This is Effort Number 1…
I figure that if my first
topic is the most horrific experience of my life, the remaining 29 blogs should
be easy.
The last time I made
preparations to kill myself was October 26, 1999.
Less than one month prior
(September 30), I went to see my flight surgeon. My medical records document my
“complaint of ‘tingling in the hands and toes’ and feeling ‘like having a
head rush’ which he finds difficult to describe in other words.” It had
been going on for 3 to 4 months, but I avoided going to the doctor — pilots get
grounded when they go to the doctor…pilots don’t go to the doctor unless they
have to. By September 30, I had to.
Six days later (October 6) I
had my first MRI at a Korean hospital. The Army didn’t have much of a need for
those facilities in-country. I was handed the results to bring back to my
doctor at Seoul (2 ½ hours from where I was based). As my driver was taking me to
our camp, I read the dual Korean/English results where the findings were
“possible multiple sclerosis.” I was 27 years old, in command of an air cavalry
troop overseas, all alone, and had absolutely no idea what multiple sclerosis
was. It took six days to receive a diagnosis that for many MS patients often
takes years. I was numb. I went back to our base at Camp Eagle and stared
at the wall all night. The next day I drove to Seoul to meet with my
neurologist.
October 7
“Assessment/plan: the patient
is a 27-year-old left hand dominant pilot with a constellation of complaints
that could only be explained by multiple lesions in the central nervous system.
It appears by MRI that he may have white matter lesions consistent with a
demyelinating disease.
“Recommendation: it is found
due to the limitations of lab availability and reliability in this region that
the soldier be sent to a major military medical center for further evaluation.”
13 days later (October 20), I
was at Tripler Army Medical Center, Hawaii, for further evaluation. On the
schedule: more blood work, another MRI, and a spinal tap (to draw cerebrospinal
fluid for testing). To simply say “the spinal tap did not go well” could
possibly be the greatest understatement of my life. I don’t want to share that
story.
There wasn’t much they could
do except send me to my billet room to give my body some time to heal. The plan
was for the second attempt in a week. I went back to my room and stared at the
wall night. I spent the early mornings watching Yankee baseball (games one and
two of the 1999 World Series), the next few days shuffling around Honolulu, and
the evenings trying to numb my pain/fear with alcohol and women. I found
comfort in a friend, stationed in Hawaii, who was more than happy to enable me
with both. Every night, however, I returned to my room and continued my stare.
Six days later (October 26) I
rented a car. Yes, my body was going numb and my vision was fading in one eye.
Potato – Potato. I rented the car anyway. With no other plan other than getting
in the car, I began my trip around Oahu. As I drove, my mind trying to
calculate how fast I would need to go to ram the car and kill myself; how much I
needed to overcome the safety provided by an airbag. I rammed the accelerator a
few times but quickly realized there wasn’t a chance on the windy highway to
build up enough speed while finding a nice head on target. The magnificent drop-offs
were definitely the way to go, I noticed. Some of the cliffs were quite tall. I
remember thinking, “just a couple seconds of bounty bounce…” Unfortunately —
well, I guess I should say fortunately — my admiration of the sites and
experiences as I drove around the island grew more pressing than other thoughts
occupying my mind. I simply stopped making plans.
October 27 – the Yankees
completed their four-game sweep of the Atlanta Braves.
October 28 – my second spinal
tap was successful (not screaming horror, but still not fun).
Impression: partial transfers
myelitis. Diagnoses include MS, sarcoidosis, collagen-vascular less likely
infectious. As of right now this patient has a monosymptomatic neurological
illness.
Plan:
1: re–MRI in six months, or
sooner if clinically indicated
2: Solu-Medrol 1000 mg x three
days, Zantac 150 mg x three days
3: returned to Korea for
consideration
They gave me a box with my IV
steroid treatments and sent me back. My squadron was currently in the field, so
I get to relax every day for an hour in our flight surgeon’s medic tent as I
received treatment.
Life carried on. I have no
idea how close I was from actually making an attempt to kill myself, nor do I
care to discover the answer. I never took steps towards the act again, but I
never stopped thinking about it.
[Side note: this is one of the
many reasons why 28 is my favorite number.]
The last time I feared I may kill
myself was March 17, 2015
I was 43 years and 79 days old,
the same age my dad was when he killed himself.
William Byrne had his share of
illnesses, fears, and other burdens. I share some of those maladies, I also
carry my own unique set. My greatest advantage was the one he never possessed.
It was the gift he gave me. My father gave the experience of what it’s like to
see a loved one who was not strong enough to carry his burdens, who didn’t
recognize there was a source to/life beyond the pain, who could not see the
loved ones there to help him, and to never recognized beauty that could stop
him in his tracks so he would never make another plan to kill himself.
