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my feelings

Astoria

I have been trying to adopt a dog for several months.  There have been a few near misses, in which I was promised an animal, but they ultimately decided to give it to someone else.  The most recent was earlier this week, when honestly, I was not particularly in the mood to be disappointed again.  I have a really hard time when good things don’t work out because I look forward to them so much.  When I’m having a really bad day, I think about these things to convince myself it will get better.  So when it doesn’t work out, it is a serious let down.

Ten minutes after finding out I wasn’t getting the dog I was planning to adopt, I saw a new post on Craigslist.  It was a rescue group needing a home for a black lab mix that couldn’t stay in her foster home.  I sent an email saying I was interested.  To my surprise, the rescue group contacted me right away and wanted to set up a time to meet the dog.  I scheduled it and tried not to build it up too much in my mind.

I met the dog on Friday.  She is two years old and has very long legs.  She is quiet and likes to eat grass.  She is very snuggly.  Her foster father warned me that she would need some extra help with socializing and training because of all the upheaval in her life. 

“Would you rehome an animal because they were too much work?” he asked.

“I require a lot of extra work and I’m pretty glad my family didn’t rehome me,” I replied.  He told me I could have her. 

As we were walking back to our cars, I told him that I liked her name.  “I’m a writer, I think there’s some poetry to having a dog named Story,” I told him.

“Her real name is Astoria,” he answered.  I smiled.  Astoria is the setting of the 80’s movie The Goonies, one of my all time favorites.  She was supposed to be my dog.  I knew.

The energy boost you get from something working out just right cannot be underestimated.  Today, I cleaned my entire apartment, did all my laundry, ran errands, cooked dinner and lunches for the next few days, walked Harry, and took Astoria for a thirty minute walk with my friend and her small children.  I am very sore and tomorrow I will be exhausted but I am so happy. 

After playing with my meds recently, I am finally starting to sleep less.  I am sleeping mostly during the day, when I would rather not, but I’d rather ten inconvenient hours than the entire day.  I am still very nauseous, but I am throwing up less.  I am eating very small meals and having some success with that.  I have made some sacrifices in other areas (in particular, I am in more pain), but I am okay with that. 

I can deal with all the day to day bullshit if every so often, I get a big win.  Today was a big win.  I can ride this for a while.


Memory

I have this very clear memory that my mind revisits sometimes. I am jumping on a trampoline, holding hands, laughing.  The air is cool but the day is cloudless, the sun glowing and slung low in the sky.  I know I must be young because my hair is still blond corkscrews that stretch and wind as I jump.  

In my mind, this memory is synonymous with ecstasy.  I am weightless.  I am in no pain.  I am happy.  The vision is silent, like I’m watching it through a looking glass.  When I think about how I know it will all be fine, this is the memory my brain conjures for me, the one it plays behind my eyes. When I need to feel comforted and find peace, this is what my mind shows me.

This memory is an illusion.  I know logically that it’s false. We didn’t know anyone with a trampoline on a beach when I was that young.  I can’t remember whose hands I am holding because they aren’t real.  There’s no sound because it never happened.

I fell asleep at a decent hour tonight and woke up because my leg hurt.  Bone pain.  It had been better for months, and now it’s back.  It’s not a surprise.  We have been screwing with my meds, I knew my pain would be worse for a while.  It is prognostically meaningless.  It just means I’m still living in this body and it still has mast cell disease.

And I think, well, if that memory can feel so real and never have happened… then maybe this isn’t happening either. Maybe I’ll wake up now to my real life with my functioning body and all the things I have lost.

Your mind has incredible agency when it comes to protecting you.  It can shatter, solidify, suppress memories, rework them, whatever you need.  It really is a marvel.  

