tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33835979514092749692024-03-05T21:01:05.081-08:00The Transplant TranscriptHi! My name is Pat. I was born with a liver disease called Primary Sclerosing Cholangitis. I finally received the miracle of transplant on March 23rd, 2012. I've decided to keep this online journal of my experiences in the hopes that others can share in this message of hope and life. I'll try to keep it light, and hopefully we'll have some yucks along the way.
Onward and upward!Pat Buchtahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09033396576622212388noreply@blogger.comBlogger45125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3383597951409274969.post-70546366159296083402015-09-28T12:42:00.001-07:002015-10-02T08:39:44.478-07:00Tall, Y'allThe irony of living long enough to finally have a healthy body: having it start to grow old. My newfound energy is telling me to go! go! go! and make up for all that time I lost being sick. My almost forty-five year old stretch of bones tell a different story.<br />
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I was never much of an athlete, unlike my Dad and older brother. Blame it on the early onset of my illness, if you will, but the truth is, I'm about as uncoordinated as they come, and I never had much of an interest in competitive sports, save for the years from age 10-13 when I was a rabid Cowboys fan (the Danny White years, go figure). But I always enjoyed using my legs. I guess I was in third or fourth grade when I started to notice that I was a bit taller than the other kids. I had a naturally long stride. I wasn't really a fast runner, but I enjoyed stretching my long legs out to see how fast they could take me through the woods around my hilltop home. I would wander off into the thick wood for hours at a time during the summers of my youth, exploring the ruins of old farming equipment and rusted-out cars left by the freed slaves that settled the land. I would join my brother down, down, down, ten minutes down the dense trail, finally onto the vast shoreline rich with treasure: clams and fool's gold to be found while slogging through the water with my ever-growing legs. Stretching my legs out as I watched my brother cast long into a fading summer early evening, reel, pop, and bring in a striper that would be a hot topic of conversation once we got back home. Pushing my legs back up through the darkening forest, folding legs as I watch and learn while Dad fillets said striper, resting legs as I watch and learn whilst Mom and big sister gently work fillets into egg, flour, cornmeal.<br />
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As the cooler winds blew in and "The Greatest American Hero" was hours away from its fall premiere on ABC, I begrudgingly laced up my Keds to join Dad on the first of many mandatory evening runs. Dad had polio as a child and was laid up in the Galveston children's ward, all alone, for months as one of his calves atrophied. He recovered by lifting whatever heavy plowing equipment lay around the Angleton farm he grew up on. By high school, Dad was dead handsome and a football star to boot. He knew that hard work and Czech genetics could pay off for me too, even though, like him, I had spent much of my childhood in hospitals. So we ran, up the long road to our gate and away from my final chance to be able to discuss the hotly-anticipated premiere of "The Greatest American Hero" with my buddies the next day at school. Past the mailboxes, up the road just beyond Mrs. Casey's, cut across as the hill bends around and down, through the thicket and into the neighborhood below. Keeping pace with his long legs, past the aging, greased-hair and bespectacled execs watering lawns while smoking pipes, past the barking dogs, endless neighborhoods, all serene, all quiet, down another crest of another hill as the sun sets on the horizon in the distance, down along Lakeshore Drive as the cars zip by, back down Hillcrest through the thick dark wood, up the hill, around the bend, and home to our wooded acres. This procedure continued for a couple of years, and while I never became a long distance runner, I cherish the time I had with Dad, stretching out my long legs to keep up with his. I even added a terrycloth headband along the way to my running ensemble: long athletic socks, red shorts with white piping, and my best Spiderman t-shirt, for good measure.<br />
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Later, those long legs walked me across the stage to receive my diploma from Baylor University, up the aisle to my wedding, and across much of Europe, America, Mexico, and the Caribbean as I expanded my worldview. <br />
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As the years wore on and my illness became more debilitating, I watched in frustration as my legs began to swell, bruise, and turn yellow. They no longer moved the way I wanted them to. Most days, I was lucky if they moved at all. One simple tap on the surface of my skin could be debilitating. I remember one day early in the summer of in 2011 as I loaded up a suitcase after a long weekend in Port Aransas. The case barely tapped my left left as I loaded it into the SUV. The next day, the leg had turned black and was severely swollen. That one simple tap had burst all the blood vessels on my shin. I was on crutches for the remainder of the summer. Even still, I can see the blue-black reminder that has permanently scarred the surface of my skin. <br />
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The disease progressed rapidly in 2011 and putting one foot in front of another became increasingly difficult. I continued to get up every day and go into work, but the short number of steps from my car to my office near the back door of the station were becoming more difficult to navigate each day. I no longer could put on shoes with great ease as my feet had become too swollen to fit into most of them. Some days I would simply wear sandals if necessary. I hid out in my office most days and did my best to work, as my video editing job was something I could manage with little physical effort or social interaction. As the ascites added sixty pounds of water weight to my frame, I no longer was able to stand tall into my natural height and hunkered over, unable to fully support my increasing weight gain. My feet constantly felt as if they would simply burst open from the skin stretching out too far and taut. The pressure was unbearable most days, and yet each passing week seemed to be a new exercise in determining what "normal pain levels" meant for me.<br />
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Finally, and with some relief, the whole house of cards came crashing down in early 2012, as documented earlier in this very journal. What I've not written about are the gory details. I'll save the reader once again from this level of intimacy and simply try to relate the feeling of horror as one watches one's abdomen, legs, and every other lower extremity swell to an almost comically enormous size. I started to wonder if they'd ever snap back into shape (they have, thank you). But the most emasculating of these symptoms, believe it or not, was the loss of my legs. It took me several minutes and plenty of help to pull myself up out of the hospital bed, drag the iv stuck into my hand, the Port hardwired into my jugular, and all of the rest of the wonderful spaghetti of cords and cables with me to the restroom. As I pulled away the robe and stared at my self naked in the mirror, I did not recognize the bloated yellow corpse of an old man standing feebly in the glass. Within a day, my legs would finally fail completely.<br />
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After the docs found cancer in the second donor liver, they sent me home at around 11:30pm that evening (March 17, 2012) to wait for the next opportunity. We went back to Amanda's parent's home just outside of Dallas to try to get some rest. But I would not sleep. I had not slept in almost a month (the honest truth, I may hold a world record) and I knew I would not now. The burning pain in my stomach and intestines increased in intensity. Sometime in the middle of the night I tried to walk to the bathroom to sit upon the toilet. It has been weeks since I had gone, and the hot poker searing a hole through my abdomen taunted me. I sat and waited, to no avail. I tried to rise, the lights went out, and I fell forward. Amanda rushed to hold me up but could not support my weight. Her parents rushed in to help, and finally managed to move me back into the bed. Soon her hulk of a brother was there to pick me up and put me into a wheelchair. I was no longer able to use my legs at all. In the ER, I could not see the pen in front of my face to sign the admittance papers. I was placed onto a table in a bright room where doctors valiantly searched for a portion of chest to insert a pict line. This process took some time and several painful tries, as most of my surface veins had collapsed. They checked my stool. I was indeed hemorrhaging internally, but it could not be determined from where. After being admitted to ICU, I underwent an endoscopic procedure to determine the source of the bleeding. It turns out some veins inside the upper portion of my left leg had simply fallen apart, and I was slowly bleeding out. They managed to stop the bleeding with some drugs, but I was now completely paralyzed from the waist down. My once long and slender legs had turned a blackish purple and were swollen beyond recognition. I could no longer even register pain at this point... the lack of sleep for three solid weeks and insane amounts of physical torture had somehow separated my mind from my body, and I now experienced these sensations as something that was simply happening to this shell of a body that my spirit had separated from.<br />
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When the third and final offer for a donor liver came four days later, my liver had shut down completely and my kidneys were following suit. The surgeon explained later that I had about six hours left to live when they transplanted a healthy adult liver into my body. <br />
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These days, I marvel at the fact that I'm able to use my legs again at all. And yet, there they are, long, lean, and more muscular than ever, moving rapidly back and forth before my eyes, taking me further down whatever trail, treadmill, or city street I may happen to be on during my regular evening runs. I keep moving, and I think of my Dad, wondering if he'd be proud of the fact that I managed to pick myself up and keep moving, just as he had so long ago. I've seen my body suffer the most extreme physical torture and come back transformed and renewed. And I think, if it's capable of surviving that, what else is it capable of? Thanks to my donor's selfless gift of life, I'm looking forward to finding out. Standing Tall, y'all.<br />
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<br />Pat Buchtahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09033396576622212388noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3383597951409274969.post-37344608323776488342015-04-17T10:27:00.000-07:002015-06-08T15:00:35.088-07:00Twenty Easter Sundays<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Twenty years ago on Easter weekend, I joined my best friends for our usual revelry... a few days spent at my childhood pal Ron Kimbell's uncle's land out in Groesbeck, Texas. It was very isolated, through a nondescript gate down a long dirt road down a long one-lane road out of Waco. I probably have been there a hundred times over the years and yet I'd be hard pressed to try and find it today.<br />
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We began the weekend as we usually did: a few beers and plenty of guitar playing around a roaring campfire. This evening seemed, however, to have a much more serious overtone. For months now, I knew that something was just not right inside. I had been to visit my doctor several times in the past few years, as they watched my liver enzyme levels climb higher and higher with no real explanation. In actuality, what was happening was that my portal veins became highly pressurized, causing a massive amount of blood to backflow into my liver, resulting in varicose veins in my stomach and esophagus that would rupture later that evening. By all accounts, this could have been caused by the removal of my spleen when I was merely six years old... it's quite possible that the re-routed blood flow of a missing internal organ caused the traffic jam as my body developed into adulthood.<br />
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Starting in the fall of 1994, I walked around in a haze, not knowing what was wrong with me or what to do about it. I was extremely depressed. I could tell my body was falling apart. I managed to break my wrist after a very excited friend tackled me at a bachelor party one weekend. A few weeks later, I somehow managed to injure my heel badly after jumping from a set of bleachers. To call me a gimp during this period would not have been a stretch... I looked quite a sight with my full forearm cast and limp. My doctors put me on antidepressants, which only seemed to have a psychoactive effect on me. During the final months leading up to my Easter weekend bleed, I was hearing voices and seeing horrific, violent images in my mind. I could barely make it to my college classes, much less focus on studying. One week before Easter, in my frustration, I punched a wall and shattered much of my right hand, which has still not been set to this day.<br />
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To say the least, I knew I was dying. I had a very acute sense that something foreign had invaded my body, that I had been possessed by something that was completely alien and very malevolent.<br />
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As the campfire died down that Good Friday in Grosebeck, I asked my friends if we should say a prayer together. The sense that something very heavy hung over us was palpable, and I thought that this one simple gesture on this holy eve would somehow help. We solemnly gathered hands and said our peace. I was no longer a religious person, but having been raised Roman Catholic, I still clung to all the feelings of guilt and doubt that came along with Catholicism. That spring semester, I was enrolled in an Eastern Religion survey course at Baylor University, and I was beginning to see my spiritually in a whole new way after many discussions with Prof. Brackenridge, an active Baptist who was able to put into context for me the place all world religions had within his personal paradigm, and why Christianity still works best for him. His reasoning was that throughout history, certain prophets, or avatars, were able to rise above the mundane world, access God, and give something important back to humanity. To him, Jesus was the most powerful of these figures because of the simplicity of his message: Love. Although present in most other world religions, the overruling concept of compassion was at the forefront of Christian faith, and that's why it worked so well for Brackenridge. One lunch meeting in the Student Union building was to forever change the course of my religious outlook. It was also the last time I would speak to Prof. Brackenridge, as I was soon to be hospitalized for the rest of the school year.<br />
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We doused the fire and snuggled into our sleeping bags for the evening. At some point during the night, I got up to water the blackberry bushes and stepped right onto a mound of fire ants. They quickly consumed my leg, covering me in almost a hundred or so painful stings. The shock was unbearable and yet I managed to slip back into my warm bag as the poison coursed through my veins and set my internal system on fire. I slipped into a sleepless trance.<br />
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As I awoke, I surveyed the early morning sky. To the east, a dark, black cloud seemed to be coming straight towards me, looming ominously over the horizon as a harbinger of doom. Just looking into the vast, darkening abyss seemed to trigger a feeling of panic within me. I rose from my bag, walked a few steps, and collapsed onto the ground as a sharp, stabbing, burning pain grew in my stomach. Violently, I vomited up a viscous red substance onto the ground. I sat down, feeling somewhat lighter. I surveyed the mass before me. Was this merely leftover from the Big Red and Taco Bell I had consumed the evening before? Surely that had to be it. I sat and looked at my friends, still snug and unaware, nestled in their sleeping bags around the embers of the fire. Then another wave struck me. I began to sweat profusely. Blood poured out of my mouth in a steady stream. In addition, I could feel myself losing control of my bowels to a burning sensation that enveloped my lower intestine. It felt like I was literally melting from the inside out.<br />
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When I called out to my pals, I was shocked at the fear in my own voice. I managed to rouse them and tell them what was happening. We all surveyed the bloody mass on the ground to try and figure out what indeed it was. Before long, however, it happened again. This time, I lost my vision and blacked out for a few seconds. With this episode, the initial shock passed and we all knew that something was very wrong. In the days before cell phones, all we could think to do was go seek help. My friends Ron and Jake quickly drove away to a nearby farm to find a phone they could use while my pal Jon stayed behind with me. I was extremely weak and barely conscious. Within minutes, however, the vomiting overtook me again. I was losing blood, and fast. I could see the panic in Jon's eyes as he asked what he could do to help. I simply requested that he hold onto me. I could feel myself slipping away, and I felt that contact with a human anchor was my only chance. He grabbed me from behind round the waist as I vomited blood again and laid down to die.<br />
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Soon, Ron and Jake returned. No luck. No farmers awake or answering doors yet this morning, oddly enough. Or perhaps the sight of two young, wiry, hungover males loudly banging on one's door at six in the morning was a bit alarming for most. Only one thing to do... they loaded me into Jake's truck and he and i sped off down the dirt road, making our way back to Waco. I remember dear Jake tried to crack a joke to make me feel less scared. Any sound at this point felt like daggers into my brain, and I let him know so, so he soon was quiet. Passing through the tiny town of Mart, Tx, I knew I would not make it any further. I asked Jake to pull over. On the side of the street, in front of a church, I lay down on the sidewalk and began vomiting much more blood... a seemingly endless amount this time. Jake ran away at top speed to go find help. I curled up into a ball and stared up at the cross looming high above me. I drifted in and out of consciousness and lost all sense of time. I became aware of presence above me and looked up. An elderly man with cane, white beard, glasses, and a Navy veteran's ballcap was out undoubtedly for his morning walk, when he came upon something quite unexpected. He asked me in a kind tone, "What's wrong, son?" I couldn't muster the strength to answer. The man knelt down and placed a hand upon my shoulder for what seemed like an eternity. The next thing I remember was the blaring sound of an EMS siren. Jake had somehow located the only ambulance within the entire county and brought them to me. I was loaded in and introduced to the kindly retired couple who owned and operated the vehicle. The man drove like a bat out of hell straight toward Waco while the woman urged me to lay down and try to be still. I vomited blood once more and laid down, drifting away into a semi-conscious slumber.<br />