After October 28, 1999, I
realized I could never try to kill myself again. I was far too strong for such an
act. Or, was it because I was not strong enough, having not yet experienced the
levels of pain such a decision required? My father was 43 years and 79 days
old. At the time, I was only 27 years and 304 days old. Figuratively speaking, how
big a pile of shit you can make between that span of ages is significant. How
much can happen? How much can I endure? Can my mind hold out as long as my
father did? Curiously enough, I never questioned if I could last longer.
How much has to happen before
you snap really depends on whether or not you are keeping track and tallying
all those “issues” somehow. I was. In 2003, I filled my paper with a bullet
list of problems and reasons why I was scared. My multiple sclerosis, the
physical effects I’m dealing with now, hadn’t really surfaced yet. What MS took
for me was everything on the peripheral. I lost my career in the military. The
list for promotion to major had come out recently, most of my classmates were
on that one; the wars in Iraq/Afghanistan were actually something I was angry I
could not be a part of, alongside the classmates, soldiers, and friends I had
known for 14 years. My weight was bouncing +/- 25 pounds on a monthly basis. My
last quasi-relationship ended with a court appearance and restraining order (I
was the victim). A few months before, while I was living in Pittsburgh, I got a
DUI (my drinking was still out of control). My recent relocation to New York
City was ill-timed, poorly planned, and not successful. I was rejected from the
three grad school applications I had hastily submitted. I had multiple
sclerosis for four years, yet I really knew nothing about the disease. My only
connection was going to the VA for my six-month appointment and to refill my
medication. I wanted nothing to do with that world, a world full of sick people
which I was not part of. I didn’t realize the effect MS would have on me
mentally and emotionally, I just saw my inability to deal with these fears as
weakness. One of my last notes on the page talked of suicide – how I thought
about it, couldn’t do it, but feared someday I could (not making it to 43 years
and 79 days). I ran to my family, not knowing what I needed but hoping they
could tell me what to do.
My sister took me in as I let
go of everything I had. My mother, brother, and sister cared for me in the best
way they knew how, by loving me. I sought treatment and a stronger connection
with the VA. I reached out to the National MS Society, wanting to do something
for those who really needed help (in my mind, I was fine). My running stopped. I
built a life, a career, I married, we built a new life out here in Portland, we
welcomed Eleanor into the world. It took time, but eventually I realized I was happy
and convinced I would make it to 43 years and 79 days! Life was good.
The problem with my theory was
that I was still going to get older. The date, that moment, continue to scare
me. What would push me over the edge? My MS started to take its toll. At the
time, I had endured four separate medication reactions requiring
hospitalization, two surgeries, and the advancement of my disease into
secondary progressive MS. The new disease course created several significant
issues. For three years and 79 days was not a target, it felt like my expiration
date.
All I needed to do was make it
past that date…a benchmark I created my own head. For years I didn’t know if I
wanted to do it. Later on, I just didn’t know if I could do it. I wasn’t
thinking about killing myself. I didn’t want to kill myself. I just couldn’t
get the moments out of my mind. Moments, plural. I connected my dad’s last day
with my own. His was a .38 revolver, mine was going to be this fucking MS. For more
than two years the date crossed my mind every single day. On the evening of
March 17, 2015, I sat on the floor of our living room crying. I didn’t want to
sleep. I would be killing myself if I did. I never wanted 43 years and 79 days
to end. I found solace in the gentle hugs and soft stroking of my hair as
Eleanor reassured me, “It’s OK, Daddy.”
She had no idea why I was
crying.
She was still a month away
from turning four years old.
I woke up the next day, I was
43 years in 80 days old, and those thoughts have never crossed my mind since.
My father gave the experience
of what it’s like to see a loved one who was not strong enough to carry his
burdens.
- When Eleanor loved me
unconditionally at 43 years and 79 days, I recognized there was a source
to/life beyond the pain.
- When mom, Carolyn, and Tommy
captured me and held on, I saw the loved ones there to help him.
- On the drive in Hawaii, I recognized
beauty that stopped me in my tracks so I would never make another plan to kill myself.
I told some of the story to a
friend of mine recently. They asked me to say I would never do that, but it was
a promise I could not make. That’s a vow I made to myself many years ago, when
I was 43 years and 80 days old and staring into the face of my daughter. I made
a promise to myself, and that’s where the conversation ended.
The pain, anxiety, and
depression attributable to my MS have not gone away nor will they ever. The
hope is my story will inspire your donation in this fight.
Because it is a fight.
The fight is not over and it won’t be over until a cure is found.
It will never stop…nor will we
It will never quit…nor will we
This is why we ride!
Please
donate today: http://main.nationalmssociety.org/goto/eleanor
100%
of the royalties earned from my books go to the National MS Society, to support
our fight: http://neverstopneverquit.com/books
Never Stop… Never Quit…®
Kevin
Byrne
Portland,
OR
Never Stop…
Never Quit…
Reg. U.S. Pat. & Tm. Off.
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