I think my mind built this memory from other true, good memories.  The trampoline is on Yirrell Beach, near where my cousins lived when I was young.  The dress I wear while I’m jumping is the one I wore in my first grade school picture. The sunlight, the salt I breathe in, the clear sky is every beautiful day I was ever grateful for.  There’s no sound because there’s no need to talk.  I have no worries, there is nothing I could need to know.  As for who jumps with me, it could be anybody.  It could any of the people I love and it would be an honor to hold their hands and celebrate together.  

I think my mind made this after I got sick.  I don’t remember when I started seeing it, but I know this last year I have seen it a lot.  I think my mind made it so that when things seem very dark, I can remember this and feel better.

I think this is heaven.  I think my mind is telling me that in many years, when I go to sleep and wake up healed and pain free, this is where I will be.

When I think too hard about this memory, I get this feeling in my chest that is reminiscent of nostalgia.  It feels like I miss something, but how can I miss something that’s not real? And if I went now, I would miss everyone here.  I never wanted to go.  

I only ever wanted to be here with the people I love.  Even if all of this is real.  Even if the rhythm is really the throbbing in my bones and not a trampoline.  

But I don’t think it is.  I think at the end of all of this, I will open my eyes and be weightless under that clear sky.  I think for now, I get to stay here with the people I love, and later, I will get to be free.

Boundaries

Alright, guys.  I need to draw some boundaries.

I am pretty straight with you guys about my life and my health.  There are some personal things I don’t share.  I don’t feel that I should have to exchange my right to privacy because I write a blog where I answer questions about mast cell disease.
Being as the mast cell community is fairly small, a lot of us know each other.  Mostly, we know each other online, which means that we often don’t have a complete understanding of the other person’s life and illness.  There is a tendency to compare ourselves to each other, but this is inherently problematic for a bunch of reasons I don’t need to rehash.
I found out this week that a patient was upset that one of my providers wouldn’t let them do X thing and complained that it wasn’t fair because they know Lisa Klimas is allowed to do it.  That really irritated me for several reasons.  I don’t feel that it is appropriate for people who aren’t my health care proxies to talk to my providers about my care.  If you want to tell them you read something on my blog, or tell them you know me, that’s fine.  But when you are trying to include how I manage my healthcare in a conversation with one of my providers, it’s not acceptable.  So don’t do it. 
When you belong to a community like ours, we often develop a sense of intimacy with each other very quickly.  In the real world, you develop intimacy alongside trust and mutual respect, but this online world of mast cell bonanza tends to move faster than that.  What that means is that, unfortunately, not everyone understands the responsibility that comes with knowing this intimate information.  Some people prove themselves to not be trustworthy.
I like answering questions.  I like helping people if I can.  I like writing this blog.  You are not bothering me by asking me questions.  But in the last couple of months, there have been a few instances where I have felt people were trying to take advantage of me.  One person sent me a question in a Facebook message while I was in Seattle and then sent me a second angry message when I didn’t answer their question quickly enough for them.  There have also been multiple times in the last month or so when I was publicly demeaned by a person online only to have them want me to answer their questions afterward. 
Please keep in mind that I am a person.  A sick person.  I am happy to be a resource for people with mast cell disease and I don’t mind researching topics or whatever.  I like doing that stuff.  But if you are going to expect me to help you, you can’t treat me poorly.  I don’t need anybody to kiss my ass, I’m just looking for general courtesy here.  A lot of people can attest to the fact that I don’t mind answering questions in the middle of the night or calling people to explain things in detail.    I don’t mind doing these things.  I just don’t think I should have to do that for people who call me names.  I don’t think that is too much to ask. 
I’m going to be more vigilant moving forward about the information I share in the forums as pertains to my own care.  I didn’t “get in trouble” or anything, but frankly I find the whole exchange of “but you let Lisa” to be really creepy.  It’s not something I want to happen again, so I’m drawing some boundaries. 
Please believe me when I say that it’s fine to ask questions and request blog topics.  I hope you guys understand where I’m coming from on this. 