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The next thing I remember, I was atop a table in a very bright operating room at Hillcrest Hospital in Waco. I was freezing cold, having lost so much blood at this point. A nurse asked me what was going on. I could barely form the words to tell her. She seemed less concerned than I was, which eased my mind a little. I remember telling her that whatever was wrong needed to be fixed quickly so that I could make an afternoon fishing date with my dad. I rarely spent time with him these days, too caught up in my own young man's world to slow down. And yet I knew today's fishing trip would be special. It would be just he and I, a very rare occurance indeed, and one I knew I needed with all that was going on my my life. Obviously I was in shock, and could not see the severity of my situation. But I had stopped vomiting and figured that I was getting better. Heck, maybe that stuff wasn't even blood. Just an adverse reaction to whatever shitty food I had eaten the night before. I lay alone in the room, waiting for a doctor to show up. I became very aware of the fact that I needed to go to the bathroom. I asked the attending nurse if this would be possible. She directed me down the hall to the patient bathroom, ushered me in, and closed the door. The moment I sat down, a searing hot rush of fluid shot out of my nether region. I looked down... it was pure red. I began to lose consciousness and fell off of the toilet onto the floor. What seemed like a flood of blood began forcefully shooting out of my mouth in a steady stream. I managed to crawl across the tile floor and reached up to crack the door open. I no longer had the strength to call out for help, so I just laid in the expanding sea of my own blood, surveying the pattern of red now painted across the walls. I began vomiting again with no control over my reflexes. Blood poured out of both ends. The gutteral sound of my convulsions mixed with gasps for air should have been enough to wake the dead. A nurse walked by, and without looking in, exclaimed, "SHUT THE DOOR!" My response came out of nowhere: "LADY I AM FUCKING DYING IN HERE! GO GET SOMEONE NOW!" She turned, did a double-take, her eyes big as saucers, and ran. Within moments an entire team was at the door, loading me onto a stretcher and into an even brighter white room. Somewhere along the way I must have given someone my parent's contact info, because the next thing I knew a very panicked-looking Mom and Dad were hovering over me.<br />
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A doctor came into the room and explained that they needed to get a scope into me to see what was happening. Two large tubes were inserted into my nose and forced down my throat. The choking sensation was unbearable. I began to vomit again, literally painting a spray pattern of red all across the walls of the room and the uniforms of the doctors and nurses. So much blood. I struggled to removed the tubes while two orderlies worked to hold my arms down. My mom was crying. The blood kept coming and coming. Fade out.<br />
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I'm not sure about all the details of what happened next. I'm not sure how long I was gone. From the information I've gathered over the years, it sounds like I died for approximately two to three minutes before doctors were able to revive me. I didn't see a white light or my Grandfather at the end of it. I didn't see anything. It was simply blackness. I had lost almost two thirds of my blood. Somehow, a very skilled doctor was able to go in, find the sources of the bleed, cauterize them, and pump enough blood back into me to get me going once again.<br />
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A hazy grey-bright image began to form. In the doorway of a small hospital room, I began to make out the image of my dear old friend Sam Osborne standing in the doorway, smiling. Soon other visitors began to show up... my older brother, my girlfriend, and, of course, Ron, Jake, and Jon. It was early evening on Easter Sunday.<br />
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(The photo above was taken during the afternoon on that fateful Good Friday by my friend Amber Brien.)Pat Buchtahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09033396576622212388noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3383597951409274969.post-61415874208074384362015-03-11T09:41:00.001-07:002015-03-11T09:45:12.794-07:00Thoughts While Running 3/10/15Nothing profound to say today, just had some thoughts while running last night that I'd like to get down on virtual paper. It seems that I get all of my best thinking done lately while moving my legs.<br />
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As I settled into the rhythm of my run, I fixed my gaze on a leaf outside the window. I thought about the concept that the leaf is no further or closer to me than the very edge of the universe. I could get off the treadmill, walk outside, and pick up that leaf and I would have calculated the time it took me to get to there through my experience. As well, I could climb aboard a spaceship, fly to the edge of existence, and experience the incomprehensible amount of time it takes me to get there. I am fully aware that the laws of physics, space and time govern our world. But we know those laws to be true through our personal experience. I know, I know... it's the old "If a tree falls in the forest" argument. But truly, within that moment, I was aware that distance, time, and everything else we quantify is merely an illusion set forth by our temporal existence. We are merely consciousness moving through a series of holograms made up of light and matter, and on a quantum level, the space that exists between is, in actuality, non-existent. It is simply my experience that creates that space and time. It can certainly be argued that if no life whatsoever existed in the universe, the same laws would still apply. But if not one living thing were present to experience them, would they really exist at all?<br />
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Next thought process: Ego can be a useful and necessary tool at times. In most Eastern philosophies we are taught to kill our ego... only by doing so can we truly reveal the free essence of our own spirit. And yet, in a practical sense, we do have to live and work together within this construct that we call reality. And to do so effectively, we must sometimes use our ego at times to navigate the playing field. One can be the most Zen, laid-back, peaceful person on the planet, and yet when push comes to shove, it is our ego we call upon to fight for what is right. Ego, in a healthy sense, serves as a wellspring for confidence, power, and beauty. Used correctly, this can be a welcome tool. It's a slippery slope, of course: Just a hair's breadth too much, and we become self-serving narcissists, assholes, and buffoons. Anyone who has ever purchased a "selfie stick" should probably take a hard look at their lives and put themselves in that category. And yet, too little Ego and we run the risk of being taken advantage of. So where do we find balance? I think that comes in knowing what our role is within this existence: To observe and learn, and to create positivity. Again, I am reaching an even deeper insight than religion would afford... If Buddhist thought leads us to believe that life is simply about learning to let go of attachment, even that ideology seems a bit limiting. I am starting to believe the key is in understanding that we are all simply nodes of experience for the one true God, and we are all learning, receiving, and processing information and uploading it to the one true source at all times. We are all God, experiencing creation in one simultaneous instant. All the pain and horror that adds balance to the beauty and goodness we find merely serves to underline the existence of God's Love for creation. If evil did not exist, Love would also cease. For only through suffering can we fully understand what Love is. When we truly see the beauty that lies within this realization, we come to understand our role here on earth, and who we do and do not want to be while we are here. I know that when I am doing good unto others, am present in the moment, and have let go of fear and want, I am at my happiest. And I know that when I engage in fear, desire, jealousy, and other negative ego-based activities, I feel pretty fucking shitty. So I'm learning, slowly, to do what makes me feel best. To pursue thoughts and activities that put me in clear lines of communication with the Source. When I view Ego as merely another tool within my reality that can be accessed, used, and put away, not unlike a nice sports jacket, I find balance within the world. That very Ego just gave me the will to run an extra thirty minutes because I liked the raw sexual and athletic energy that surged throughout my body, and I knew it to be a healthy thing.<br />
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On that point, I'm really glad that I updated my workout playlist. For some reason, Teddy Pendergrass and Donny Hathaway are much more motivating to me these days than the Clash and House of Pain. I'm none of these things: "Young, Gifted, and Black". I wish I were. But that song sure does help me stretch my legs out and get up that last hill.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/6agBPKX02UM" width="560"></iframe>Pat Buchtahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09033396576622212388noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3383597951409274969.post-29628890956815239932015-02-18T08:24:00.003-08:002015-02-18T08:24:58.311-08:00Long May You Run2014 was a year of ups and downs for me. Once the reality of divorce started to set in, I found myself reeling from a unbelievable sense of loss. Loss of my wife, her family, our friends, our future, our past. It was psychologically devastating to me in ways that even my father's death and my transplant were not. I felt helpless and alone for the first time in many years. I missed her. I began to suffer panic attacks and was unable to sleep through the night for months, afraid that I would again see my wife or her disapproving parents somewhere in my nightly dreamscapes. My financial future changed overnight, and I no longer had the security of privilege that my wife's family afforded. All of a sudden, my world became very small. On a TV Producer's salary I figured that I could no longer afford to own a home or even stay in this insanely expensive town. The reality of divorce was like a waking nightmare for me. I was sure that somehow I would soon wake up and things would be back to what they were before, given that things are much rosier in retrospect. I'm fully aware that I'm talking about a lot of "first world" problems here, and yet my mind was still locked in this pattern nonetheless.<br />
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So, I began to panic. I began to scramble, looking for higher-paying job opportunities, for cheap housing to buy before rates went up again, for anything that would once again give me a feeling of stability and normalcy. Through all this, I was attempting to form a new relationship with someone whom I very much loved and admired. Needless to say, this was not the most peaceful headspace to be in to allow myself to be emotionally available to another.<br />
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My brain simply was not working in a way that I liked. After all that I had been through, had I not earned some levity from the karmic powers-that-be? Weren't things supposed to get easier after I had conquered death and all? Shouldn't this story have a happy ending?<br />
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I had decided that I really, really wanted a certain promotion here at work and I definitely deserved it. I figured this would be the answer to all my current stressors as I would soon have more money and more esteem, something that was long overdue at my age. In my mind, I suppose I have been playing catch-up for all the years spend ill, unable to advance in my career anymore than simply being happy that I was able to get out of bed and show up on any given day.<br />
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After an initial interview, I thought I had the new position in the bag. And then I waited. And waited. I was unable to enjoy much of anything for more than a month, constantly engaged in the mentally exhausting hamster wheel of money/job/real estate search. Winter break came and went, and everyone returned to the office. My anxiety increased as I waited even longer. All the answer to my problems seemed to hinge on this one point that I became myopically fixated upon.<br />
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Finally, I had a second interview. As I drove to the office that day, I prayed to God to give me what I needed. I reasoned that this would be the only answer to my many problems. I knew that my happiness was directly tied to me getting what I wanted. And then, the answer came: I didn't get it. And that was that.<br />
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A thousand new questions now added more static to my already-overloaded brain. What's next? How should I react? And when? Something had to give.<br />
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On the drive home I thought, "God, I really want a drink. I need a fucking drink." And many years ago, I would have done exactly that. I could point my car down the street, find the most suitable watering hole, and sit on a barstool until I was able to think of something else but my own trouble. And that would work until it didn't. Which, for me, was pretty much every time that I tried to convince myself that alcohol was a friend to me; that alcohol, in my own sick mentality at the time, would aid my genetic disease in speeding up the inevitable process of killing my liver. But instead of ever relieving my stress, alcohol only served to give me even more. I was not built like my friends who could drink. And somehow, I had become the worst drunk of them all. This is perhaps the hardest subject for me to write about, as my owns struggles with alcohol addiction are not too far behind in my rearview mirror. I did not like the person I had become, and I sought help when I no longer was able to make healthy choices on my own.<br />
<br />
Thankfully, I'm a little wiser now (I'd like to think) and I knew now that I was simply caught within a mental loop filled with destructive energy. It was going to get out one was or another, and it was up to me to decide which way I would direct it.<br />
<br />
I had been going to my new gym for a little over a week now. A foot injury earlier in the summer had sidelined me for doing much walking for the rest of 2014. As a result, I had grown chubby, tired and anxious. This was not where I wanted to be physically, especially after everything I had been through. I got on the treadmill and set the course for a "weight loss" program, and added an extra five pounds onto my own for good measure. I began moving. The first solid run up a hill was somewhat of a shock to my system: An expected one, but one that caused all those old voices to pop up in my head. What if I pass out? What if I embarrass myself in front of all these people? Then, I remembered that encountered pretty much every type of embarrassing scenario before, when I was really sick, and nothing that happened here today would ever compare. And a funny thing happened while I was working through all these thoughts: My legs just kept going. Faster and faster. Steeper and steeper. Still, I kept moving. As the pace increased, I felt the need to straighten my spine and relieve the stress of hunching over into the sullen position of defeat I had grown accustomed to. I laid back into my own frame and began to appreciate the easy grace of having a long torso and legs. The endorphins began to take over, wiping out any trace of unease that I had previously harbored about my own endurance. Had I so quickly forgotten that I'm the toughest motherfucker around? I may not be the strongest or fastest, by I truly don't know anyone who has endured more physical pain for a longer and more concentrated period of time than me. As I continued along, I felt a storm of mental energies come back with more force and focus than in many months, almost immediately making a clean sweep through the darkest and most oppressive thought patterns I held so tightly to.<br />
<br />
Ten minutes in, I began to think back to my prayers earlier that day. I think I was beginning to understand that what I wanted for my own ego and what God (my highest self) wanted for me may have been two very different things. I knew that I was still here for a purpose, and that purpose is to serve mankind in the way I know best. Would I best serve mankind by helping others through continued efforts in my non-profit foundation and through my writing, while adopting a Zen attitude about the daily work that I do to pay the bills? Or, would I best serve mankind by going down the hall to a new job with an entirely new set of responsibilities and stresses? The choice seemed pretty clear.<br />
<br />
Thirteen minutes in, I began to understand that my brain had been stuck in a very unhealthy pattern of thinking lately. I began to realize that I've missed out on a lot of good things happening right in front of my face while I worry about the future. And in that moment, I made a conscious choice to turn the "happy" switch back on that had been missing for many months. I use the term "happy" as a substitute, in fact, for simply "being present in the moment." Being free from past and future anxiety, worry, guilt, regret, plans. Anything that did not have to do with being aware of my legs running beneath me did not concern me. Anything that was not entirely focused on breathing deeply as I ran harder was of no concern to me.<br />
<br />
Seventeen minutes in, I used to think that my writing would only work if I were able to build to some point of epiphany, and then stop. I thought that when I received my transplant, and the subsequent enlightenment that followed, I would simply exist in a permanent state of bliss. I could write about all the wonderful wisdom and insights gleaned from my experience facing death, and living to tell about it. And I would simply pontificate this knowledge unto those needing of it. I realize now that this is complete and utter bullshit. While trying to remind myself that what I experienced is singular and important, I now understand that the real gift that I can give back is in processing the real struggles of daily life through my unique perspective.<br />
<br />
Nineteen minutes in, I began to feel loose, light, and childlike as a playful spring in my step began to sync with the music in my ears. I began to mediate on the concept of running: As children, our most basic instinct when we feel fear is to run away. As we grow older, this seems less like a solution to our problems and we seek other forms of stress relief; often very unhealthy ones. Whereas years ago I would have run to the nearest bar, I now felt in touch with a more pure, innocent, and primal instinct to simply run away until my anxiety was gone.<br />
<br />
