surgery I was laying on my stomach at the physical therapy office, cringing in pain. The therapist was massaging my still very swollen left leg, when a clear liquid started to stream out of the incision. The stitches were still holding the wounds together tightly, so my first thought was that a stitch must have popped. My therapist told me this wasn't the case. He told me I needed to call Dr Shmootz immediately. I phoned Shmootz. I told him what had just happened. He ordered me to come directly to his office from physical therapy. I had no idea what was going on.
I arrived at Dr Shmootz' office and he squeezed my swollen left leg. I cried out in pain again. More liquid seeped from the incision. He quickly left the exam room for about 10 minutes, then came back in and calmly told me that he was prepping the operating room because he needed to open the incision and irrigate my leg. I was again panic striken and terrified. Something was horribly wrong. Worse. I was alone. My mother had left me at Dr Shmootz office and was now stuck in traffic coming back to get me. My boyfriend was at work. I had told very few friends about this surgery. They were all sworn to secrecy. Of course at that moment, they were all at work as well. What could I do? I text my boyfriend. I called my mother, explaining in trembling words what was about to happen. She was again hysterical. Then, I maneuvered myself into the operating room.
Dr Shmootz was already in scrubs and had 2 nurses there to assist him. I was told to lay on my stomach. Dr Shmootz explained to me that he was going to be giving me a local anesthetic. 4 injections into the actual incision. Even though most of the area was already numb from the extensive nerve damage, he told me that these injections were going to be painful.
I had been living with excruciating pain and discomfort for almost 2 weeks now. I doubted this was going to be much worse than anything else I had experienced. Boy, was I wrong!
I gripped the sides of the operating table and prepared myself for the worst. Any pain that I had prepared myself for was nowhere near what I experienced. The syringe entered the already raw tissue like a razor blade tearing through my flesh. I howled in pain. Dr Shmootz, like so many cosmetic surgeon's, didn't exactly excel with his bedside manner. He bent down and said to me, "I told you this was going to be painful."
I hated him! I hated him for doing whatever he had done to make this surgery go awry. But, most of all I hated me for ever putting myself in such an insane situation to begin with. The 2nd syringe plunged into my tissue. I was sobbing. I NEVER cry in front of strangers. This was unavoidable. I was drowning in the pain. The 3rd syringe entered my tissue and I cried out again. My head was getting hot and I was shaking violently from the surging pain. One of the nurses took my hand and was trying to console me. It wasn't helping. Finally, the last syringe entered my wound and I literally started to become dizzy. The voice of the nurse who was trying to console me just melted into the background. I lost consciousness. Yes, I passed out. Maybe from the pain. Maybe from the stress of the situation. And maybe from the knowledge that this surgery had become a true medical nightmare. And this nightmare had become my reality. There was now no denying that there was something medically wrong with my left leg and I was in serious trouble....
TO BE CONTINUED....
The Gift... (Part One)
Funny the way that the Universe works. I went into the Porn Industry almost 10 years ago. I did a ton of work for the best studios and directors. I've been featured on the covers of DVD's and magazines. I've filmed in Paris. I've been nominated and even won awards. Yet none of these accomplishments filled me the way I hoped that they would.
Nick Capra was a character created, and marketed on two things: My physical attributes and my ability to fuck. The second part is pretty natural. We all fuck. The first one...well...that's where it becomes complicated. I had some really fun adventures in the Porn Industry. Don't get me wrong. I don't regret any of it. I made a ton of money as a video star and much more money as an International Escort. But, as the years went by, as I started to age, this image began to spin vast insecurities inside of me.
Let's face it. We all age. Some of us do it gracefully. Some of us...not so much. So now, as I face my mortality...I find myself becoming completely obsessed with the notion that I am going to become that "aging Porn Star" in someone's eyes. God forbid some 25 year old who spent his teen years jerking off to my videos should see me and have a mortified expression on his face. I'm just not the type of guy who could just shrug that off. To this day, the thought of having that experience and seeing myself through a fan's eyes, as an aging man makes me shudder.