Misfits

I have always been an outsider.  As a kid, I was a wicked nerd.  I read Star Wars books and was bored in school so I wrote fantasy stories.  I got moved to the smart class and people picked on me.  I wore weird clothes and mostly ignored people. 

I eventually started developing an identity through music.  I was a punk.  I am a punk.  And I belonged there, but there’s a caveat – it’s a subculture characterized by the fact that none of its members fit in anywhere.  It is a collection of misfits who like loud music and don’t belong anywhere else. 
I am fortunate to have a lot of close friends (who were also generally misfits in their younger years.)  But having friends is not the same as belonging to a community.  Like I have these friendships and I love these people and they love me, but there are some things about me that they can’t relate to.  Like being sick. 
When I found the mast cell community, I was ecstatic.  These were people who knew what I was talking about.  They knew about the weird taste I get in my mouth when I’m having a mast cell reaction.  They knew about the rash I get when I take a hot shower.  They got it. 
It’s hard though because once you find this community and you feel like you belong, when you can’t find anyone else who has had the weird blood marker you have or whatever, the loneliness you feel is swarming, engulfing.  It’s really not something I expected to feel again at this point in my life. 
There are a lot of things about my health that I keep off the general internet that would turn some heads.  In some ways, I am very different from most other people with mast cell disease.  While I feel that I belong to this community, it further reminds me that I am just never going to fit into a box.  I am always going to be an outlier. 
And you know what?  So are a lot of other people.  These diseases are so variable that it’s virtually impossible to ever find someone exactly like you.  The person I have found whose profile matches mine the best is 2 years old and calls her PICC line a tail.  She has a different type of mast cell disease than I do and has a disorder I don’t and I have a few she doesn’t.  So like I said.  It’s virtually impossible to ever find someone exactly like you.
My favorite thing about being a punk was going to shows and standing in the crowd waiting for the music to start.  You get this buzzing excitement in your head and your heart pounds and then when the music comes up, you’re screaming lyrics with a bunch of other people you don’t really know but who are your friends in that moment, and who don’t really fit in anywhere either but in that moment, you all belong together. 
It occurred to me tonight that the mast cell community is pretty much the same.  We are all medical anomalies who banded together under this spotted banner.  We are all misfits and sometimes for a little while, we belong together. 

Okay or better

A couple of years ago, I found out a piece of really disturbing information that I felt I should share with a good friend of mine.  I called him and told him I needed to talk to him.  He met up with me right away.  I told him and afterward, he said, “All of this is weird, but I’m not gonna lie, I thought you were gonna tell me you were dying.”  We laughed about it and I reassured him I wasn’t dying. 

One of the hardest parts of being sick is that the people who love you worry about you all the time.  My relatives call me to check up on me a lot.  My parents walk down to my apartment if they haven’t heard from me all day.  My friends ask if they can help with me anything because they feel like they should be doing something.
I feel really guilty about this.  I know that my disease doesn’t happen in a vacuum, that everyone close to me is affected.  I wish that they weren’t, but I understand.  When they are struggling, I worry about them, too.
Part of why I feel guilty that they worry is because I feel it’s unnecessary.  I am well equipped to live with mast cell disease.  I have excellent medical care from experts in my disease, I understand my disease, I have a strong support system that allows me to safely live independently and work full time.  I have a lot of things working for me that many people don’t.
But even more than these things, I just know that I’ll be fine.  I don’t know how I know, but I have the most distinct feeling that it’s all going to work out.  On a cosmic level.  I feel like all this pain is temporary.    This feeling is not based on science or test results.  It is deeper than that, more primal.  It is true.  I know it is true. 
I know I’m sick, I know anaphylaxis is dangerous, and so on.  I know all these things the way I know anything else scientifically – because I can review data and draw that conclusion.  But this feeling is stronger than that.  I think it’s the reason I am generally happy – because it seems silly to worry about this when it will all be okay.  It’s how I know things won’t be hard forever. 
So all you people who love me – try not to worry so much.  If you need to worry, I will tell you.  My life is difficult right now but it’s all going to sort itself out.  I believe it.  So should you.
“I’ll be okay.  Okay, or better.  It’s like my guarantee.”  -Buffy Summers, Buffy the Vampire Slayer