Thirty minutes in and my head was clear for the first time in months. I went back two days later and the same course seemed much more difficult. I remembered how much my father loved running. At about age 8 my dad would take me running with him in the evenings through the neighborhood near our home. I never could say that I really enjoyed it very much, but I could see that my dad really did. My dad also suffered from Polio as a kid and was unable to walk for awhile. He lost a muscle in his leg and spent the rest of his life compensating for the deficiency by becoming the most active, healthy guy out of all the Waco grown-ups that I knew.<br />
<br />
I didn't get it until many years later, as I lay paralyzed from the waist down due to fluid buildup and internal hemorrhaging, I dreamed of having my legs back. I longed for the simple feeling of freedom that my long stride would deliver. I wanted to break away from this prison that my own body had confined me in, and run as far away from my world as I could.I could literally feel the surge of spirit rushing through my legs, looking for an outlet, with nowhere to escape.<br />
<br />
As I ran the course for the second time that week, my legs seemed heavier. A million thoughts ran through my mind, and I realized that some strange feeling of fear was holding me back. I thought of my dad, running. I imagined myself as a child, running to him, unafraid and full of love. I remembered a time once, long ago: I believe we were at the Galleria in Houston, on the top floor. A balloon lingered atop the ceiling. My dad lifted me up to reach for it, but I began to scream in terror when I saw the people many floors below. He smiled. I could feel his strong hands around my small frame as he handed me over to mom. Then, he reached up and grabbed the balloon and handed it to me.<br />
<br />
Just as this memory was crossing my mind and I was losing myself in the run I focused my vision once again ahead of me. There, at the end of the gym, was a black balloon, slowly bouncing up and down, tied to the end of an elliptical bike. I blinked to make sure it was really there. I focused intently on the object as I imagined myself as a child again, running across the green fields at home into my father's arms. All of a sudden, I felt safe for perhaps the first time in years within my own body.<br />
<br />
Last night, I went again, and doubled my time, resulting in the longest run of my adult life. I think I'll keep it up.<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/XIk1O8l2czk" width="420"></iframe>Pat Buchtahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09033396576622212388noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3383597951409274969.post-87529364575411999612014-09-07T14:06:00.001-07:002014-09-07T19:35:49.256-07:00What's the Plan? Or, Is It Not Enough to Just Keep Breathing?Dying is easy; It's living that's a challenge. A recent conversation with good friends put me on the spot in a way that I had not anticipated, and I'm grateful that it offered a different perspective of the path that I'm on. They asked: What was I doing with my life? Why won't I get a new job and try to make more money and advance in my career? Why won't I start doing all the things I say that I should do, and live up to the goals I've set for myself? Haven't you had enough time to heal, or is that a crutch and a cop-out? These are all valid questions, and rather than choosing to be hurt or offended, I saw it as a chance to answer those questions to myself. I love my friends and I've grateful that they care enough about me to challenge me with such counterpoint.<br />
<br />
What am I doing with my life? Well, to plainly put it, I AM still healing. I am still adjusting to being alive at all. And to be honest, I haven't quite come back to this reality and I probably never will completely. After hovering for weeks over the gaping abyss of death, only to be pulled back in at the last possible second, I find that this temporal world we've built up around our souls to be nothing more that an educational workbook. A landscape that God has painted for himself to experience through each one of his senses, as every living creature serves as a receptor to the source. To imply that God and man are separate is a delusion. We are all but nodes of the one source, experiencing and processing information all in one instant. We ARE Gnosis. And, to acknowledge this connection is the most beautiful recognition of the love that pervades existence. "We" are not alone, because there is no "we". Only the one true God.<br />
<br />
That said, what we put into this life is indeed what we get out of it. I treat each soul I encounter along the way with kindness, patience, and understanding. I really do. If there's one positive thing I can say about myself, it's that. I try to be open to what life has to teach me. I give of my time and energy to help others through volunteer causes that I believe in. And I know that I'm still here because I do have things to do. And I know what those things are. But I haven't quite landed yet. It's not just as easy as getting out of a hospital bed and deciding you can conquer the world. I certainly thought so then. The enlightened samadhi state one achieves while dying, and the raw chemical rush of vitality one experiences after beating death are merely temporary. I didn't know that then, and I thought that energy could sustain me. But almost immediately, life started to happen again. My wife needed a change from her role as constant caregiver. She saw me through my very worst, and was ready for a less grim existence. And who can blame her? I love her no less. But life since transplant has been ever-changing. The world has not slowed down one bit, when all I needed to do was heal for a moment. Divorce, moving, dealing with family and financial crises have rendered me sufficiently breathless. So forgive me if I take a moment, just a moment, to slow down and heal myself, both physically and psychologically. The war I've been through was traumatizing, and I haven't quite come home yet.<br />
<br />
On to the next question: Career. To answer this, a bit of context. The town that I moved to was a much slower place, a place where one could make a good day's wage, live comfortably and enjoy the ruggedly beautiful oasis that we called Austin. This is NOT meant to be another "Things were better when the Armadillo was here..." statement. This is simply to say that I've seen the mindset of this town change. Even my closest friends are hypnotized by dollar signs as they look to profit off of this city's growth, which is completely understandable. Good for you if you got in while the getting was good. But the climate of "grab it while you still can" has left many of us out in the cold with a bitter taste in our mouths. The air of constant competition is akin to watching ants scurry to the top of a mound, jockeying for the best real estate, as the mound itself is surrounding by rising water. In Austin's case, oddly enough, it'll be the opposite problem.<br />
<br />
Is it not enough, at least for awhile, to enjoy one's work? To exist in the moment and adopt the Zen Buddhist koan of meditation through work? I will have been at KVUE for eight years in October. When I first got the job, I told myself it was a temporary solution as I looked for other work. As my illness progressed, it became a buoy as I struggled to stay afloat. And throughout eight years, it has been the one consistent thing in my life where I know I can get up, go to work, be greeted by good friends, and do something that I really enjoy doing and that I believe provides a valuable service to the community we live in. I make just enough money to live a comfortable lifestyle, travel, and put a little money away for the future. I could work harder to get access to better stuff. To have access to more grand surroundings. But guess what? I've been there. I've had all that. I've been around wealth and luxury for much of my life. And I've never seen it make anyone happier. Not one damn time.<br />
<br />
About a year ago I panicked with the prospect of impending divorce. With a changing financial situation, I figured I'd better hurry and start looking for a better paying job. And then something happened. I really, really started enjoying my work. With so much loss and change in my life, I started to come to work every day and feel true gratitude for the wonderful family I work with. These people care deeply about me, as I them. And we care about the work that we do, and love doing it.<br />
<br />
Many ask what I actually do with KVUE. That's kind of a tough one to answer, as my position is one that is constantly changing and morphing as the way people consume media changes as well. News no longer exists solely on television. To say that it is a dying media would be inaccurate. It is simply evolving, as synthesis will soon occur to fuse it with the social sphere. My job is to get KVUE ahead of that wave. To be on the very forefront of that change. And my co-workers have trusted me to produce the content that will lead us there. It's creatively challenging on every level. And I really, really love it. Perhaps someday I will look for another job. Or perhaps I will see where this evolving position leads me. Either way, I'm where I need to be right at this moment, and I'm with the people I need to be with.<br />
<br />
This may all sound like a justification. I suppose it is. But it's also a chance for me to check in and assess where I am in this moment in time. And where I am is fine. I'm okay. I just need five minutes.<br />
<br />
This old image of one of my faves, Nick Drake, sums it up pretty well:<br />
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Do you feel like a remnant<br />
Of something that’s past?<br />
Do you find things are moving <br />
Just a little too fast? </div>
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Thanks for reading, and for joining me on this journey. Love to you all.<br />
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Until God say different, I'm still:<br />
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Pat Buchta<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/ze5Bktb2jiQ" width="420"></iframe>Pat Buchtahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09033396576622212388noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3383597951409274969.post-15682264787491223282014-06-30T14:42:00.005-07:002014-06-30T14:44:40.935-07:00Finding That Which Was Lost at Marlin MarinaSummer of 1976: I remember vacationing at my Great Aunt and Uncle's beach house at the Marlin Marina in Freeport, Texas. The big movie that summer was "King Kong" and I remember enthusiastically coloring a poster of the mammoth icon atop the Empire State Building while munching on Jiffy Pop. Each morning I and my brother and sis would walk the sandy block down to Addie Marlin's place, also known as the Marlin Marina restaurant. Addie would serve up cokes and ice cream as we sat on the deck, dunking our chicken legs on a string into the murky water in hopes of retrieving a few crabs for dinner. Long before the Dow Chemical Corporation took hold of the region and effectively killed off most of the local sea life, we enjoyed a successful haul most days, consisting of three or four tasty crabs each.<br />
<br />
I remember the evening of the bicentennial quite clearly. As I walked to Addie's for a coke, a group of boys that I had seen around beckoned me in to play with some cool new toy they had procured. A kid with sandy hair and glasses enthusiastically greeted me and ushered me in to play. I had seen him before and believed him to be Addie's kid. We played and had a wonderful summer eve watching the fireworks as the cool salty breeze came in from the Gulf. The moment etched itself into my memory as the nation celebrated two hundred years of freedom. And that summer, I felt very free indeed.<br />
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Just a few months later, at the Texas Children's Hospital in Houston, I had my first liver biopsy. I remember the doctors gave me a butt-shot to put me to sleep before the procedure. It did not work as thought, so in an effort to stay on schedule they proceeded with the procedure anyway. I have a very vivid and horrific memory of these men holding me down to a table as they removed what appeared to be a small vienna sausage form my abdomen. It was indescribably painful. The trauma of seeing part of my body removed while awake effectively ended my innocence at that very moment and set me on the very journey that continued until very recently. Of course, in grand fashion, the medicine finally worked after the surgery and I slept for sixteen hours. Afterwards my Uncle Howie took me to Red Lobster and let me pick out my very own crustacean friend to take home.<br />
<br />
In the following months, my first major surgery. I spent two more months recovering in that hospital as my body adjusted to life without a spleen. I went on to have a normal and happy childhood, albeit an unhealthy one. I conquered every challenge I took on. I became the Student Council President, was voted Prom King and Mr. WHS, and received scores of scholarships and awards. In college, my illness manifested itself once again as I found myself coughing up blood one morning. I died. I came back. I traveled. I married. I traveled more. I fell ill again. I watched as a head injury slowly and violently took my father from us. I found God again. I received the gift of life through a liver transplant. A month later, my elation at having overcome death ended as my wife asked for a divorce. I grieved. I mourned the loss in my life. And I found love again. But the tragedy, the deepening sadness, the knowledge that I was forever scarred by life, still sat heavy with me these past months.<br />
<br />
During all this time, my Uncle Howie, a WWII submarine vet, had been living his life in the same place all these years. He had lost my Aunt Edith over ten years ago, and now approaching 90, he had settled in to a quiet life in Lake Jackson with his dog Ebby. After my dad's passing, my mom began to spend more time with the man who had raised her as his own when her own father passed at age thirty, coughing up blood just as I had many years later. She stayed with Howie for months on end, and last summer I visited once again as we all journeyed down to Quintana Beach to catch a bevy of Whiting for a quick shore lunch. <br />
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We went once again to the Addie's and I was amazed that after all this time, it was still in operation. Addie, now 87, was still in the kitchen cooking up burgers and fries as she had done for the past 60+ years. The sandy haired kid with glasses, her son, now my age, waited on us.<br />
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We returned to Addie's this weekend. She's still there, older and more tired, as she regaled us with tales of drunken patrons from the previous weekend. I surveyed the old bar and thought of the thousands of tales of old salty longshoremen and oil riggers who must have sat on those barstools, gazing down at the formica bar, drunk on cold beer, as the salt air of the bay whipped in behind their backs. <br />
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I though back to the innocent child that still looked at the world with wonder and trust that Fourth of July evening almost exactly thirty-seven years ago. As Mom, Howie, Meg and I sat on the edge of the dock after lunch, dangling our toes in the water once again, I thought of all the places I've seen and all the people I've been. <br />
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All the loss, pain, sorrow, and joy I've experienced in my life. And throughout it all, this place was here all the time, playing host to thousands of other memories, other lives, other heartbreaks and tragedies, other loves, other triumphs and other letdowns. And that is a very comforting thought indeed.<br />
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<br />Pat Buchtahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09033396576622212388noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3383597951409274969.post-5395238013768112812014-03-25T11:59:00.000-07:002014-03-25T12:07:25.941-07:00Bookends<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I awoke in the wee hours of Sunday morning. Fumbling through the darkness, I showered and dressed and made my way to my car in the windy, cold morning. I arrived at the station early, in time to brew a cup of coffee before I sat down to my second television interview of the week. <a href="http://kvue.tv/1dKJEA1">http://kvue.tv/1dKJEA1</a><br />
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Although the studio lights were blinding at that early hour, I could see the tears form in Jade's eyes as she recalled talking to my surgeon two years before and learning then that I had only hours to live when my gift of life came through. <a href="http://kvue.tv/1ljPHTS">http://kvue.tv/1ljPHTS</a><br />
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Sunday marked exactly two years since my life-saving liver transplant. In that time, I have grown healthy for the first time in my life, launched a nonprofit to help increase organ donor registration, lost my marriage to the trauma that ripped through our lives like a wildfire out of control, and have started to reassemble the broken pieces of my former life into a new one.<br />
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Later that day, I celebrated my second birthday in the best way possible: with organ donor families and recipients who had come together to share their stories, mourn their losses, and rejoice in the gift of life. I watched as a mother grieved the loss of her twenty four year old son and celebrated the life of the young woman who received his liver. I watched as that same young woman, whom I had met during recovery at Baylor Medical in Dallas, tearfully thanked her donor family for saving her life. I rejoiced as the Mayor Pro Tem announced a city resolution to promote organ donation that will be on council agenda this very week. And finally, I humbly stood as a room full of gentle souls applauded my life and my work, marking my transplant anniversary as a true milestone.<br />
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The next day, I awoke anxious and tired. I could not put a finger on what was eating me, but I felt restless and unsatisfied. For the first time in months, I had no obligations looming on my calendar. I had steered my department through a very successful promotions campaigns during the Oscars. I had served as project lead on KVUE's media tent during a three-day outdoor music festival at Butler Park during SXSW. And now, just a week later, I had finished an emotional event to help save lives. So why was I so wound up? I arrived at home after work and immediately crawled into bed. Within minutes, I decided I had better shake this feeling off with some physical exercise, and went for a long walk. I arrived back at home later and felt physically better, but mentally I was even more upset than before, as if getting my blood circulating had only agitated this growing feeling of malaise surrounding me.<br />
