Pain, sickness and a trip to Emergency Room. There, I found more sickness and something I abhor as much; bureaucratic indifference.... Yes, I tried to wait. First sitting down and then on my hands and knees vomiting up a unique medley of acid, phlegm and bile. People then scatter away from me as I wait to be admitted... and like this I wait even more. In my entire life I don't think I've ever experienced more pain than I did while suffering from this mystery illness. The typical flu-like body aches were around my hips and I often felt as if they had broken. Still, I puked and I waited -- and I had come to E.R. in the hopes that I wouldn't wait because, well, I couldn't wait. After all, I felt like I was dying, why should I ignore that? Yes, when I get sick I usually get far sicker than anyone else I know. This is true even when I know for certain that I share the virus with others. Somehow my immune system is quite weak -- this is probably the main reason why I resist the idea of travel so much.

No member of the hospital staff made an effort to make me feel like I was going to be cared for. No, the only person who did anything at all to help alleviate my misery was the kind of person few would associate with compassion; a cop. He first brought me a wet rag and then a fresh bucket to puke in. Funny how that would happen to me, being that his profession is one I've spent a long time hating for all it represents. While I was laid up in bed later on I thought a lot about this and came to the conclusion that the cop didn't just bring me a rag and a bucket, he brought me the Bodhisattva view of humanity that I used to have. That's not to say I'm a literal Bodhisattva, as I have no connection to Buddhism whatsoever, but that in me own definition that's the best way for me to see the world. That even people I dislike greatly may have little pockets of good inside of them, that the world isn't black and white like I sometimes like to think it is.

My theory, now, goes like this:

There are about three personality types when it comes to understanding humanity: The Saint, The Crusader and The Bodhisattva. Perhaps there are more types, but I was only sick long enough to come up with these three. The first type, I guess, would be The Saint, one who sees only good in people no matter what. The Saint is the kind of person who will try to forgive everyone their faults. Even serial killers and pedophiles are redeemable, because human nature is inherently good, or so they believe.

Contrary to this viewpoint, The Crusader believes that human nature is inherently bad, and forgiveness comes at a price. He will try to reform anyone he can to comply with his ideals. The fires of passion burn bright inside of him because of a strong sense of duty -- because he knows right from wrong and the rest of the world does not. Therefore, it is incumbent upon him to teach and enlighten everyone else.

And there there's the Bodhisattva, who needs to understand human nature. He isn't one to pre-judge like The Crusader or The Saint, as he feels an intense desire to have an understanding of humanity. Often, he cannot fathom the depths of another's soul, but he knows that he must try. He's very slow and meticulous when it comes to making friends, for he only likes those he can understand and he knows that understanding takes time. And in situations of great hostility between him and others he's likely to feel a deep sense of tragedy above anything else. Burning hatred isn't something he's fond of because he feels such pity for those who deeply wrong others. Such people, he thinks, are missing something profoundly important to being alive -- the precious ability to empathize with another's suffering. He may not be an altogether good person, but these are the values that he wishes to live by.

And that tiny bit of empathy back in that hospital reminded me of who I was and what I stand for in this life. Even though I'm too depressed and foggy to enact much of what I feel, I hope that doesn't diminish the validity of my ideals.

And then I was admitted, finally. My hopes were soon dashed as I had to answer a series of questions and have my blood pressure/heartrate measured. I was made to wear a mask, and I felt like a contagious corpse in plagued Europe, ready for the mass cremation. This whole damnable process seemed to take far too long, and that may have been because my mother was admitted the same time as I was. You see, she was very sick too. Eventually we got through and then were placed in a room in the back. There I waited again, and called out for medicine, which eventually came.

I forget the name of the medicine they injected in me, but it just about probably saved me. For those unfamiliar with the experience it's difficult to describe the kind of relief one feels at the administration of the proper medication in a desperate time of need. My temperature was nearly 104 degrees and the medicine helped to bring that down. When my vomiting had been alleviated I lay down in bed and watched the drip-drip of the I.V. solution as it flowed into my body, the first liquid my body could absorb. Then I submitted to an X-ray of my chest, was wheeled back and forth while lying on my bed. Suddenly I had a chill and my right hand was ice cold from the I.V. solution. It all worked out OK for me though, because I remembered penguins.

You see, I was thinking back to a documentary I had watched years ago about penguins, and specifically the part about how penguins keep their feet from freezing solid: Heat exchange blood flow. Their feet are kept warm by the circulation of warmer blood from the rest of the body. After thinking this, I realized I could do something similar with the long tubing that fed me electrolytes and fluid. So, I bunched up the tubing and began to breath on it as hot and heavy as I could. My plan was to at least reduce the degree to which it was cooling my body, and I have to say that it worked out better than I thought it would. Slowly, I began to feel my hand warming up, then the rest of my body warmed too, and in time I drifted off to sleep. It was as good a sleep I could have had, given the state of crisis.

What I'm trying to convey in this journal, I guess, is that I had been really taking a licking lately. Just a few weeks before this illness I had been bedridden after having my wisdom teeth extracted, and then a week before that I was sick again. I hardly feel alive anymore, as I'm starting to forget what it was like to just go outside and maybe eat in a restaurant, or visit the park, or anything else I do in my pathetic life. All I really have going on now is my touch typing project, and so far that's going well. You see I've never been a very good typist. My posture is terrible and my technique was abysmal. Now that I've been practicing obsessively, and at the expense of other pursuits, I can type in spurts of about 60 WPM and if I'm really cooking I can hit 100 WPM -- though that's only if I hit a series of really easy -to-type words and phrases. Even on most of my sick days I practiced, a rare level of dedication for me.

My goal in all this is just to develop a skill and maybe feel better about myself. Then maybe if I feel better about myself I might be bold like I used to be, more willing to think that and outcome may be different that I think it will be. All I do now is nothing because I swear that I know the outcomes because things don't ever really change; not for me, at least. I had an audience once and I insulted them all away, and now I'm back where I started -- where I need to be, I suppose. My problem is that I just can't accept that I'm supposed to be alone because I'm a loner, no matter how much I hate being alone. Sure there will be moments when I seem normal, and pursue a normal sort of social life. Once I have people close to me, though, that's when I'll flare up and throw them away. So if you feel that maybe I'm shrinking into a sort of shell, that's only because I want to keep what few friends I have left.

That's news for now, anyway. So long everyone, for what it's worth.