Rolling the hard six

The day before I went to Seattle, I saw my mast cell GI specialist.  I was drinking coffee when I arrived.  No matter what I put into my mouth, I get nauseous.  It’s not as severe with liquids, but it still happens.  I throw up a lot, and I know that it is due to my mast cell disease because I discovered that if I have taken IV Benadryl in the hour before eating that I don’t get nauseous.  But I can’t take IV Benadryl before every meal.  It’s not sustainable and I need to reserve this option as a rescue med.   

I am very transparent with my doctors.  I call, text and email them often.  My mast cell GI specialist is aware that I vomit so often that my throat bleeds.  I asked him at what point I need to be concerned about the blood.
“If you throw up enough blood to fill up a cup like that, you need to be concerned,” he answered casually as he made notes.  I have become someone who throws up blood often enough that it is not concerning. 
The lower GI fallout from eating is becoming more and more significant as well.  I have always had heavy GI involvement and my digestive systems sustains more and more damage with each passing day.  It was only a matter of time for me.
I keep eating, even though I know it will make me sick.  I don’t want to end up on TPN but I realize it is becoming a likelier option.  I’m just stubborn in this way.  I want to eat, even though it’s obvious that my body can’t. 
I am probably consuming less than 1000 calories a day most days, and of those, I am often throwing some of it back up.  I can generally keep down liquids, so I rely on those calories.  I spent part of my evening looking up elemental formulas online.  I do not want to be living this life sometimes.  I do not want to be a 30 year old woman who drinks formula.
I saw my immunologist a couple of weeks ago and laid it all on the table.  “It’s one thing to be a 30 year old woman who sleeps through days and shits into a bag.  It’s another thing to be a 30 year old woman who sleeps through days and shits into a bag and also can’t eat anything without throwing up.  That’s where the line is.  That’s my line, right there.”  I pointed to my proverbial line, stretching out between us. 
“Yea, I think it’s time to do something drastic,” he said, and I agreed.  We had a lengthy conversation about the molecular mechanisms, benefits and risks of various meds, monoclonal antibodies and chemo drugs.  We agreed to respectively reach out to the experts we had available to us and formulate a plan.  We have not yet reconvened, but the plan will assuredly involve some type of medication with very serious risks.  It will probably involve more lower GI surgery. 
Of all the qualities that have prepared me to live with rare diseases, this is the one I find most valuable – the ability to not blink.  I make the hard decisions with little hesitation and I don’t regret them.  If I were given a choice between living ten years and spending five in bed in massive pain, or living seven and living my life until the end, I would take the seven.   Without blinking.
I don’t know if being aggressive with healthcare is the better way, but I know that for me, it has always been the only way.  Some things are worth fighting for.  Even if you know you will lose, sometimes it’s worth it to fight.  I have to know that I tried everything. 
I have to live in this body every day.  I have to know that I did everything I could to salvage a life. 
We all have to make choices we can live with. 
So I make these choices.  And I don’t blink.

Losing time

Stories about time travel have always fascinated me.  I read my first one in grade school and was both intrigued and horrified by the implications.  You could go back and fix mistakes, but sometimes those mistakes shape who you are.  Everything you do matters.  Change one thing and you change everything.

I have always tried to do more than I was able to in any window of time.  When I was in college, I worked full time, did lab work for my senior thesis and took a full course load.  When I realized that I didn’t have enough time to do all of this, I stopped sleeping on Tuesdays and Thursdays.  I wasn’t satisfied with the amount I could do in the time I was given, so I stole some extra time.