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And then it happened. The bookend to years and years of unbelievable sorrow, anguish, misfortune, pain, and loss. For the very first time since before transplant, I broke. I wept uncontrollably for what seemed like an eternity. My body shook as all the trauma of what I had experienced finally caught up with me, feeling more real that ever before. I wept for the loss of my innocence. I wept for the loss of my father for the first time, an emotion I had not had time to process since his death was followed almost immediately by my own demise. I wept for the loss of my wife and her family, who had been by my side throughout the most difficult time in my life, knowing that I would never see many of them again, or experience the calm of knowing that I had a strong family support system to take care of me if all else failed. I wept in recognizance of the fact that I had been to war, and although I had won my life, the resulting casualties would make that victory seem much less sweet. And I wept lastly because it's over now. Because finally, my feet have landed. I'm going to be okay. And I have absolutely no idea what comes next.<br />
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Today the sun shone brightly as I rose. Today music sounded more rich, with more promise, than ever before. Today, I begin.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/zsb_kYq1iOQ" width="560"></iframe>Pat Buchtahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09033396576622212388noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3383597951409274969.post-26187199666450268652014-02-10T12:30:00.000-08:002014-02-10T12:32:48.459-08:00The Winter of Our DiscontentFrom my loft bedroom view, I can see sunshine starts to creep in outside my window, saturating the walkway and grass with light and color. This is the first time in weeks I've seen as much of it. The winter has come, settled in, made its mark, and killed off any semblance of my former life that I once knew.<br />
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Synthesis. That' what I'm looking for so desperately in the cold. I'm so anxious to rush back into normalcy, knowing that it is far beyond my reach anywhere in the near future. I remember how to turn that switch on. How to tell myself to be happy and to be present in the now. But I'm just not ready to do that yet. I don't know why. So in the meantime I'm keeping my nose to the ground. Focusing on work and staying very near to home. Most of my closest friends are far from me now, too conflicted about my recent divorce; instead hurrying on with their own lives, plans, vacations, and prosperity. I understand, I tell myself, and try to be patient, hoping for their return. But, then some are more true than ever, there to talk or to just spend time with me. I cherish those connections even more, and hope I can give as much back someday.<br />
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The sun is still inching towards me, reminding me to shut the hell up and breathe in for a moment. To remind me that's it's okay. That although my body may be healthy, I now have to start the process of healing a psyche wrought from an entire lifetime of devastating illness. That it's okay that I lost my wife to the psychological damage that slowly rips through a marriage like the constant flow of water into the growing cracks of a rocky foundation. That it's okay to mourn the loss of a future together, to feel guilt in my life and then let go of it, and even to learn to love again.<br />
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Good morning, Mr. Sun, and thanks for reaching out today. But I need to stay in the shadows for a little while longer. <br />
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I talk about the loss of friendship and fail to mention that there are so, so many kind, wonderful people in my life who are compassionate and supportive, without me asking. Some longtime friends, some mere acquaintances, some even strangers. I am pleasantly surprised that one such friend whom I met through Yoga class recognized my pain and offered her Reiki services to me, non gratis. The experience was challenging enough at first... I was in a great deal of physical pain from a recent shoulder injury, having now spread to my other shoulder and spine. I was sick from a week and a half of lingering cold and developing bronchitis. I was not ready to give up my pain so easily. And yet once Janie's healing hands were laid upon me, I began to feel an extreme, burning heat grow in waves throughout my body. I slipped into a deep meditation, as my thoughts began to drift inward. I became very conscious of my current self as opposed to my highest self. What did I see there that was good, and what did I not want to carry over into my new life? I took note of these thoughts and moved along down the stream into my own consciousness. My thought drifted to the notion of kindness. I wondered what I had done to deserve this healing treatment. I felt sad that so many suffering could use these healing hands much more than myself. Why was I given such a gift? I was overcome once again with compassion and love for mankind, despite feeling so distantly removed from them all at the current time. Love once again becomes my most prevalent emotion, my light guiding me out of the darkness of my own shell-shocked soul. Will it win? I sure hope so.<br />
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I am in the beginnings of a new relationship with someone I very much love and admire. I am eager to find our footing and join each other on this journey. And yet I regret that I have been unable to fully be present when I am with her. I really, really think she's worth it so I want to try.<br />
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It's been a long, cold, lonely winter... You know what comes next. I'm going to get up, get going once again, and get outside and enjoy the day for awhile. Okay Mr. Sun, you win again.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/C65p3oons98" width="420"></iframe><br />Pat Buchtahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09033396576622212388noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3383597951409274969.post-39377657930118924462013-11-12T21:07:00.002-08:002013-11-12T22:04:50.265-08:00Please Don't Tell Me How the Story EndsWhere do I begin? More, where do I end? Sometimes the story that should have ended so perfectly continues and becomes real life. After a tumultuous number of years, I can almost see the ground from here. My feet aren't quite on it yet, but I have the excitement that I'm about to land soon.<br />
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There are some things too sacred to share with even a forum such as this, where I have always tried to be my most honest. I will not talk about divorce. I will say that I have so much love for the person who helped me get through thirteen years of a devastating diagnosis that came just months after we were married. In the end, we were both so beaten down by the circumstances of my illness that our marriage could not survive it. I am beginning to learn that many do not.<br />
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I am trying my best not to look upon this as failure after having finally made it across the finish line. Rather, we are a casualty of a war hard fought. We survived, but could never return to the way things were before. It was God's plan for someone to die so that I may live. But it was not God's plan that our marriage would survive. I couldn't have everything I wanted. That's not the way this works.<br />
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I have been silent all summer long, yearning to share my thoughts and feelings, knowing that now I feel a responsibility to give of the gift of experience that I have been given. But I need to begin to reconnect. I can't hide forever.<br />
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I have awoken energized and alive. I have rested. I have relaxed. I have indulged. I have enjoyed a new body and a new life. I have seen the sea three times. I have gone out. I have stayed in. I have felt loneliness. I have wept. I have prayed. I have lost. <br />
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And throughout it all, I find remnants of the enlightenment that I found while I lay days from dying. It's that peace that I remember, and seek to find in my new life. I feel an overwhelming sense of love and gratitude to everyone I meet. I have lost the ability to become angry with people. I have no interest in anything that does not involve love, learning, art, evolution, and Godliness at this point. I find that I look at people arguing over politics, religion, current events, and consumerism and I simply have the loving acceptance that a parent might have for a sleepy, grumpy kid. There's a bigger picture to it all, and one that requires love to step back enough from the noisy diorama and see the small beautiful world for what it is. Sad, yes. Oppressive, yes. Difficult, yes. But so, so beautiful. And we can make it even better if we are conscious of love in every moment. When looking a stranger in the eye across the gas pump, at the homeless camp on the corner, at the guy cleaning your dinner table, at the old lady giving you a dirty look as she pulls out in front of you. Smile. Brighten someone's day every chance you get.<br />
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I don't want to focus on myself and my problems tonight. It is all very transitory, and I do know now that suffering is only an illusion and that my soul is eternal. I may have witnessed hardship and I certainly will again. But I also know that I already have all the answers. I just have to remember what they are. With time, wounds will heal. Tears will dry. Spring will bring new life, new love, new hope. But for now, the winter is here, and that's okay too. If you need me, I'll be on the nightshift just a little while longer.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/FrkEDe6Ljqs" width="420"></iframe>Pat Buchtahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09033396576622212388noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3383597951409274969.post-5284474361884660672013-06-18T10:34:00.003-07:002013-06-18T11:11:35.488-07:00"I Was So Much Older Then; I'm Younger Than That Now."<br />
The second life, the resurrected one, looks on the surface to be somewhat similar to the first. And yet at its core things are fundamentally different. It is through the synthesis of the old personality structure with new wisdom that we are able to achieve full metamorphosis in this new capsule.<br />
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Now a year removed from my previous life (and I say this emphatically, coming as close to receiving a new body as possible while keeping my spirit intact) I am finally beginning to breathe a little, relax, and let go of the troubled past years that led to the demise of my first self. I've enjoyed many months of living in a now healthy physical body, one that now responds when I ask it to perform, one that is now growing strong in musculature and vitality. I've enjoyed many months of rest, taking the time to free myself of stressful obligations as my body and spirit recovered from last year's trauma. I've enjoyed the lightness of being that I now experience daily... I'm not sure if this is because I just found out that they took my gallbladder out with my old liver, in addition to my spleen at age six. But I feel lighter.<br />
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And where do I find myself now? Wiser, more cautious, more confident, more comfortable in my own skin. Better at listening and looking at the world around me. Quicker at acting when I need to act. And yet, I'm well aware that I'm still not quite here in the present moment. Not quite able to laugh so freely or to enjoy the world around me just yet. I'm happy enough, to be sure, but I feel removed from the people and life happening around me.<br />
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I recently went to a Shamanic Journey group on the suggestion of a friend, seeking answers. After the guided meditation I sat and listened as people shared stories of seeing wolves and eagles and shit talking to them. I certainly didn't see anything like that, so I simply shared my story... that I learned how to die last year, letting go of my attachment to this world and facing God without fear or consequence, naked and pure and ready to meet my death proudly. But I didn't die. And now, I'm having a hard time learning how to live again. It was suggested to me by the group leader that I may benefit from a "soul retrieval". In a sense, he explained, my soul left my body as I was dying, already preparing for the next phase as my body was shutting down with only hours left to live. When, at the last minute, I was saved, much of my soul came back into my body. But much of it remains, it seems, in the state between life and death. It certainly makes sense to me, and would explain much of why I feel so removed from the world still, as if I'm looking in from the outside.<br />
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Don't get me wrong... I'm very much present in the day-to-day, and am still committed to my cause of raising organ donor registration through my foundation, <a href="http://patspromise.org/">patspromise.org</a>. I'm as active as I ever was, maybe more so with my new health, in civic and social matters. But I still can't help but feel as if I'm a ghost who is able to direct a body to and fro and make lips move... not fully seated in my vessel just yet.<br />
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As well, I find myself living alone for the first time in many, many years. I've tried to be as open and truthful on this blog about every aspect of my life as I could, and this is perhaps the hardest one to publicly talk about yet. So forgive me if I go into little detail other than to say it's been a very friendly, loving and amicable decision to begin our separate journeys. After many years of putting issues on hold as I grew sicker, we now both have the power and strength to continue along our paths.<br />
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I'm settling in after two weeks to a small bungalow in the Travis Heights neighborhood off of South Congress. I've brought along no tv (don't tell KVUE!), just musical instruments and books. I hope to spend my solitude writing, as I committed to last year when I lay recovering. I pledge to rediscover my humor and continue to improve my body, mind, and spirit in hopes that I can give something positive back to the world someday.<br />
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So, in a sense, I feel much like I've become a monk, spending long periods in solitude and utter silence and I get used to my new surroundings. Minus the beer, wine, and bald head.<br />
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Is this new life any easier than the one previous? Certainly anything but. In fact, I no longer have illness to hide behind as an excuse from participating in life's ups and downs. But for the first time in years, I have hope. And that's something new entirely. <br />
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The below song is a sampling from a recent indulgence... I've been spending my Sunday nights at the 9pm Compline Mass at St. Louis Church on Burnet. Held in a beautiful old candlelit chapel, a male chorus enters the impossible tall chamber and delivers a transcendent Gregorian chant for forty or so minutes. The attendee's only job is to meditate and pray. Like Yoga, this has become the best and most spiritually fulfilling part of my week. Traditionally, I've never been able to find much peace in within the walls of the church. But this experience is something else entirely, like a shot of straight illumination mainlined to the soul.<br />
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This week, on father's day, I was fortunate enough to have been joined by two friends, one of whom like me had lost her father a few years hence. A pretty tough cookie, this was my first time to see her actually break down and shed some tears during one of the more glorious songs, which actually made me feel validated for opening myself up and bringing them into this sacred space with me. I hope that soon I'll find the opportunity to do the same and let the tears flow to wash away these recent years of pain. One of my dearest friends said it best... that water is the only element that can change form, and that in this, tears are our way of shedding pain and letting it pass from liquid to vapor, like drops of rain in the summer sun.<br />
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<br />Pat Buchtahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09033396576622212388noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3383597951409274969.post-11082329446881824492013-03-08T13:45:00.001-08:002013-03-08T14:01:04.462-08:00One Year<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It's hard to believe. This time last year, I was laying on a table, holding my nurse's hand, as a very large needle was used to fill up five or more gallons jugs with fluid that had accumulated (quite uncomfortably) in my abdomen. I remember thinking how disgusting the whole process was. I remember thinking that I wanted the nurse to shut the hell up about her daughter's cold as she went on and on for the entirety of the procedure. Let me have my moment, lady! <br />
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That was a year ago today. I had to be wheeled into and out of the clinic in Dallas, as I was mostly unable to walk any longer, with any last spark of energy having left my body weeks before. It was the end of my second week with no sleep. I know this sounds impossible and completely crazy, but I literally did not sleep for one month preceding the transplant. It just wasn't possible any longer. Try as I might, it wouldn't happen. A glass of milk, a late night-snack, nothing worked. Nothing.<br />
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This began two weeks previous after I went to my friend Amy's birthday feeling quite unwell. I still managed to drag myself to work each day, but I could scarcely fit my feet into my shoes anymore or put on pants due to the fluid. Little did I know when I left work that Friday that it would be my last day for over four months.<br />
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I left Amy's party that evening early, feeling worse than usual, with an impending sense of dread creeping in around the edges. My MELD score was about 26 at the time, much higher than the level at which many people receive transplantation. I had not gone to the bathroom all week, but I continued to have an insatiable desire to ingest as much candy as possible. By Monday morning, after a torrid weekend of pain and restless nights, Amanda and I decided to drive to Scott and White Hospital in Temple and admit me to the Emergency Room. As suspected, everything was off. All my liver enzyme levels were off the charts, as was my white blood cell count. After several days of laying in the hospital bed, I began to realize that I would not be going home anytime soon. We didn't know when the transplant would come, and the thought of moving to Dallas to be closer to Baylor was incomprehensible. And yet, I knew now that this was no longer a manageable situation. With a drive of four hours from our home in Austin to Baylor Medical in downtown Dallas in good traffic, I knew it would be a race against the clock to get there in the six-hour time limit that an organ can be transplanted from donor to recipient before it goes bad.<br />