This obsession of the mind. This preoccupation with staying young and beautiful forever begins with such subtle qualities. Then, suddenly it is set rolling forward into dysmorphic proportions.
For me, it began with a little botox. That was easy and kind of fun. I even filmed it and shared it laughingly with the public. (You can Youtube "Nick Capra botox") Then, I decided I should follow it with a little juviderm for the laugh lines. "Everyone does that..", I told myself. Then the more advanced fillers followed. Yes, I was poked and prodded. Yes, I looked like a chipmunk for several days after the procedure. Yes, I was bruised up and looked a little bit like a monster for a week or so. But, it was all worth it to me. I was retaining my beauty! So, you think that after injecting and filling my face to this extent would have been enough?! Well, not so with me. I have come to realize that I am simply not like other people. Once I experience a procedure that produces a sense of ease and comfort within me...I am not satisfied. I do not say to myself, "This is great. Now I am content." I WANT MORE!!
I started focusing on my body. I began obsessing over areas of my body that I wanted to improve, but just couldn't seem to by proper diet and aggressive training at the gym. The one area of my body that I could never get the desired result from, no matter how much training I did-my calves. It's not a matter of how much or little I work my calves, or which exercises I did or failed to do. It's simple physiology, really. My father had little calves. My grandfather as well. I tried to defy this genealogical nightmare by hiring a trainer-several different trainers, actually. My quads, my ass, and my hamstrings all got bigger. My calves got a tiny, little puff. And that was all that was coming to me!
It made me feel insecure. To the point where I refused to where shorts in public.(Mind you I live in Southern California-the land of shorts and flip flops) It really sucked during the Summer when I was out and all the other guys were in shorts and I was stuck in jeans. Hiding my little, skrawny legs.
So, instead of learning to embrace myself for exactly who I am.. Instead of celebrating and honoring the beauty within me..Instead of seeing that as a whole package, I am a pretty attractive man... I completely drove myself into the delusion that I would not be okay until I had the calves I so desperately wanted for myself.
Last April, I started researching plastic surgeons. I found a very well known surgeon in Southern California who had an excellent reputation and had been practicing for over 20 years. (I will refer to him as my mother so lovingly nicknamed him-Dr Shmootz) I did a consultation with Dr Shmootz. He measured my calves. He assured me he could make them proportionate to my upper legs and the rest of my body. He gave me all the answers I wanted to hear. Dr Shmootz told me the surgery would take a few hours, the incisions behind my knees would be barely noticeable, and I would be up and walking around with my new calves within a few days. He went on to say that I would be completely mobile and even able to work out my legs again within a few weeks. Dr Shmootz failed to warn me of anything that could possibly go wrong and/or not work out in my favor. When I asked him about risks or complications, he literally waved off the very notion. He told me it was less complicated or painful then breast augmentation, which thousands of women do every day. I was sold! It was on and poppin'. I couldn't wait for my new claves!!
My boyfriend begged me not to do it. He told me that having something foreign put inside my body for the rest of my life was really throwing things out of balance and I might suffer repercussions that I was, at that time, completely blind to seeing. I turned a deaf ear to his pleas. His ominous warnings could not steer me from my new calves. My new life. I literally thought these implants were going to set me free. I explained to him that my happiness and security were literally contingent on my getting this surgery done. Writing this now, I see the insanity that I had been possessed with. But, we usually see the truth after the fact...or at least that seems to be the case for me.
On May 3rd, 2011, I signed paperwork and wrote out a check for $8,000. By May 11th I was in for my pre-op. I was so excited that this was going to be happening! My boyfriend worked full time, so I was going to recover at my mom's house. She lives less than 10 miles from my boyfriend, so it was the best case scenario for me to recover in.
May 18th, I woke up early, scrubbed myself down with the surgical cleanser I was given, then drove to Dr Shmootz' office for my new calves. I was excited and nervous. But, I really knew this was going to be the answer to all of my problems.