When I interview for jobs, people are always confused.  “The dates on your resume are wrong,” is one I get a lot.  They’re not.  I really did work two full time jobs in grad school at the beginning of my illness.  I just needed to do all these things at once so I sacrificed sleep and time off.  It has taken its toll, but I don’t regret the decisions I made.  I had to get through school and I had to support myself.  Necessity is a powerful motivator.

In the weeks before I was diagnosed, I would sleep through entire days.  I would not wake to eat, drink, pee, or take medication.  I sometimes could not be woken, and if I was, I was very disoriented and confused.  My disease had strained my body to the point that it needed huge amounts of sleep to function.  I would sleep for 22 hours, then be awake for 36-48 hours and do it all over again. 
Since about April, I have had this overpowering need to sleep all the time.  It had gone away for a while, but this was an obvious side effect of the steroids and you can’t take steroids forever.  I have to be woken up every day in order to take my morning medications or I will wake up and anaphylax.  When I go to sleep, I never know when I will wake up.  I have numerous alarms, including a deaf alarm that shakes the bed, but when I am in these “mast cell comas,” it makes no difference.  I need a person to come in and wake me up.
Last week was quite a week for me.  I knew there would be fallout, and I was not wrong.  I have been awake for less than 36 hours in the last five days.  In the hours I am awake, I am uncomfortable and flushing and having GI issues.   I know it will equilibrate once I get through this.  We are changing some meds to try and address this issue.  But the feeling of losing is palpable. 
When you are young, you have this feeling that you can always do something later.  You procrastinate and reschedule things and there is no danger that you won’t eventually get to these things.  But then one day you wake up after 17 hours of sleep and you have all these things to do and you have to do them all right now because once you fall asleep, they might not get done.   I know that this is because of what happened last week.  I know my body is trying to recover from the stress.  But I can’t help but feel like I’m losing time, and that feeling is overwhelming and sad. 
There’s no time anywhere for me to steal.  I read this story by Harlan Ellison in high school about a society in which people only get an allotted amount of time for their entire lives.  This feels like that.  It feels like I manipulated the time continuum earlier in my life and because I did, I have to live with less now. 
Every time I wake up, I hear this buzzing in my head and I think, that’s what time sounds like and it’s catching up to me.

Keep going

In February of 2007, I went to a party my friend was having.  While there, I started talking to a woman I didn’t know.  She told me about having walked the Breast Cancer 3-Day, in which you fundraise to support breast cancer research, prevention and treatment, and then walk 60 miles over 3 days. I told her I could never do anything like that and ate some cheese and crackers.