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The stress of the moment weighed on my mind like a mountain, and in my weakened state seemed to to be all-encompassing. It was not merely my impending death that I was worried about. It was just EVERYTHING. I wanted to go home. To get better again. To live a normal life for a little while. But I also was ready to get this all over with. To no longer have the sick feeling of dread that I could never shake, knowing that some larger-than-life eventuality that I could never plan for or schedule would catch up to me at some point. <br />
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And then, like a thief in the night, the call came. I reached through the tangle of IV tubes to answer the phone ringing beside my bed. A woman on the other end of the line excitedly told me that she was with Baylor and that a donor liver had become available and that they could transplant me tonight, if I chose to accept. This could not have been more of a surprise to me, as I had no idea I was that high up on the list yet. I thought it could still be months or even years before transplant, and was resigned to my ever-dwindling quality of life. And yet, there she was on the other end of the line, offering me a new life. As shocked as I was, I responded that I was already in the hospital, going downhill fast. She asked to speak to my doctor on call, and over the course of the next hour the two made arrangements for me to be transported by ambulance and I prepared myself. I called in my mother and Amanda and her parents, who had come down to check in on me. I sent a note out on Facebook:<br />
<br />
<span class="userContent">Just got the call. I'm on my way up to get my
liver transplant. Pray for me tonight, my friends, and be good to each
other. I'll see you on the other side! Love.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent">Shocked replies and hasty well-wishes began streaming in. The outpouring of love was immense, and helped me strengthen my resolve.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent">Unfortunately, this was not to be the case for me. I was simply too sick to accept the organ, as the transplant would have killed me. This was by far the most devastating news I could have heard. To have gotten my hopes so high, to have been overcome with the tidal wave of emotion that the good news brought... only to have all those hopes dashed with the news that I was now ineligible to get a chance to live. What did this mean? Would I get better? Or would I die before I could get a second shot? </span><br />
<span class="userContent"><br /></span>
<span class="userContent">I was stabilized enough to be transferred to Baylor. We made camp at Amanda's parents farm in Rockwall, about thirty or so miles east of Downtown Dallas. I made calls my close friends that day, essentially said my goodbyes, and waited. The next morning, Amanda and her mom made a run back to Austin for dogs, clothes, and supplies in what we thought may prove to be an extended stay with her parents. </span><br />
<span class="userContent"><br /></span>
<span class="userContent">By this point, with no sleep for a week, I was beginning to hallucinate, and could no longer tell the difference between dream and reality, essentially stuck in the instant between slumber and waking. Every little thing took on a very surreal and very symbolic importance. Little things meant everything. Flowers spoke to me; faces in magazines implored me, searching for the truth behind death, just a I had done gazing into my father's eyes just moments after he had passed only a year prior. </span><br />
<span class="userContent"><br /></span>
<span class="userContent">I lay in bed, thinking that if I got the call tonight there would be little I could do. Alone with Amanda's dad out there on the farm, and he could barely move much better than myself after two hip replacements. So I lost myself in the television, and began to complete my weeklong journey with "The Godfather" saga on AMC, settling in for Part III that evening. As I watched Michael suffer for his sins and ultimately find repenatance, I thought of my own soul and its worthiness in eternity. Of course, I didn't believe in a Heaven and Hell reality, right? Just the boundless love and potential of pure energy in the universe. The rest of my Catholic upbringing was all bullshit, right? No sooner did I begin to have these thoughts when an ill-timed call from my mother came in suggesting I get my last rites delivered as soon as possible "just in case". Oh fuck. I began to freak out, so I called my friend Sam, a Gnostic minister. I was not looking for the answer he gave me, which was "If you feel like you should, then I guess you probably should!" Frantically, I called the local Catholic church to see if a priest could come out to the house or at lease get on the phone and absolve me of the last thirty or so years of sin (had not been to confession since 7th grade. You can only imagine how much bad stuff I've done since, if you didn't already know.) I managed to have the receptionist patch me through to the priest on call, who sounded as if he was in a loud, teen-infested gymnasium. He was, and sounded both confused and put off by my presumptuousness.</span><br />
<span class="userContent"><br /></span>
<span class="userContent">"I'm kinda busy right now. We're having a youth group lockout. Why don't you come in Sunday morning when most people do and we can talk after mass?"</span><br />
<span class="userContent"><br /></span>
<span class="userContent">"Well, I can't really walk anymore and I have to be covered in a bunch of blankets because I can't regulate my body temperature. I also can't put pants on anymore because my legs are too swollen. And I would have a hard time kneeling because I'm so very bloated and I haven't shit in two weeks. But I may die before then anyway, so I guess it would be kind of a moot point."</span><br />
<span class="userContent"><br /></span>
<span class="userContent">"Yeah, okay. Well, see you Sunday."</span><br />
<span class="userContent"><br /></span>
<span class="userContent">"Right. See you then."</span><br />
<span class="userContent"><br /></span>
<span class="userContent">I finally managed to get through to a Chaplain at Baylor Medical, and told him I would be coming in at some point for a transplant, but I was afraid I may not make it to that point, and could he please deliver last rites for me over the phone before it was too late so that i could be forgiven and my soul would make it to heaven. By this point I was in tears, as you may imagine.</span><br />
<span class="userContent"><br /></span>
<span class="userContent">And in a moment, everything changed. He said of course. I held tightly onto my dad's rosary, the same one that he held just a year before as he passed on, and wept as the words were delivered and my soul was freed from my earthly bonds. In that moment, I let go. I took my hands off the wheel and surrendered. The overwhelming sense of release and peace set in, and I knew that I could now die a free man. The outcome was no longer important to me as I felt physically infused with a pass to eternity, like a lightning bolt from beyond that hit me, shook me to my core, and left me utterly defeated, calmed, and safe in the hands of God.</span><br />
<span class="userContent"><br /></span>
<span class="userContent">I began to slip away into hallucination as the night wore on... followed by "The Godfather" came "The Right Stuff". I was virtually in the capsule as I watched John Glenn fall from the heavens to the earth, bathed in fire as Aboriginal Shamans a hundred miles below sent up prayer and flame to guide his passage safely back down to earth. As the vessel fell apart, I felt my own soul begin to separate from my body, light and free to wander the universe. When "2001: A Space Odyssey" followed on the screen later, I knew I was no longer floating many miles above the earth, but was now on the long, long journey out into the void, and I would not return. Neither asleep nor awake, I was in a trance where the fiction on the massive television screen and my own reality were indiscernible. I floated. And floated. And finally, around 2 a.m., a message from the living came through like a rocket in the night. It was a message from my friend Mark, who had videotaped my friends The Pons playing a dedication to me back in Austin that night. It was a cover of Neil Young's "Harvest" and the words cut right through and brought me safely back down to earth:</span><br />
<span class="userContent"><br /></span>
<br />
Did I see you down<br />
In a young girl's town<br />
With your mother in so much pain?<br />
I was almost there<br />
At the top of the stairs<br />
With her screamin' in the rain.<br />
<br />
Did she wake you up<br />
To tell you that<br />
It was only a change of plan?<br />
Dream up, dream up,<br />
Let me fill your cup<br />
With the promise of a man.<br />
<br />
Did I see you walking with the boys<br />
Though it was not hand in hand?<br />
And was some black face<br />
In a lonely place<br />
When you could understand?<br />
<br />
Did she wake you up<br />
To tell you that<br />
It was only a change of plan?<br />
Dream up, dream up,<br />
Let me fill your cup<br />
With the promise of a man.<br />
<br />
Will I see you give<br />
More than I can take?<br />
Will I only harvest some?<br />
As the days fly past<br />
Will we lose our grasp<br />
Or fuse it in the sun?<br />
<br />
Did she wake you up<br />
To tell you that<br />
It was only a change of plan?<br />
Dream up, dream up,<br />
Let me fill your cup<br />
With the promise of a man.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
The Lenten season, as you may imagine, now holds an even more special significance for me as it encompasses the season of my suffering. I have decided to honor the period through solemn reflection and renewal of my faith. As I continue to adjust to a "normal" life and get lost in the daily grind, I find that it's been easy to become separated from the things I've learned and the illumination that was bestowed upon me. I am, after all, just a man, if still a man initiated and reborn. Life post-transplant has been another set of challenges, to be sure, and I'd be lying if I said it were anything approaching easy. Issues in marriage and other relationships that were put on hold while dealing with illness are now forefront and unavoidable. The ticker-tape parade of excitement has died down, and now I just go to work and come home like everyone else. I look the same as everyone else, and blend in so easily that one would never know what I went through such a short time ago. My body works fantastically, better than I could have ever imagined, as I watch myself get stronger as I put myself through the paces at the gym.<br />
<br />
But the truth is, I'll never be the same as everyone else. I'll always be a little broken. I was sick my entire life, and although I may look well, a part of me died on that table and will never come back. I have walked with death and spoken with the dead. And try as I might, I'll always have one foot on the other side. And I'm okay with that. I know now that's it's a gift; one that I can use in helping others cope with loss, pain, and devastation. One that can bring hope, even when all hope is lost.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span class="userContent">The photo above was taken at my mother's home last week. Most of the old antiques have been sent to auction, and with it the last traces of my father from that place. The land has been cleared for development, erasing the foliage from the peninsula that once played home to a world of childhood wonders hidden in the woods along the surrounding hillside. The endless Gothic hallways and corridors that once felt wondrous and inviting and now cold and dark. On a larger scale, Waco itself felt empty and abandoned, as if I were walking through a dream that I had once dreamed and returned to many years later only to find it greyed and vacant. Most of the people my age had long since moved away, and the old blue-blooded families that still retained a firm grip on any future development were slowly dying on the vine. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent">Finally, I took my mom to St. Mary's Catholic Church downtown, and was saddened but not surprised to find less than twenty people in attendance of the main Sunday morning mass. This was the church that I had served as altar boy in, the church that held hundreds of devoted faithful, most now long dead. The Catholic Church is going through a similar process that I experienced myself... they now have an opportunity to be transformed into a new age, or die clinging to the old. It matters little to me. In the end, only God is eternal, as is man's soul. The church will fall, countries will fall, empires will end. Nothing is forever on this earth. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent">As I was able to bury my memories of the past that weekend and grieve for my father and all the lost possibilities of a home life that I never had and now will never have, I felt reassured in an earlier realization. Life is long. We lives many different lives within the one. But the past is over. And the future is unwritten. Be here now. </span><br />
<span class="userContent"><br /></span>
<span class="userContent">Of course, this is not how you want to start your pre-SXSW weekend! I get that. I'm certainly not here to bum anyone out; just trying to lend a little perspective. While we're here, let's enjoy life's rich pageant! There's music to be heard, art to be seen, conversations to be had, food to be eaten, love to be made. Go out and do it now, for you are here and so, so very alive.</span><br />
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<span class="userContent"> </span>Pat Buchtahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09033396576622212388noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3383597951409274969.post-77591635505801296742013-01-07T15:51:00.000-08:002013-01-07T19:30:59.221-08:00Comedy and Tragedy, and What's More<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I started the New Year in the best way possible, having lunch with my enlightened friend John Langford, who was just about to exit the U.S. for the third and final leg of his now-three year long world tour. We talked of aspirations, goals, and our responsibilities as ones who are now often (puzzlingly enough on my part) seen as leaders and inspiring individuals. We both thought this was silly, and yet are both asked to advise and illuminate friends and strangers quite often nowadays. I suppose this power comes at the end of the mythical Hero's journey, as one is granted the mantle of Secret Knowledge to bring back and heal one's tribe. My journey and transformation, an internal one, was wrought through pain and illness, and the confrontation and conquering of death. John's was the very real journey of travel... going out into the world, opening his heart, mind and spirit to the people within it, and reminding us all that this existence is far greater than any one man's simple problems in life.<br />
<br />
Of course we talked of our New Year's resolutions, and what we hoped this year would bring. <br />
My remark was this: That this year will hold the most beautifully joyous and tragic of times. Great things will happen. Horrible, horrible things will befall us too. But above that, there is what we synthesize and actively put back into the world. We are each in charge of our own destiny. We must open our hearts to life, breathe it all in, and add something to the very idea that existence is worth happening in the first place. Own your joy and your pain, and clear the lines of communication to Pure Potential. I truly believe anyone and everyone is capable of this!<br />
<br />
No sooner had I spoken these words when tragedy did indeed strike at the very heart of our group of friends. Our dear Michael Pungello was given back to God on Saturday evening after a long and valiant battle with cancer, leaving behind his partner of seventeen years, the wonderful and resilient Kevin Smothers. Michael's and my illness were chronologically parallel, and so I'd be lying if I didn't say that I feel guilty for having lived when such a wonderful man was taken away from us. Michael, the same age as I, first learned the devastating news about his cancer at about the same time that my liver disease started to rapidly go downhill, in the fall of 2011. And for some time I was sure that I'd be the first one to go, as I very nearly missed the boat, having received my gift of life with apparently only a few hours left to spare. Michael and Kevin's struggle was much more intense and brutal, dealing with what I can only imagine were unthinkable amounts of radiation therapy, chemo, and all the horrors that follow. <br />
<br />
In a way, I now have to see Michael's death as a sacrifice for all of us... to reaffirm who we are, what we are here to do, and to remind each of us to love and cherish each other while we can. Yes, I had a revelatory experience in the spring when I faced God and triumphed over death. Yes, I tend to parade that information around and act as a "brand" for inspiration and hope to others. But to be honest, I've gotten spiritually lazy and complacent over the last months. I remarked in my last blog that I had been climbing a mountain for so many years with my illness, and finally reached the top to find myself on a large plateau. Instead of forging on, I have plopped my now-fat ass down on a beach chair on that plateau to enjoy some first-level heirarchical needs and good ole-fashioned primal pleasures. Having existed in the intellectual and spiritual sphere for so long, it has been refreshing to get to know a now-healthy body for once. And I'm thoroughly enjoying working with my new instrument, going to the gym, and entertaining a voracious appetite. But I get grumpy when I'm not focused on attaining the goals that I set my eyes upon in the spring. I have felt agitated and impatient, and have not been sure why. Now I now that's it's simply because there's no going back for me. I'm not sick anymore, so I don't have to wait any longer to pursue my dreams. And I can turn the switch on and find enlightenment again at any time that I choose. Getting happy. It's truly a choice.<br />
<br />
The last few years read as a laundry list of disasters for me, and through it all, I now see that I chose to greet each tragic turn with laughter and love. As my own health declined and caused unimaginable tidal waves of destruction throughout every aspect of my life, I also watched as my father descended into the horrifically violent madness of having early onset Alzheimer's with a relatively young and healthy body. His decline tore a rift through our family's lives, making it impossible to ever have what most would consider a real "family" ever again. I have tired of becoming the glue that keeps the remaining members together, and have realized that was never my responsibility. But it is heartbreaking nevertheless. Add onto this a home invasion, financial struggle, and many other terrible things that I won't even mention here. Throughout these past years, I kept smiling. Many would ask me why I kept this up, why I kept grinning, why I kept laughing at it all and placed it in perspective. Did I ever have a choice? Would you? I knew that if I broke for even one second, the whole house of cards would come tumbling down. So I held my breath tightly, knowing that illumination would someday be delivered. That there is no dark without light. And, after endless new challenges and years of suffering, I can now bathe in the pure light and enjoy it even more, having fought so hard to arrive.<br />
<br />
