Six Feet Under



The intro to the HBO show is a montage of scenes from the death care industry. The images had a much different effect on me the last time I saw it. This is because the last time I saw the show was in 2004; before I was diagnosed with ALS.


I got diagnosed between Feb and Mar of this year. It went down like this: I went to the Neurosurgical dept at the U of M Hospital to see what was causing my head to tilt to the left.

My Neurosurgon admited me saying my spine was dangerously unstable, and immediate surgery was required. The next day, his boss, a spine specialist, overruled him, saying it was stable, but since I was admitted anyways, I should go for a stretch at their world class rehab unit. While waiting for a rehab room to become available, I shared a room with an elderly patient who was fed with a tube, and had a machine that sucked mucus from his lungs intermitantly making a disgusting sound at all hours. I finally got readmitted, and they worked on me for what turned out to be a three week stay. At the third week, as a matter of routine, I went through an EMG test, which involves gettimg electrical shocks and dozens of intramuscular pokes with an inch long needle. The doctor told me the results were inconclusive, but I think he was lying. That night the attending physisian told me that in all likelihood I'd slowly lose control off all my voluntary muscle system, not be able to move, eat, speak, and eventuallĄ, breathe. The next day, a Neurologist told me reasuringly that there are several other possibile causes for the results of the EMG, and we'd have to rule them all out before finalising the ALS diagnosis. The day after that, I got a visit from the ALS clinic nurse practitioner, who told me that they wouldn't have sent her over unless they were pretty sure I had ALS. This result of one doctor telling me to remain hopeful while others telling me I must accept my fate was more than a little upsetting. My emotions ranged from dispair to hope to fury during the rest of my stay. I finally got the word that the last medical test that might have got me off the hook came up normal; the diagnosis was finalised. Despite my religious training to always be hopeful, I wasn't affected by the news, having already given up.


I imagined that finally knowing my fate would provide some sort of burst of creativity, but instead, I fell into a rut (see May 15 entry). I'm doing better now, spending more time adding to this site, which is an online epitaph for me. I'm going to figure out a way to keep this site online 100 years after I die, so I'll have some sort of legacy. I'm lucky to have that opportunity, most people's memorys don't last that long.