Later on, I woke up in the middle of the night.  While walking to the bathroom with my eyes closed, I realized that my ass was jiggling.  I am laughing as I write this because it really did unfold like a movie shot – I realized my ass was so big that it had its own center of gravity and I immediately froze and opened my eyes, completely awake.  I decided right then to do the Breast Cancer 3-Day, not because I am a good person who wanted to fundraise (although I later became passionate about this), but because I wanted to have an ass that didn’t shock me into wakefulness. 
I did the training and lost a lot of weight.  Like 40 lbs or something.  I remember closing my medicine cabinet and looking into the mirror and realizing I didn’t have a double chin anymore.  I got smaller and healthier and most of all, I felt stronger and more able.  I got in shape.  I walked 10-12 miles at a time in the sun and heat.  I did everything I was supposed to.
The weekend of the Boston 3-Day was blistering, and so hot and humid that they almost called it off.  I have since walked four other 3-Days, some in other cities, one other in Boston, and it was by the far the worst weather I encountered (including the massive freak rain storm in San Diego.)  I put on sunblock and stretched and got walking.  At the end of the first day, I couldn’t straighten out one of my legs and I was sore everywhere and caked with dirt.  I didn’t think I would be able to walk the next day.
But the next morning, I woke up and my leg straightened.  I was sore but I could walk.  So I did.  I walked slowly.  I was one of the first to leave camp and the last to get back to camp that day.  On the third day, the shortest and easiest, with milder weather, my feet were such a mess that I literally wrapped them in ace bandages and walked the last few miles in flip flops.  They hurt so bad.  But it seemed such a waste to not finishing after walking 55 miles in 3 days.  So I did it.  I did it really slowly, and it hurt, but I did it.
It is funny to think that this event, that I undertook to achieve a smaller ass, changed me as a person. My mind wants to smooth over the suffering and forget how hard it was, give the memory a glossy touch.  But I never let it.  My strength is in how far I have come.  My strength is in still going even when it seems hopeless.
In December of 2009, when I was struggling to understand speech, one of my best friends grabbed my face and said very loudly, “I will learn ASL because I can’t not talk to you.”  And so I kept going.
In the winter of 2011, when I was numb from the pain and stress and exhaustion, my doctor said, “I want you to see one more doctor, and I think he will know what’s wrong with you.”  And so I kept going.
When I had a lengthy discussion with my doctor a couple of weeks ago about the virtues of chemo for the treatment of systemic mast cell disease, one of my best friends said, “Tell me when you’ll be at the hospital and I’ll come see you at the infusion center.”  And so I kept going.
I have posted about my friend with ASM whose doctors told him he was out of treatment options.  His doctors had applied for compassionate use of a clinical trial drug for him and it had been rejected, twice.   I told him, “Your doctors are doing something wrong, you are the exact type of person who should be on this drug.”  He told me it was over and he wasn’t going to get the drug.  I told him not to stop.  I told him to keep bothering them.  I told him that I believed this could be fixed and that it would get sorted out. 
Last week, he found out that the company approved him for compassionate use of this drug and he will start treatment next week.  And so he can keep going. 
I had no way of knowing that he would get the drug.  I just thought there was a chance and sometimes that’s all you have to hold onto.  Sometimes you just have to find anything that might work and bang on every door until someone gives you a chance to prove that it won’t.  And maybe it won’t work.  But at least he’ll get to find out. 
My mind recoils when I think back to the months before I was diagnosed.  I would never go back to that, and that means that I must have made progress.  It was hard then.  Every day was so hard.  But I kept going, and I came all this way.
I don’t know how this is going to play out.  I don’t know where I’ll end up. 
But I know it’s not here.
So I keep going.

Unqualified success

Everyone knows about my very stressful week that resulted in huge doses of extra meds, including steroids, and multiple doses of epi to keep me safe.  So by the time Thursday rolled around, I was seriously hurting, and not in a metaphorical way.  I was literally hurting and exhausted and my skin hurt and my GI tract was bleeding and being generally obnoxious. I was hoping that I would make it through this wedding but I was really not sure it was going to happen.

Thursday night was the rehearsal dinner.  I put on my best rockabilly dress and infused on the way over to the church.  I stood outside the stone church and enjoyed the cool weather and soft breeze.  We went into the church and practiced walking down the aisle.  (I consider myself an expert walker.)  I took steroids and went to the dinner.  I got home at a reasonable time but the steroids guaranteed I couldn’t sleep.  I fell asleep sometime around 4:30.

 

We left at 8am to drive over to the hotel to get ready.  I took a ton of extra meds and hooked up a fluid infusion to try and stay hydrated.  The stylists made my hair very beautiful while discussing my obvious health issues in French.  (Surprise!  My spoken French is bad, my understood French is pretty good.)  And then suddenly it was time to put on my dress and go to the church.  I was mostly functioning on adrenalin at this point (natural, not Epipen) and very grateful for that. 
We went to the church, walked down the aisle and my cousin married his wonderful, kind bride, who is one of my favorite people.  It went off without a hitch and was amazing.  We took pictures and climbed into the limo to head to the reception, where we took more pictures.  Then we had a huge party that I will remember forever as one of the best parties I have ever been to.
The wedding was at 2, the reception started at 5 and by 7, I felt like I was going to pass out.  My body was starting to seriously lose it.  I was having low level anaphylaxis and feeling generally miserable.  I really wanted to go home and go to bed.
But I wanted to be at my cousin’s wedding more so I rallied and danced and sang loudly and then went out to the firepits and toasted marshmallows and made smores.  (Side note: everyone thinks they can dance at weddings until they go to a dance where many of the guests are professional dancers.)  By the time it was time to leave, I had to be helped into the car and my friends had to literally help me out of my dress at home.  I was in that much pain.