So, if anything, I have learned to appreciate what I have and to know how to access the Universe's endless benevolence when I so choose. And after a few months of existing solely in my body, I now find that Michael's sacrifice has found me more focused and on fire than ever before. To love, to synthesize, to love, to teach, to inspire, to love, to create, to love, to live, to love.<br />
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<br />Pat Buchtahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09033396576622212388noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3383597951409274969.post-82221927452706938072012-12-19T14:26:00.002-08:002012-12-19T14:26:36.723-08:00In a Year Our Troubles Will Be Miles Away....<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I posted a clip from "Meet Me in St. Louis" about this time last year, with that now-famous line from "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas." Of course, I did this under the illusion that I was trying to console others for much of the pain and loss they experienced in 2011, but I was really hoping that this would be true for myself. Could I have even hoped that a life without impending death would be a possibility for the first time in many, many years? I prayed and doubted. I held hope as I remained skeptical. And yet I kept telling myself that there's a balance to everything, and that we can only take so much hell before we see the light once again.<br />
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Now, a year later, my life has changed so completely that I often look in the mirror and can't believe it's the same person I'm looking at. And in some ways, it's not. My body, mind and spirit have been transformed in such a manner that I feel alien in my own skin. And I'm enjoying it in the truest sense of that root word, JOY. I feel so viscerally alive that I'm finally able to occupy my energies in the physical plane and enjoy being in my body for the first time since my youth. Weightlifting, running, Yoga... it's all become a new normal for me as I explore what this new instrument is capable of.<br />
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Am I out of the woods yet? Certainly not. I still have to rest a lot more than I'd like, still get sick from the copious amounts of pills I have to ingest each day, and still have to watch how much stress I put on my still-healing midsection. But in contrast to the zombie-like way in which I felt a year ago, my current state of being feels more akin to Superman than poor old Pat B.<br />
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Transformation IS possible. I often talk to people who are disappointed with their lot in life. And I hate to sound like another garden-variety self-help guru, the likes of which I abhor. But I do know that if one is healthy and sets one's mind to it, just about anything is possible. Now I am seeing real results from my efforts in the gym. This never seemed possible before. And yet, I decided to do something and I found the self-discipline to do it. No, I won't start wearing Affliction t-shirts, shave my head, and wrap a pair of Oakleys around the back of it. But I do feel damn sexy, and so light that I want to jump out of my skin in sheer delight of being.<br />
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This is not to say everything is perfect in my world. I have traded an old set of problems for new ones, as we all do, and as my doc said would happen. Both physical and personal, I have new challenges to face that I did not have a year ago.<br />
<br />
In some ways, I have been climbing towards my goal for so long that I could not see or do anything else. Now that that goal has been reached, I find that at the top of that mountain is a very large plateau, and I cannot see to the end of the horizon to determine what is next. This is both exciting and scary, and during the last few months I was filled with a morbid sense of disappointment that that part of the adventure was over. Now I find that this has been replaced by a feeling of opportunity and determination, as I have now had a few months to live my life normally, beginning the process of synthesis.<br />
<br />
I do feel blessed and gifted this holiday season. Someone gave their life so that I may live, and I am thusly reminded again of the true meaning of this season. Now I can only hope to one day do the same through the gift of organ donation, and through my efforts to help others while still on this earth. Yes, there's sadness and pain and loss and indescribable horror in this
world. You all know what I'm talking about. But there's also tremendous joy, and laughter, and beauty and unending love. Our job while we are here is to hold up that light. To create even in the face of destruction. To bring a little sunshine to each other. To bring a smile to the face of a child. That's what Christmas, Hanukkah, and all other celebrations of the holiday season are about at the core. To remind us that it's not only okay to give of ourselves, it's necessary to heal our own scars.<br />
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I have been sick, and I am healed. I have been sleeping, and now I am awake. And like a kid the night before Christmas, I'm too excited to close my eyes. I'm not tired. I'm not.<br />
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Merry Christmas to all!<br />
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Love,<br />
Pat<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/cz5I8_KcN1E" width="420"></iframe><br />Pat Buchtahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09033396576622212388noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3383597951409274969.post-8833812898476063552012-11-22T14:28:00.002-08:002012-11-22T14:34:37.448-08:00Thanksgiving<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I feel compelled to pick up the virtual pen once again on today of all days. It was just a few short months ago that I was teetering on the brink of life and death, unsure of what the next few hours or days would hold for my future. I put my trust in God and fully surrendered to the inevitable, whatever that may hold. And I was delivered. Resurrected, in fact, into a new life and to a new world that had transformed within me.<br />
<br />
So yes, I'm thankful. So much so that it seems almost a weak tribute to write about it here. I want to magically appear before each person who contributed to saving my life and give them a big hug and tell each of them what it meant to me that they carried me when I needed them the most.<br />
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To God, whatever you may choose to believe that is. I've learned from coming face-to-face with the Other that in the end our own feeble definitions of That do not matter. Just know that It is there and there it love and grace for you waiting for you in this universe. All we need do is ask. I will no longer argue the subject of God with people in this life. I've experienced the Truth, and I have no more use for the politics of interpretation in this lifetime. God answered mine and your prayers in a very real and tangible way. Any one that doubts this Real Work is simply misinformed to put it diplomatically.<br />
<br />
My donor. I hope to hear from his family soon, as it pains me to know they must be grieving on this day of all days. I hope to soon tell them how his sacrifice made a difference not only in my life but the lives of so many other who I know care about me, or who I've had a hand in saving indirectly through my Pat's Promise efforts. I want to welcome them into my tribe, which never shrinks but grows larger each day with each new soul I take into my heart.<br />
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My wife. She stood by me patiently as I lay dying, and fought every fight for me until the battle was won. She was brave and strong throughout, and continue to grow in that strength each day now that we are past that most terrible ordeal.<br />
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My wife's family for taking us in for four months while in Dallas. Without question or reservation, they opened their home and hearts to us, gave us safe refuge, and the calming levity of their wisdom and constant positivity.<br />
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My mother, who prayed with me and stayed by me until my gift was complete. May she soon find peace and fulfillment after the loss of my father last year.<br />
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To all my friends and family, near and far. Prayers, support, words of encouragement... how can I relate how I hung on each and every word, "like" or prayer. If anyone says social media is useless, I'd use your example from this spring... how I could feel you reaching out across the distance to send me your strength and love. Please do know that it saved my life, and each of you are forever in my heart.<br />
<br />
To my Pat's Promise crew: Amy Holloway, Michelle Segovia, Mark Willenborg, Clayton Bullock, Elizabeth Franks Powell, Emily Torgerson, Scott Lawrence, Dave Chudnov, Dave Floyd, Woody Harrison, Julie Littlefield, Lem Bradshaw, Emily Meischen. Thanks you for all saying "yes" immediately to my crazy idea, and believing in the idea that I could make it work. We've had much success, and have a lot more ahead in the future. An update for all of you: Since the big event, Pat's Promise has participated in three speaking engagements to help promote organ donation, and Woody and I will be teaming with Michelle and the good folks at TOSA to film new PSA's starring Chief Acevedo and Councilman Mike Martinez.<br />
<br />
Finally, to all my wonderful doctors and beautiful nurses on 14 Roberts, thank you for saving my life.<br />
Brittany Gyger, Helen LieVan, Angela Conner-Green, Brooke Mack, and of course Leslie Cardona, among many others. Dr, Klintmalm, Dr. Guo, Brenda, Dr. McKenna, Dr. Testa, Dr. Oceloti, Dr. Mike? who carried my new liver down the hallway to its new home, and the whole crew.<br />
<br />
So, I've been a bit quiet since the big Pat's Promise Day event. I realized I had not given myself any time to slow down, and so I've been trying to just enjoy my life and live simply for the past couple of months, getting used to my new body. I've tried to stay off the radar and just enjoy a quiet, fulfilling personal life without crisis for once. Something new to me is that I've been going to the gym quite regularly and am starting to get into Yoga classes. These things were never a possibility before my transformation, and now they are an essential part of my daily routine. Exercise, diet, and clean living are ensuring that I'll be bugging you with more of this sappy stuff for many, many years to come.<br />
<br />
For the rest of this quiet and reverent Thanksgiving, which I'm spending alone (I'm out of vacation time. Imagine that!) I'll be writing long-overdue thank-you notes to a few select people, notable Mayor Pro Tem Sheryl Cole, who gave me my own official day in Austin. Flattering stuff to be sure. It seems appropriate to write thank-yous on this day of all days, don't you think?<br />
<br />
I love you all and I hope you each have a blessed and wonderful day with friends and family. Or, if you're alone like me, spend some time reflecting on what you're thankful for. You may be surprised that<br />
the abundance in your life is multitudes greater than the food on your table.<br />
<br />
One Love,<br />
Pat<br />
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<br />Pat Buchtahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09033396576622212388noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3383597951409274969.post-57332512035394191102012-08-23T22:07:00.001-07:002012-08-24T10:18:17.538-07:00Picking Up the PiecesIt's now, exactly five months post-transplant, that I'm starting to realize how sick I was... not just in body, but in mind and spirit as much. It's hard for me to synthesize this new feeling that I am well and can start to act that way, doing much more with my time than I was capable of before. Indeed, I was able to hold down my job and volunteer work up until just a week before hospitalization, but I'm not sure I should have. Perhaps I should have taken time to slow down and try to process what was happening to me, but at the time I found that indulgent and ultimately pointless.<br />
<br />
We all have different ways of dealing with tragedy, and perhaps mine has been through the recording of this blog. It has, for several years now, been a conversational way for me to meditate and process through words the ills that befell me and my loved ones. And, finally, a conduit for me to share and hopefully inspire people to search for light in the face of darkness, and to find healing through kindness to others.<br />
<br />
Doing much more than I was capable of before... what does that mean exactly? Surely not just the promise of more energy and time spent in service to mankind. I'm committed to my new purpose with Pat's Promise, and it drives me each day. Or is it more focus and greater achievement at work, where I know I now can have real impact in the success of our business through my new position and increased responsibility? It's all these, to be sure, but more than that it's saying yes to the smaller things... the ones that affect the people who gave so much of themselves to help me through all this turmoil. Little things like doing the dishes, taking out the trash, taking Amanda shopping, calling mom. I'm certainly not perfect, and I'm struggling with it. Even as I write this, I'm thinking of all the loved ones that I do need to give more attention to, and somehow tend to pass over in my day-to-day thoughts and sentiments.<br />
<br />
It hurt a lot when my dad died last year, but what hurt more was the fact that we had really stopped communicating years before that. We didn't know the extent of his brain injury at the time, and that it would take years to truly manifest the horrors that befell him physically and mentally. Instead, we saw a man who for some reason stopped communicating effectively with those around him, and in my youth and inexperience, I did not know why. I only felt hurt and abandoned when I needed him more than ever, when my own illness and challenges in my life were becoming more serious. I know it was not his fault, and I fortunately got what I needed from his final words to me. But I also know that I never want to repeat that disconnect from my loved ones in my own life if at all possible. So I try. I screw up constantly. I attempt to learn from it, and hopefully change for the better every day. A call from a lifelong friend to hang out the other day reminded me of this. I wasn't able to meet him out at the time, and now I regret that I wasn't couldn't because I sense he's been going through some tough stuff that he's too proud to talk about.<br />
<br />
How broken is broken? How much of our healing are we personally responsible for? I'm reassembling the pieces of the last ten years of my life and am able to finally find no remorse for the decisions I made, no matter how far off the path I may have gotten. I know now that I was unable to cope with much of the pain I was feeling, and did the best that I could with what I had. Now, after all the excitement and hoopla of transplant has died down, I am having to learn to simply appreciate the fact that the sky isn't falling, or a piano is not about to drop on my head around the next corner, if you get my meaning. I am reassembled with a new message of hope, and it's hard for me to actually believe it myself.<br />
<br />
The great thing about having been broken is that we can reassemble ourselves. It just takes a little glue, and we have to find that ourselves. In a sense, having quite literally died, been torn apart, and put back together with new parts, I do feel a commonality with the shamanic tradition. I have been given a new message and the tools to deliver it to help those who need it. More than anything now, this sense of responsibility drives me. I have to make this second life worth the sacrifice that my donor gave me when he died. That's why it's easy for me now to walk away from booze or any other distractions that create static in the line of communication with pure potential. In the old days, I could have cared less about my own welfare. I thought I was done for anyway, and I was ready to give up. And yet I did not, and now I have a sense of duty much stronger to the person who died and saved me than I ever did to myself, for some damn reason. Fine with me. It works. Every day is a gift to me now, and it truly feels amazing. I never could have imagined this level of joy in my life.<br />
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Because I suck at Maths, I thought today was six months post-transplant. It was actually five. I told myself I was going to start hitting the gym at six months, but I went anyway despite my screwup. I finally get was the Endorphin thing is all about, as I didn't have any bullshit liver disease or beta blockers putting the foot down on my energy level. So I got off on it, and I want more. Fortunately I did not rip my scar open, eviscerate myself, or get a hernia. As mach as I love my Baylor nurses, I'll have to wait to see them again until the transplant reunion.<br />
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So, here we are just two weeks out from the first-ever Pat's Promise event. I'm so fortunate to have such an amazingly talented group of friends who have committed to helping me launch this much-needed mission. There's still a few things left to do, but even if the event went ahead with what we've already done I know it would be a huge success. We'll start here in getting our message out, educate a new crowd of ambassadors, and start to spread our message into further communities and demographics in the very near future. I pray that we save even one life someday as a result.<br />
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I took one photo post-workout, as a "before" reference. Note the weak nebbish-like arms. Now say goodbye, f*%#ers! Bout to rock this thang. Now if I could just stop eating horrible foods. On my lunch break today, I ran a few errands and then ran out of time to go sit down for a healthy lunch somewhere. The next thing I knew I found myself in the Dairy Queen line... how did I get here? How was I going to get out? Before my muscles would respond to my brain, another car pulled in behind me, squashing any chance of escape. So I just went for it and got a Beltbuster, fries, and some frozen red drank. Guilty, I walked back in to work with my dubious prize, surreptitiously waiting until several other co-workers went in ahead, lest I be caught. Unseen, I finally managed to get back to my desk and start devouring my horrid purchase, rivers of hot fat shooting down my throat and gagging me. Horrified and wrought with self-condemnation, I felt a single tear form in the corner of my eye and run down my face onto the greasy patty. I was unable to choke down my shameful repast before a fellow co-worker discovered my secret and asked, "Should you really be eating that shit?"<br />
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No, no I shouldn't. I'm sorry, new liver. I'm not perfect. Will you still lurb me tomorrow?<br />
