I AM THANKFUL TO MY FRIEND FOR WRITING THIS, I THINK THAT ALMOST ALL WHO SUFFER FROM HEP C HAVE HAD A SIMILAR EXPERIENCE...
Who Can I Blame!
Who infected me with Hepatitis C? I didn’t have any tattoos or body piercings, and I had never had a blood transfusion. How did the virus get into me? It was a mystery, and whenever I thought about it, an endless stream of who’s, when’s, where’s and what-if’s filled my head, pushing my mind into overdrive as I explored a few of the infinite possibilities. The virus spread through blood contact, and the fact that it could live outside the body for hours in a speck of blood waiting to infect someone didn’t narrow my search parameters. And learning that Hepatitis C was sneaky and elusive, able to hide in the blood stream or liver for decades, just complicated matters when I tried to figure out who had infected me, when it happened and where. Throughout my life I had associated with many people of good character, poor character, and downright shady character, and I knew the odds of accurately finding the answers were slim to none.
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Someone infected me! The virus definitely came from another person, but who was it? Could it have been blood contact from an opposing team’s player—in the heat of battle during one of the countless hockey, football or baseball games I had played in over the years—that snuck into my body through an abrasion or wound on my arm or leg? Or perhaps it was from one of my teammates—could one of them have been infected and casually rubbed up against me while we were jammed together on the bench in a small locker room? Or what about all the blood I’d seen spat all over the shower room floor and walls from a player who had a nose bleed or had lost a tooth or two from being hit in the face with a puck, ball, stick, bat or fist? Perhaps a splatter of infected blood from one of those people got caught up on a floor drain I stepped on while taking a shower, and the deadly virus had entered my body through one of the many open, bleeding blisters I had suffered on my feet over the years, from breaking in new skates or cleats. ....
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Maybe it was from one of the bloody fights and bar room brawls I was in: I wondered if it was one of those people who had infected me. What about the instruments the doctors used to stitch me up when I was cut, or maybe it was the sharp, twisty-ended tool the dentist used to check my teeth—the one that made my gums bleed? What if those instruments weren’t sterilized properly, and what if they were used on an infected person before me? Was it possible a speck of active Hepatitis C–tainted blood could have been clinging to their stainless steel surface? But then again, perhaps it was someone at one of the many parties or social events that I attended who infected me? And in which decade—the sixties, seventies, eighties or nineties? Or maybe it could have been one of the several people I had pulled from their cars after an accident—drenched in their own blood—who infected me. And then there was the remote chance that one of the young players I had coached over the years who sustained a cut during a game may have passed the virus on to me. And then again, I could have been infected from menstrual blood during intercourse from one of the many sexual partners I had been with.
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The longer I thought about where the disease may have come from, the more possibilities came to mind. What about the plates I ate off and utensils I used to eat with in restaurants? Was there a chance that a speck of blood from an accidental knife cut from an infected chef or kitchen worker had dripped on one of them, and then found its way into me through a hangnail, scratch or paper cut on my fingers? And what if a virus-carrying bartender accidently sliced himself while cutting lemons or limes to garnish drinks, or a waitress or waiter suffered a scratch or cut from a broken glass? Is it possible a Hepatitis C–laden blood smear could have been riding on the rim of a beer mug that I’d hoisted to my mouth, and then entered my blood stream through a bleeding gum caused by aggressively using a tooth pick or flossing my teeth?
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What about all the sinks, toilets and showers in all the hotels, motels, bed-and-breakfast places and campgrounds I had stayed in over the years—perhaps a virus carrier had accidently spread speckles of infected blood around the room after nicking themselves while shaving their face or legs. The virus could have found its way into me through one of the cuts that I’d made in my own face while shaving. And where had I been infected—in which city or town and in which country and on what continent? The words could have, maybe, perhaps, likely and possibly filled my head, but they didn’t accurately answer the questions in my mind: who, where and when?
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The possibilities were endless. I couldn’t pinpoint where it had come from, and I knew the odds of my finding out were practically zero. I wasn’t going to drive myself nuts trying to figure it out, either, or let depression pull me any deeper into the cold pit of despair that was already trying to swallow me. I was determined not to torment myself any further by worrying, or by forcing myself to think back and shuffle through decades of memories that were stored in my head so I could find out who was responsible and blame them for my misfortune. So I could tell people it wasn’t my fault, that it was someone else who did this to me.
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Maybe I contracted Hepatitis C by accident, or maybe I got it from doing something that I shouldn’t have been doing. But, either way, I wasn’t going to waste my time wallowing in my own self-pity or complaining because I felt that life had dealt me a raw hand. And above all, I certainly wasn’t going to believe in some ludicrous theory, like God was punishing me for my past behaviors.
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How I got Hepatitis C really didn’t matter, because even if I was able to find out it wouldn’t change anything. I’d still have the disease. So instead of driving myself crazy and wasting my precious time looking for causes, I focused my attention on searching for solutions. I looked for new ways to manage myself more effectively, so I could conserve my energy and make it through each day without adding any more stress to my already-fatigued body. Time was running out. I could feel my strength and energy slipping away a little bit more each day, but I didn’t panic. I knew in my heart that God could pull me out of the mess I was in, and I had to find ways to keep going until I could convince Him that I was worthy of His help.
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I didn’t like having a microscopic killer inside me. A non-visible speck that was billions of times smaller than me, trying to finish me off. My worst fear in life had become my reality: something I couldn’t see, grab, hold, kick, punch, or fight back against was trying to kill me. I was in the fight of my life with a tiny, menacing virus, and I knew I was losing. Hepatitis C had me cornered, but the virus wasn’t my biggest problem. The gastroenterologist said I had liver cirrhosis, and that I needed to have a liver transplant in less than a year, and he didn’t give me any other options. I didn’t know much about liver transplants. But I knew enough to understand that someone, somewhere, would have to die if I were to live, and that thought weighed heavy on my heart.
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How quickly a year passes!
I’m alive and well, and I thank God each and every day.....
I would like to thank everyone who visits my site. Your messages, comments, and kind words of encouragement are valued and greatly appreciated. I thank you from the bottom of my heart.....
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I hope to make another blog entry in January 2009. Until then, have a Safe, Healthy, Christmas and New Year!....
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Take care and God Bless!!....
Daniel....
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