 

I write a lot about how frustrating my disease is and how people often insult me or make my life difficult with their actions.  This is not one of those stories.  I am regularly overwhelmed by the kindness I am shown by people, even people who don’t know me well.  That has never been more obvious than yesterday, when I needed all the help and got it.
These kindnesses include things like: my cousin’s sweet friend doing my make up when I was running short on time from screwing around with my PICC line; the groomsmen helping me in and out of the limo; everyone making sure I never had anything heavy to carry; everyone asking “Can I help you with anything?” pretty much anytime they saw me; the groomsman who escorted me down the aisle being careful with my PICC line; my best friend telling me during dinner that he was ready to take me home as soon as I wanted to go; people getting me drinks so I didn’t have to stand up unnecessarily; the bride running over to me because she heard I wasn’t feeling well and might go home; and lots of other very small things that mean so much to me.
This week has been a disaster on several fronts.  But yesterday was an unqualified success, and it was only possible because of the help of many people.  People say to me sometimes that they wish they could do more to help me, and I appreciate that.  But these little things – the carrying of my meds or patience in giving me five extra minutes to get ready – these are just as important.  I am blessed to have people in my life who do these things for me. I am also blessed to discover over and over again that most people are generally decent and willing to help.  And when I’m around people like that, it becomes a little bit easier to have mast cell disease and I feel a little less like a burden. 
Congrats, Matt and Jacqui!  Thanks for the memories, it was amazing.

 

Beautiful things I can’t have

I’m a Buffy fan girl.  I’m sure this surprises no one.  Strong characters, the supernatural and witty banter is basically a recipe to get me as a loyal fan.  I know all the words to the sing along episode and have been compared to Willow more times than I can count. 