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<br />Pat Buchtahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09033396576622212388noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3383597951409274969.post-13763787194327472332012-06-19T11:15:00.001-07:002012-06-19T11:56:24.646-07:00Sing Me Back HomeAnd just like that, it's all over. I was released from clinic on Tuesday, a few weeks early of my original date. Apparently, the new liver is doing so well that I don't need to be monitored so closely anymore. I've just got a few complications I'm trying to get over, but as I always say, "Don't sweat the small stuff," right? The crazy high blood pressure is probably a result of some of the drugs I'm on now, and should pass as we taper them down. The intense pain in my legs is likely a result of the brutal infection I keep catching. Hopefully this round of pills will knock it out for good and I can get back to work in a few weeks. Beyond that, I'm whole. I'm getting used to the fact that I have energy now, and I don't feel self-conscious about jaundice or body image issues caused by fluid retention. It's all over now. Even things I never knew were connected to my liver have cleared up... sinus problems, gone. Itching and abdominal pain, gone. I look and feel younger... some gray hairs have even disappeared. It's all working at 110% now.<br />
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The strange thing for me now will be assimilating back into normal life at this point. I've walked with death for so long now, I've realized I don't really know how to enjoy living. I never understood what hope truly meant until now, and I have to admit I'm still pretty cautious that this could really happen for me. Even those closest to me never knew how deeply this darkness hung over me. I didn't talk about it, couldn't complain about it, and would not admit it to myself. I tried to act as if everything was fine for a long time even when I was in a great deal of pain. I just didn't want my friends and family to worry, or to feel any sorrow or helplessness. I tried to put a smile on my face every day and be a hero. In retrospect, I'm not sure if that was the healthiest way to deal with it all, but it was the only way I knew how. Laughing at the gates of hell.<br />
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And yet the blackness and unspeakable doom that I had felt for years did vanish overnight with the transplant, like a spell being lifted with one magical kiss. I feel as if my entire biorhythm has finally gotten back into sync... the vibrational energy of my body now being aligned with the natural flow of the universe, or Tao, if you will. I had the privilege to meet the amazing surgeon who performed my transplant, Dr. Goran Klintmalm, when KVUE came up to Dallas to do a fantastic story on my journey and organ donation. Thanks Jade and Scott! I didn't know until Jade asked the good doctor how close I was to actually dying. I knew I didn't have long, but until he said so I was unaware that I was actually a few hours away from dying... this time for good. And yet, I didn't die in the physical sense, but I <i>was</i> reborn in the most real way.<br />
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Now I'm left with a new psychology that I'm trying hard to accept. It's a very foreign feeling to know know that I've suffered enough, and that's it's okay for me to want good things and to have hope that I could have them someday. I probably don't need to commit myself to the Pat's Promise cause. It's probably enough that I just rest and enjoy the years of good health ahead that I've never had before. But some crazy part of me tells me that it's just not enough. I have to learn what it means to enjoy things without this creeping feeling of dread lurking just below the surface. Until that day comes, I'll continue to put more work into the Karmic Wheel than I probably have time for. I know that until I feel that I'm doing enough to give back and save more lives, my spirit just won't rest. My soul has been sick for so long that I'm quite sure the only way to heal is to do more and more good for others. I'm thirsty for it, I have to have it. The trick will be balancing this need with a healthy lifestyle, rest, and attention to my family and friends. I'll hopefully find that balance through prayer. Prayer got me where I am today, and will undoubtedly deliver me tomorrow.<br />
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I know I have often sound like a cheerleader for hope and for spiritual strength. I did because I had to. The alternative was far too dreadful to entertain. And yet I do realize how much death and pain there is out there. I've seen it. I've seen people on my floor at Baylor Medical pack loved ones to go home and die once they get the news that a liver won't be coming. I've seen Dr. Klintmalm tear up as he confessed to Jade how hard it has been over the years to be the one to make the decisions on who gets to live and who dies. How it's easy for people to say everyone deserves the same chance when they're not the ones with the responsibility to make those choices. And feeling the guilt of knowing you were chosen to live because you were young and otherwise healthy when many others in the same situation were not given that chance. An increase in organ donor registration will fix these issues. And that, my friends, is why I won't rest until we get there.<br />
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If this post has a less than jubilant tone, it's because I'm feeling the weight of this responsibility now that I'm back home. I know I'll need my friends to remind me how to have fun and relax. Are you ready? Lord knows I am. Help me find the silliness again. I know it's in there somewhere.<br />
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I did manage to get away to the Port Aransas for a few days after clinic with some friends and greet the sea once again in victory. As I walked out into the rushing waves and was greeted by the windy spray of salty ocean water, the tears began to flow. I realized that I was here again, doing one of my favorite things. I had very recently thought I would never get to see the ocean again or feel the healing waters surrounding my body. I made it.<br />
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Just in a few months from this...<br />
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To this...<br />
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Finally, thanks to my old pal Tommy Siragusa for reminding me to have fun with this song. His ukelele version at the beach was far better than the original, but this is all I've got for now:<br />
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<br />Pat Buchtahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09033396576622212388noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3383597951409274969.post-62318937807233142042012-04-27T14:49:00.000-07:002012-04-27T14:49:55.648-07:00Chop Wood, Carry Water<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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A month now. It seems like forever ago that my great miracle happened, and I was given my own glimpse at enlightenment in the face of death. The searing, cool drops of holy water on my fading body during Last Rites even seem a distant memory as I sit on the back porch looking out over green pastures and blue lakes on the farm outside of Dallas.<br />
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I was in clinic this morning doing the usual bloods draws, nutrition classes, and doctor visits when I happened across another recent transplant recipient that I've gotten to know over the last weeks. She did not seem to be in high spirits, and was not very sure-footed about her recovery path. Granted, most of these patients are a bit older than myself, and some are certainly not bouncing back as quickly as I have, but I sensed her crisis was metaphysical in nature. I too have been fairly blue and somewhat depressed in the past few days, if I have to be honest (which I do these days). Then I realized: The honeymoon is over. The adrenalin rush, the spiritual crisis of impending doom, the overwhelming importance of it all, and even the ego-feeding attention that I have tried so hard to not feel guilty about, is all over now. I am slowly moving back to normal, albeit new, brighter normal. Sure, many would love to have some idle time on their hands to recuperate and relax for the next two months. But as my body heals, so does my will to enact my new plans, get back to work, and see my friends once again.<br />
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In terms of my transplant friend, I realized that she, and all of us in the same boat, must experience a similar emotion, initially: After falling for so long, it's hard to stand on solid ground. Or, PTSD, for lack of a better term. For me this, has required the same medicine that it always has: Prayer and more prayer. I take it like I have to take my 26+ pills each day, knowing that results will come because I've seen consistent proof.<br />
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So, I listen to my new friends. Then, if it feels right, I'll talk without offering advice. Simply tell my story. I do feel somewhat guilty that I'm doing so well when some of my fellow transplant recipients are not. But I was told by the Baylor chaplain that I'm giving them hope, just by seeing me walk tall. Good enough for me.<br />
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The technical stuff: Liver levels are almost perfect. Rosy cheeks, white eyes, and an energy I've never known. I had a slight complication a few weeks ago that some of you knew about: I had a serious virus that is pretty common post-transplant and dropped from my usual weight of 210 down to 170 in a week and a half. Rebuilding now, but cautiously. I'm enjoying having a my teenage butt again, to be frank. With exercise and diet that I couldn't do before, I'll see where this goes.<br />
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In the meantime, the old Zen Koan... chop wood, carry water.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/DxRD0UvbpII" width="420"></iframe>Pat Buchtahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09033396576622212388noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3383597951409274969.post-53058234924919003562012-04-08T15:35:00.008-07:002012-04-09T00:28:31.360-07:00The Gift of EasterHappy Easter Everyone!<br /><br />I certainly have plenty of reasons, and context, to celebrate this holiday today, as do we all. In an very real and tangible way, I have seen Christ's miracle of death and rebirth acted out in my own life as of late, and through this, I have learned some very valuable information that I would like to share with you all.<br /><br />The gift of life is REAL, and is for ALL of us. I am going to get into some controversial stuff here today, and undoubtedly anger some people, but I am no longer afraid to speak the truth. In fact, I have to.<br /><br />Through Jesus' ultimate gift of sacrifice, he DID indeed bring eternal life to us all. This is present and available for us whether we choose to believe in religious dogma surrounding Christ or not. There are many ways to God, and many ways to heaven, and Christ was not put here to condemn anyone following a true path of compassion and love to the one True God. Indeed, Jesus did say, "The way to God is through me." If we make the common mistake of worshipping Jesus as a MAN, we are making the fallacy of thinking that if we do not worship Jesus the figure, we are doomed. But if we realize Jesus as a spirit, a concept, a way to God, we know that if we try our best to be Christlike, approaching the world again with pure love and compassion, we are following the true way and can know we are improving our souls for the eternal. No man or religion can shut this door to us, or tell us that if we don't believe a certain way, we are doomed. The promise of Life is much bigger than any earthbound concept or definition, and cannot be denied to any of us, no matter who we are, what we have done, or what we believe or don't believe.<br /><br />It is not our place on earth to judge, condemn, or make any assumptions about our neighbors. Our only job here is to love one another, and spread that pure love until even our enemies can see the Way. It's really that simple. This may not be what many of you, my dear friends, believe, but I have to speak what I know deep within to be true. I have known these truths, in fact, for a long time, but now I simply am compelled to tell the truth at every opportunity. I am afraid of no man or judgement on this earth, and must share God's message of hope and faith with you all! In fact, to be completely honest, after receiving the last rites and confessing my sins nearly a month ago (I had not been to confession since I was kid... talk about sweating like a schoolboy!) I have done my best to remain sinless and tried to let God be my guide at every new temptation or challenge. And that is why I can write this today with a clear conscience and a full heart: Jesus's gift today is for us ALL!<br /><br />When I had my first bleed in 1995 at age 25, I was camping out in the middle of the woods in Groesbeck with my dear friends Ron Kimbell, Jake Spelman, and Jon Guyton. It was Good Friday, and we were having a glorious night of friendship, guitars, beers, and Taco Bell around a big campfire. Before we dug into our Nachos Bellgrande, I felt compelled to say a prayer. Granted, I had not been feeling right the past few months, and knew something very dark was happening to me. I felt as if a demon, or demons were inhabiting my body and mind, and I could not do anything about it. My liver levels were very abnormal, several painful biopsies showed something very wrong, and yet no doctors really had a clue as to what was happening to me. I was hallucinating, feeling doomed and cursed, and could find no peace. I obsessed over a dear female friend who was in my little college band and wrote dark and beautiful poetry for her to sing as I watched in torment. In frustration and pain at my inability to reach her, I chose to ram my fist into a brick wall one night. I lost. I completely shattered my hand, and still have yet to regain full mobility. A week later, I was in Groesback with the guys...<br /><br />I woke up the next morning to a black, dark sky to the East. Falling out of my tent, I looked into the blackness and felt sick and dizzy. Then I began to profusely cough up blood. This was not Taco Bell, I thought. I paused, dumbfounded, and waited for a few minutes. Then another wave hit me and I began to do it again, this time to an even greater degree. I called out to the guys, who rose in shock and speechlessness. None of us knew what to do, so Ron and Jake went to find help from any nearby farmer who might be awake. This was, of course, in the prehistoric days before cell phones. Jon Guyton stayed behind and simply held onto me as I wretched and passed in and out of consciousness before his eyes. Finally, after no luck locating help, the boys loaded me into Jake's truck, and away we went, towards Waco. Halfway through Mart, I told Jake to pull over, that I wasn't going to make it. I collapsed on the sidewalk, losing more blood as he ran down the street to get help, waking the whole town if he needed to. One old timer ambled along and asked me, "Son, what ails ye?" I said I didn't know. It was all I could muster. He sat down next to me and put a hand on my shoulder to steady me for what seemed like an eternity. Finally an ambulance came roaring around the corner with Jake in tow. A elderly couple who owned the EMS service carted me quickly into Hillcrest hospital in Waco. I remember thinking, "if they can just fix me up, I can still keep my fishing date later today with my dad." But, the blood kept coming, My parents arrived, as did all the guys, and the EMS couple stayed as doctors worked for fourteen or so hours to save me. As they were trying to find the source of the bleeding, and after losing so much blood, I finally gave up the ghost. I was gone for about three minutes, I'm told. Fortunately, the combination of life-saving tactics and blood transfusions brought me back. But was something else afoot here? Surely it must be.<br /><br />I awoke the next evening, on Easter Sunday, with my family and friends all around me. During many more weeks in the hospital, I saw demons, in fact the devil himself, fighting over my soul, physically jumping on and attacking my body as I lay in bed. Then, with Jesus appearing at request to dispel them all and surround me with his doves and angels, I knew I was safe. I was told something by God in those hours that I have only shared with my father and a very few others, and I am now finally working on fulfilling that sacred message.<br /><br />So, what did this all mean for me? Were those dates significant in any way? I thought at the time that God had chosen me for something special, and now all I had to do was let it happen. I was wrong. If anything, this was simply significant for me in the fact that it stopped my wandering and brought me back to God. I no longer doubted the truth of Jesus' power, and could finally believe again in the God of my youth. The picture was just a little bigger now.<br /><br />The next six years were simple and pure and blissful: I would finish school, meet my wife, move to Austin and fulfill my dream of starting a successful band with Jake and Jon. I would begin my first job as as Television Producer for a Fox Sports fishing show, and narrator for a show about hunting in Mexico. Then, one fateful morning in 2001, my second bleed happened. I was soon diagnosed with Primary Sclerosing Cholangitis, and told I could no longer work and must go on permanent disability. This proved to be the wrong move. I lost my way soon after, losing faith and hope in God and in myself. Surely this had meant nothing if I was not healed and it just happened again. I began to drink, hate myself on a very deep level, and sink into a deep, unbreakable despair that I could not find my way out of. I was unavailable for Amanda and untrue to my own soul and to God. My level of denial was so deep... I reasoned, I will not let this disease define who I am! I will just be like everyone else now, whatever that means! I was a lot of fun to be around, and had some great times to be sure, but these were all empty experiences, and held no joy or comfort for me. Finally, I decided I could no longer stomach myself and began to re-enter the workforce, first through my old friend Jon Guyton, who had now risen high in the ranks of a German corporation (I was an accountant and financial analyst for the second time after college, albeit briefly) and then on to KVUE, where I found my true passion and fulfillment as a TV Producer in the Creative Department, working amongst the greatest family of professionals and peers I've ever known. I'll return there and start at my newly-promoted position soon. I also managed to quit the drink, saving myself from an endless nightmare of damnation and pain. Most importantly, I began to re-cultivate my connection to God, and have never looked back.<br /><br />In 2009, I had a third bleed. This proved to be the most complicated one yet to fix, and yet they did. In fact, if you go back to the beginning of this blog, we've made full circle. I was soon listed for a transplant and waited until now to finally receive this miracle.<br /><br />I guess I felt compelled to share this backstory with you today to give you some of my personal perspective on Easter. My journey to this point had been long and hard. But Jesus' promise never failed me, and never let me down. The Grail was always within my reach... I simply had to drink from the cup once again.