As I lay on the operating table, right before the anesthesiologist was about to administer the drugs into my arm, I began to wonder if this was the right decision. I started thinking about what had happened to Kanye West's mother during a routine liposuction procedure. But, at that point it didn't matter. I was gonna go through with this. I really didn't feel like there was much of a choice. I just prayed that all would turn out well. Things started getting hazy as the drip entered my blood stream. Then, everything went dark...
I awoke. I felt pain. Agonizing pain in my left leg. Nausea. I vomited everywhere. Everything was very blurry. The nurse cleaned me off and told me that the surgery had gone well. I was having a hard time making out what she was saying because I was so consumed with the searing pain in my left leg. My mother was there. After what must have been a few hours, I was put in a wheelchair and taken to my mother's car. The anesthesia was wearing off and the pain in my left leg was escalating. The nurse told me that my post-op appointment with Dr Shmootz would be the following afternoon at 2pm. I was trying to be cool but tears were sliding down my face. I was literally in agony. My mother asked the nurse if this kind of pain was normal after surgery. The nurse reassured her with a puppet-like, "Yes. Of course."
6hrs later...I was in my mother's house. My left leg was noticeably more swollen then the right leg and I was still in agony. All the percoset in the world wasn't managing this type of pain. My boyfriend was by my side..He had brought me flowers and was trying to comfort me. It wasn't helping. I was consumed with pain as well as a mounting fear. Intuitively I knew something wasn't right in my left leg. I called Dr. Shmootz at around 9pm and told him about the pain and the swelling in my left leg. He told me to come in to his office first thing in the morning instead of waiting until my 2pm post-op appointment. I barely slept that night. The pain was constantly waking me. I had to use the bathroom. Getting out of bed, using the walker to get to the toilet, and even lowering myself down to the seat and back up again was hell. Early the next morning, the pain was not getting any more manageable, nor was the swelling in my left leg going down. At this point I could barely use the walker I was given to get to my mother's car. I touched my calves gingerly. The implants felt like rocks. Not at all like I had imagined. Yes, they were bigger, but they just felt awful to the touch. Part of my leg was screaming in pain and the other part was completely numb. (Another factor Dr Shmootz left out was that cutting through all the nerves to get the implants inside of me would cause severe nerve damage, leaving the area numb for 6-12 months)
We arrived at Dr Shmootz' office and he unwrapped my legs. I saw fear in his eyes. My mother was pacing the exam room like a lioness about to attack something that is about to hurt her cub. Dr Shmootz immediately called in his partner at the practice. His partner examined my legs and pulled Dr Shmootz aside and they spoke in hushed voices. They tilted me into a diagonal position, head towards the floor, to get the blood to flow away from my legs. I was put on a large dose of prednisone, an oral steroid that is used as a powerful anti-inflammatory. Hours passed. Dr Shmootz kept checking in. My mother was still pacing. She pulled him aside and demanded to know what the hell was going on. He explained to her that he was fearful that my left leg was going into compartment syndrome. Basically, acute swelling that cuts off the blood flow to part of the body which results in the death of the tissue surrounding it. Not good.
I was terrified. My mother was furious with the surgeon. Nurses kept coming in and out of the exam room. I lay there, tilted in this diagonal position, like some sort of prisoner that was being tortured by the enemy for information. There was complete chaos going on around me and I was powerless to do anything about it. Every hour that passed felt like a week. Infinity stretched limitlessly. I was acutely aware of every single nerve that was screaming in pain inside of me.
This routine surgery that was supposed to enhance my beauty and make me feel secure with my body had turned into a true plastic surgery nightmare.
TO BE CONTINUED....
My Fleshjack Blooper
So, every now and again while I am shooting a scene I run into technical challenges. Maybe there is a little mess with the bottom or a condom gets stuck in a model's ass. I've always considered solo scenes to be the easiest to shoot because the chances of a problem arising whilst shooting is cut in half. Now, I never thought I would have a technical problem with a toy-but leave it to me!
I can remember many a scene where the bottom I was shooting with had a hard time taking my dick, but in this case, it seems like the toy was jumping ship!
Check it out!