There’s an episode in the fifth season where Xander and Anya go to look at an apartment.  She is upset because she doesn’t think they’ll get it.  Xander asks her what’s wrong and she says this:
“What’s going on with me is that my arm hurts… and I’m tired… and I don’t really feel like taking a tour of beautiful things I can’t have.” 
That’s how I feel right now.  I don’t really feel like looking at beautiful things I can’t have.
I have always identified as a traveler.  As a kid, I would take out language books from the library with the clear intention of learning the language for when I went there.  When I was 19, it occurred to me that if I saved up my money, I could go wherever I wanted.  I got some books and planned a trip and went to Europe. 
In 2007, when I was starting to get sick, I went backpacking in Scandinavia.  I went hiking and got really lost in this beautiful national park in Norway.  I got drunk on a ferry sailing between Estonia and Finland.  I felt tired and at the end, I felt sick, but I was mostly able to do everything I wanted to do.
In 2009, I bought tickets to Ireland and went for a quick four day trip with my boyfriend at the time.  I was exhausted and sick, but I was still able to go.  I needed a lot of sleep but otherwise it was fine.
I took a bunch of other trips.  In 2012, I went to Seattle and we all know how that went.  I came home to lots of serious news and slowly I stopped thinking of myself as a traveler because it hurt a lot.  I stopped reading my dozens of travel books and drawing maps and studying languages.  Doing those things felt like sticking my hand into an open wound.  It felt like trying to push through the looking glass only to find I was still in this strange facsimile of my life where I was sick and couldn’t do this thing that defined me.
In the last couple of weeks, I started feeling like maybe this was going to be possible again.  Maybe I could travel, if I had someone with me to help me.  Maybe I could plan trips again and look forward to them.  Maybe I could go to all these faraway places and feel this stillness in my soul that I only find when I’m away from home. 
I was supposed to go to Asia in the fall.  I was originally supposed to go in the spring but I was too sick.  So we decided to go in the fall.  We were going to fly through Dubai to Bangkok, spend a few days in Bangkok, take a private tour to Angkor Wat in Cambodia, go to an elephant preserve, spend a few days in Dubai on the way back.  I have been planning this for months, both the fun part and the not insignificant logistical shuffle of travelling out of the country with a ton of medication, medical supplies and large bags of IV solutions.  I was planning to book our airfare tomorrow.
But a few days ago I found that one of my best friends was stealing from me, and she was supposed to go to Asia with me.  She was supposed to help me to live this dream that has buried for years under the rubble of mast cell disease. 
I’m more upset about Asia than I am about the money.  Because I found out a couple of weeks ago that I could still travel, but only if I’m with someone who loves me and understands my disease and what to do in an emergency.  I cannot travel alone.  I wish I could, but I can’t deny that it’s too dangerous for me. 
The fallout of this woman stealing from me has been significant.  I have needed epinephrine and lots of IV meds and steroids, and even now as I type this, my skin is burning and my heart is racing and my insides are doing that cringe and shudder that means that with just a little push, I can be in trouble again.
When you have mast cell disease and people mistreat you, your choices are to move on quickly so as not to anaphylax or to get mad and risk ending up in the hospital.
It’s not as much of a choice as you might think.
If I fall down and scrape my leg, it is an emergency.
If I forget to take a single dose of any of my many medications, it is an emergency.
If I forget to put on the AC and fall asleep, it is an emergency.
If I get too mad, it is an emergency.
Around 4 this afternoon, I locked a syringe of 50 mg IV Benadryl into my PICC line and angrily uncapped my Epipen.  “I really hate that I’m so sick that I have to use epinephrine at home on a regular basis.  That makes me really mad,” I told my mother as I brought the tip down against the outside of my thigh.
There seems to be some confusion over whether or not what my “friend” did was wrong because she “tried to pay it.”  (I know, don’t get me started.)  So let me make it really clear.
I don’t care about the money.  If she had asked, I would have given it to her.  This is not about the money.
This is about everything else she took from me.
She took my right to feel like I can trust people to take care of me.
She took my right to feel like I can accept help without getting screwed.
She took a lot of my energy over the course of our friendship.  A lot. 
She took my safety because this was such a violation that I can’t help but feel angry and it is making living in this body even more dangerous than usual.
She took my ability to go on this trip.  She took my ability to feel like I can get this part of myself back. 
So disappointing.  I have never been more disappointed in a person in my entire life. 
And for the sake of being thorough, I want to deal with this: at least one person thinks that it’s okay that they knew about it and didn’t tell me because she wasn’t “being malicious.” (I don’t even know what that means.)
What she did is criminal.  Stealing is a crime.  Stealing from a very sick person is a more serious crime.  This is not the personal opinion of Lisa Klimas.  This is the opinion of the criminal code of the State of Massachusetts.  If you know someone is preying upon an ill person, and you do nothing, you are just as guilty.  You are not a “good person” who is getting “blamed by association.”  You are a loser.    
My friends are closing ranks around me.  I have received over a dozen offers to do my food shopping, all with the added promise that they will not steal from me.  They are making me laugh.  (Quote of the day:  “’How does one pay a credit card without the bill?’ ‘Oh, I just write credit card on cash and throw it out the window, does that not work?’”) They are reassuring me that they will not betray me.  They are reassuring me that they will take care of me and that they love me.   They are letting me know that they will support me however this plays out.
They are really angry that this happened to me.  Honestly, I am a little surprised at how angry they are.  But I get it.
I’m tired of looking at beautiful things that I can’t have. 
And they’re tired of watching me. 
So disappointing.