A Drug Addict Saved My Life

Being told you were unconscious for months is bewildering. Never have I described myself as bewildered, but that description is befitting. Just as astonishing is your ability to accept the reality that you were not an active participant in the world, as everyone you know lived their lives without you. It is amazing how you adapt to the unfathomable. Either you bend or you break. Breaking is not my style.

With a tube hanging out of my throat and full body muscle weakness, I couldn’t eat, speak or move. I was temporarily speechless and paralyzed. I couldn’t remember the past few months and grew to realize that I had even lost memories from before the coma.

My left thigh was marked with a two inch long, indented scar where a muscle biopsy had been performed to check for a rare autoimmune disease. My right leg had six, half inch scars trailing down from my crotch to my inner mid thigh as if I were cutting myself for mental relief. There were two large crimson colored tubes coming from my body attached to a large square machine. To say I was confused was an understatement.

I tested positive for polymyositis, a rare autoimmune disease that attacks the muscles. In my case, primarily my lungs. The multiple scars were practice marks for the numerous failed attempts at connecting me to the ecmo machine that was serving as one of my life lines. It was pumping blood throughout my body taking over the work of my heart and lungs. I’d later discover the scars in my abdomen and on my neck as well.

The memory can be a tricky dick. The mind has a way of attempting to fill in the blanks of the past by what you observe in the moments of the present. He was always by my side. Even when I was comatose and didn’t know it, he was there. Countless hours of one-sided moments. My guy was hopefully awaiting my recovery.

The last memories I had of us were in Atlantic City attending a concert, eating at various restaurants, playing the slots, checking out the club scene and spending a couple of nights in the casino hotel. I struggled with labels but attached myself to actions. So, according to my calculations this man by my bedside was my guy.

Fred became my financial Power of Attorney, managing my money, helping to pay my bills and submit all the paperwork for my disability income. He was taking care of business so that my future would be less bleak in that area. No one had to ask him, he stepped in to do what needed to be done. So, according to my calculations this man handling my financial matters was my man.

Fred brought me a dry erase board so I could attempt to communicate. It was apparent that I could understand others but they couldn’t understand me. I tried writing, but that didn’t go so well. I didn’t have enough strength to hold the marker upright. My handwriting was wavy and my words did not clearly relay the thoughts in my mind. There was a wordboard with common words for me to gesture to in order to relay my requests.

It was when he called me emaciated with a look of disgust in his eyes that I started to notice that he wasn’t seeming quite like my lover. I had lost 65 pounds, making me 5’4” and 105 pounds. Small, frail and skeletal. It was unnecessary to state the obvious. It just didn’t seem like something someone who loved me would say under the circumstances.

As soon as I was able to talk, our conversations began to change. He couldn’t wait to tell me about the women he had been seeing while I was laid up in my hospital bed. According to his calculations we were nothing more than what we were before I got sick. I didn’t understand what that meant because I didn’t share his memories. Apparently, we were just kickin it. We weren’t in an exclusively committed romantic relationship. We were spending time together as friends and hadn’t had sex in almost two years, according to him.

Before getting sick, I repeatedly refused his advances and would not agree to a label because once one was established, expectations began to increase and I wasn’t prepared to meet any expectations beyond friendly ones. But I didn’t remember any of this. I had to go by what I was being told, having no reference of my own to go off. It sounded plausible, so it must be the truth. Right?

The fact that he told the staff I was his fiance. The fact that all my family members and friends believed we were a couple based on his behavior. The fact that I thought he was my man. The speech he made at my in-hospital birthday party when he presented me with a certificate of the star he had named after me to immortalize me. None of those things properly represented what was actually real. I didn’t have a man, I had a good friend.

If Fred wasn’t my guy, then who was this other man visiting me regularly? Did I confuse the nature of our connection too? What kind of friend was Joe?