<br /><br />But, enough about me. I am merely a messenger, that is all. I won't dwell on, or repeat to you, what happened to me and how AWESOME it was anymore. Instead, I must now look to the future and begin to pay back this glorious gift that I have been given. A very first and simple phase of this charge is quite apparent. We must, MUST, increase organ donorship. It's such a simple thing to go to donatelifetexas.org and register! It takes just a minute, and it's free! Also, if you don't have have a heart at the bottom of your license, you may no longer be registered, even if you did it years ago. I am told that Texas switched over in 2008, and all registrations must now go through this official site. Whether you do it on the website or the DMV, it all goes through the same location. So, better to check than to not know for sure, yes?<br /><br />And, what better way than to be Christlike than to give that gift of life to another! Take this body and eat... Take this blood and drink... in this way, we can become the miracle for others to receive.<br /><br />Thank you for spending time with me on this precious Easter Sunday. My gift is the Jesus' gift of eternal life, and it is for each of you. Whatever you believe, it is yours to take in knowing that my love for you knows no bounds.<br /><br />Pat<br /><br /><iframe width="420" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/k1odvp-_bhk" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe><br /><br /><iframe width="420" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/Q2JjJPDz3EE" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe>Pat Buchtahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09033396576622212388noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3383597951409274969.post-83661879020760431702012-04-01T18:21:00.022-07:002012-04-12T06:53:44.387-07:00Palm Sunday<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvvaxa-Y_q25fYRnDfqcCcC7tLSm_srdGSmnJDlwKOC5aDnk5XxIKo-ZAPGjDJqhusGlpWe40q-kj8iR3gtkE4t_n1oFYmmzSwPFhgGPw1Sl3Sns3uHTw8bCUQrUv5Jdjp48eOQFzDsOsf/s1600/6289_1184107367467_1371725237_497811_2553220_n.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 303px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvvaxa-Y_q25fYRnDfqcCcC7tLSm_srdGSmnJDlwKOC5aDnk5XxIKo-ZAPGjDJqhusGlpWe40q-kj8iR3gtkE4t_n1oFYmmzSwPFhgGPw1Sl3Sns3uHTw8bCUQrUv5Jdjp48eOQFzDsOsf/s400/6289_1184107367467_1371725237_497811_2553220_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5726483156292963218" /></a><br /><br />Good evening my dear Brothers and Sisters!<br /><br />I hope you are all well today, this first day of our Easter Holy Week. And, of course, what a week it has been! Forgive me if I ramble a bit, but I have a lot to get out on digital paper today so this may take awhile. As of my last post I, and all of you, have lived more than a lifetime of change in merely a week.<br /><br />The recap from a storyteller's perspective: As many of you know, I was admitted to ICU two Mondays ago on the 19th after a rough night at home that left me unable to walk, hold down my food, or see straight. I was lifted into the car by Amanda's big hoss of a brother and we rushed into Dallas. By the time they checked me into Baylor I couldn't even see straight to sign my own intake forms, and I began to crash further, almost going unconscious. They said my blood pressure was 70/30 and my blood level had gone done to a critical stage. They hastily started a central line in my neck and got me from ER into ICU immediately. There I received six units (in addition to three from Saturday), a huge bag of plasma, all kinds of other bags of things and stuff, and began my three day stay there.<br /><br />That first night in ICU was an awesome night of firsts: First time to see the Three Priests, a great group of Irish Catholic tenors, on PBS. They sang some classic Catholic hits which was very soothing to me that long, lonely night. It was a first time to stay in an ICU unit (not my first ICU, which is kinda odd I guess) where patients are just separated by curtains. This was strange for three reasons: First, I should say God bless them each. I'm just trying to keep things light here, but I feel for each of these poor souls. To my immediate left was an older man who somehow spent all day waking up from a procedure, moaning gutturally non-stop all day and night as many generations of his family came and wept over him. Turns out, this guy blew a gasket and bled out from too much drinking, and had to have a simple banding procedure to stop the bleed. Man, I guess I went through that the first time at twenty five, but it is a scary thing anytime it happens. Now I sound like a jerk... I just had to cling on to these little nuggets of humor to kept me human and focused! One old woman across from me was very scared, ornery, stubborn, booger-pickin', and I loved her. I wanted to act like her, but I couldn't let my guard down, not for a moment. She had a small blood clot in her leg and very vocally refused to understand why her rural hometown doctor couldn't do this for her! When the nurses tipped her bed up to better work on her, she anxiously asked, "I ain't gonna see nothin' I don't wanna, am I?" They didn't respond. Then they tilted her bed-back up and she made eye contact with me, letting out a very disappointed "Huh." Finally, there was a old country coot caddy-corner to me, next to her, who just laid there silently staring. He really had that death look, although I found out later he was fine and was probably going home soon. Everytime I barely glanced over that direction I was caught... he was maintaining direct eye contact with me the whole day and night, burning holes into my soul each time I dared look!<br /><br />Two days more of this and losing all remaining traces of modesty in ways I won't even go into here (another first), I was spent. After an endoscope to unsuccessfully locate the source of internal bleeding, they did a CT scan and found a massive hematoma somewhere in my lower back/ass part region. It had painfully crippled my left leg and much of my abdominal range. The saving grace here was something unexpected, and contrasted very distinctly from my Scott and White experience. I'll put a disclaimer here by saying that Amanda found this quite hilarious as well, as it had gone far past the point of absurdity: Each successive nurse I had was crazy hot. Like, supermodel hot. Each one became taller as well, finally topping out at about 6' 2". Only creepy if you really take the time to picture me in a robe and hospital bed. So, creepy is the correct image to be certain. But I have to say it helped keep me calm and alive? Enough of that talk!<br /><br />So, up to a private room finally on Wednesday afternoon after levels had somewhat stabilized. My Mom and Amanda alternated couch and hotel bed duty the whole week as I lay in that uncomfortable hospital bed waiting for the next thing, whatever that would be. I had reached that peace I spoke of in my previous post, and was focused and clean of mind and spirit. There was a little bit of time still for some laughter, moments of joy, and great late night, long overdue talks with mom over on the fold-out bed. No reason to sleep, as it was just impossible at this point. Hadn't slept since Amy Holloway's birthday weekend on Feb. 24th (admitted to Scott & White on 27th) so why even try to bother with this precious time? We both finally determined that as my Dad had been sick for years before finally going with God last year the morning after Christmas, it all made sense now: He was unable to help me then in that broken mind and body, but could finally help even more from a position of power now. Those nights in ICU I felt his presence more than ever through the dark and loneliness. I knew someone was watching over me (besides that old dude). The sense of safety and respite was certainly real.<br /><br />Finally, Friday the 23rd came and I (opposite of) woke up to a message from two dear friends... my old pals Brad Pippins and Marcos Campos had each independently received an intuition to "be here" that day for some reason, and were already on their way up before I could even shake the non-sleep from my eyes. This in addition to Amanda, my Mom, and our dear friends Amy Holloway and Chris Engle, who had set up camp in a hotel on ICU Monday for the duration.<br /><br />As I write this, Amanda just jumped into the pool fully clothed after a much-needed cocktail. It's been a really tough day, but I'll get to that at the end of the post. And don't worry, my cocktail is and must remain, water. God's drank.<br /><br />Brad arrived at around 12:30 and we immediately launched into a great, much-needed man talk for several hours. Out of the blue,<br />two Italians burst into the room, frantic and fully composed at the same instant. One tall and dark, the other short and sturdy, I might have thought these guys were high-class toughs save for their enlightened eyes. The tall one (Dr. Testa) addressed us immediately and with haste:<br /><br />"Okay, let me guess... YOU must be Mr. Buchta! We have received a liver for you. I feel that it is a healthy and good liver. It comes from a forty-two year old man in good shape. Will you accept this liver today?<br />"Uhhh.... What can you tell me about the donor?"<br />"I just did. It is a higher risk liver because of one positive test (turned out to be nothing), but this may be your last chance."<br />"How do you feel about my chances?"<br />"I feel good about it otherwise I would not be here. Your answer is yes?"<br />"Yes! Of course. I mean... what time do we start?"<br />"2:30pm now... okay we start you 6:30pm"<br /><br />The other (Dr. Oceloti) nodded and they both immediately rushed out of the room. I looked at Brad. He at me. Wordless. Then I guess the levee broke. I had about a half a minute to bawl like a baby, so I did it right there with one of the best men and oldest friends I'll ever know. Brad, thanks. My sweet nursing assistant, Alicia, (reminded me of Alfre Woodard at her kindest and most spiritual) came in and hugged me and cried a bit. Amanda and Mom were out of the room for a needed lunch and had somehow left their phones behind. Alicia went to find them in the lobby and managed to bring them back to me... stone faced and emotionless, she merely said there was news and they should come immediately. Then joy and more tears and hugs all around for all of one full minute. Then a rotating cast of forty or so players non-stop over the next four hours to start prepping the pig. Remember that Zen warrior's readiness I spoke of last posting? This is where you use it.<br /><br />My army of family and friends was able to go down with me until the last few moments, evidenced in the team photo many of you saw this week on the FB. Then a friendly young anesthesiologist (Dr. Mike, simply enough) took me down through several back tunnels, cold hallways, places that seemed like old storage areas for lost hospital stuff, etc, talking calmly to me about the procedure the whole time. I felt as if I was many levels underground, going into the underworld far below life and death, where only dreams and spirits rule. Into a freezing cold white room, the brightest room I've ever seen. A spirited, happy older British doctor shows up and explains more about the next hour or so, but reassures that soon I will begin sleeping, so not to worry. I was freezing, so they covered me up in three warm thin blankets, which I guessed would be quite moot within a matter of seconds. Okay, we're giving you the medicine, soon you'll sleep, just try to start counting down from one hundred...<br /><br />Alright. So why is Marcos (Cha-Cha) looking into my face now? I'm quite certain that as well-intentioned as he may be, he is in no way qualified or trained to perform a surgery of this magnitude. I made it through surgery in only six hours after having been told that due to complications it may be more like twelve to fourteen. To be frank now, and we found out only after surgery, my final MELD score was 36. They transplant higher, but that usually means a comatose patient. My liver had essentially shut down and my kidneys were going quckly. With fluid, my body weight was now 236. I apparently had about 48 hours or so left, but of course they weren't going to tell me that while I was waiting in high spirits and good humor! About as close a shave as you can get without drawing blood, I suppose...<br /><br />I awoke and immediately sensed something new and wonderful and foreign. They always told me that I've probably never known what "normal" feels like. All of a sudden, I did. Granted I was on some pretty hardcore drugs coming down out of surgery and was already in a weakened state. I was lucid on Marcos first but apparently the whole team had been in already... first Amanda and her mother Jerry, then my Mom with Brad, then Amy and Chris, later, rinse, repeat. I am told this happened: I told Amanda, "My new liver is THIRSTY! My Qi is really low!" and that I knew we would have to wear silly hats afterwards and I was just sort of confused as to why they had to be so dumb-looking, but I thought it was funny, so no big deal. Mom and Brad entered and asked what I needed.<br />"Bring me some Holy Water!"<br />(Mom had packed a full Catholic pack of stuff, as any good Catholic mother would. Brad ran back up to room to get it.)<br />Brad: What do I do?<br />Pat 2.0: Put it on me, man! Just put it on me!<br />(Brad hastily throws some blessed water on me.)<br />Pat 2.0: Ahhhh! Yeah. Yeah, that's it. Oyeah.<br /><br />Then Marcos (Cha-Cha) held vigil over me for two nights, waiting and praying in silence, as if to guard from any evil spirits coming to take my still-uncentered soul away into the blackness of evening. He's a late-night guy. Cha-Cha had torn a calf muscle a few weeks back and was wheelchair bound. In a strange way, I felt God did this for a reason, too... no chairs in my teeny private ICU recovery room. Not really supposed to be any overnight visitors, but guests can stay as long as they want as long as they don't sleep! So Cha-Cha found the loophole by winding up in a wheelchair. He could stay. Sorry, Marcos! I think that torn calf happened for a reason... It's okay. Cha-Cha is a very spiritual guy, and is my personal Austin Zen Master and Teacher. Has been for years. When I was awake (or lucid, rather) he guided me through breathing exercises and meditations designed to calm my physical self around the pain and shock of having two thick rubber tubes running into one nostril and down into my stomach. Unsettling and constant pain... a warrior's focus was still required, and I'm not too prideful to say the extra help at this point was needed desperately.<br /><br />After two long and fitful nights in ICU, I was admitted to a private room. I could tell this new house member was already working overtime to get the house in order, and was happy to be home. I tried my best to keep up, promising real food at some point soon, sleep, (These were still elusive goals) and even put together a "Welcome Home" playlist on my IPhone to make sure he felt at ease. I have never tried to sleep with music on my headphones, but in ICU, it suddenly makes a lot of sense!<br /><br />My new friend was certainly where he wanted to be, so I inquired further. I found out a few more details from good Dr. Mike... not much, but enough to tell me something. He said that it was a great looking liver, and that he had taken it out himself just moments before they put in into me. They were able to remove the gift from the blessed saint just as they removed my old guy, and replace immediately afterward, fresh as a farm egg.<br /><br />I knew this was a healthy liver when I was finally wheeled up to my private room after two nights in ICU. I then chose to get up from my carrier bed in the hallway and walk into my room bed, an apparent first for a transplant patient. Inspired, I got up later that night to stretch and and stand for a moment, and next found myself against the wall trying to do several "wall push-ups". I still have yet to live this dumb, egotistical decision down.<br /><br />The news spread fast, and the next morning my doctor came in to chew my ass out. My dear Dr. Guo, was was actually having a hard time masking his joy at my successful procurement and surgery, gave me a stern two cents. He basically said that I need to respect this, and remember that I just had one of the most major and invasive surgeries a person will ever go through, and that there's no reason to think I couldn't still split open my new "Mercedes" cut (You get it if you think about the logo. You do.) I decided not to eviscerate myself, respect the life that had been entrusted to me at the greatest price any man could give, and once again remind myself to remove my Ego from the equation. Humility. A warrior's order of mind. It's never "done". It takes constant sharpening and practice. I decided to take my stupid pain pills, shut up, and do what physical therapy required of me. Okay, plus a little more working out just because it felt so good and my new guy wanted it like a vampire wants blood. Like a vampire wants blood... or, me on the previous Monday.<br /><br />The rest of the week I celebrated small victories each day as I got better and better and my illness seemed to be vanishing altogether. I went from 236 to 209 lbs. in a matter of days, fluid exiting my body quicker than a wall street banker freaking on an honest moment of self-awareness.<br /><br />It's now 11:08 at night. I have to finish this today. I must.<br /><br />We were finally let loose on Friday night and sent home to Amanda's folks' old farmstead after two full uninterrupted weeks in the Baylor Roberts building. My first fresh air in as long. Let me reiterate here how humbled and grateful I am for the experience. I feel no remorse or mean spirit about my life's journey. I do not feel I was cheated or given a raw deal. Quite the opposite. I've been at this since I was six years old, for God's sake. I feel i was given a true gift in the fact that I was able to, and continue to see life through a different perspective that is a blessing to me and others.<br /><br />This is not about me in fact at all. I have come to realize over the last month that this is a gift for all to receive. I am fortunate to be a vessel for the message, but that is my only role here. This is for us all. I say this without ego or self. I also know that this means nothing if I do not give it all back now and devote my life to God. And I already have been given inspiration and guidance in this twofold mission:<br /><br />1. I will write a book to help others receive this message of hope and faith that I have been given. Spiritual but non-dogmatic, I pray I can reach beyond prejudices, fears, and darkness to truly help people. It will be light, funny, mythologically-based, hopefully not too boring or long like today's post, and sincere. I already have been working on a concise outline while laid up, and I may have a very powerful ally in an Austin friend that is amazingly qualified to help mentor me in this pursuit. You know him and love him as much as I do, it's... more on this later.<br /><br />2. I have an almost immediate and easy plan to implement that will make it much easier for doctors to do their work and for people like me to get what they need. All my career experience inside and outside of work has led me to this moment. I am in a privileged position to really make this work better than ever. Many of my dear friends old and new have reposted about this quite recently and I am grateful. This, I can and will do and have already started planning the first phases. More on this very soon as I am just assembling my team of talent. A small group of top cooks in the kitchen, each who do just one thing and do it very well.<br /><br />Finally today, I must tell you all that my beloved sidekick of 17 years, my old hound dog Booker T. Jones Buchta, passed away peacefully this morning beside me. I knew he was in more pain these last few months, but was truly alarmed to learn of his quicker downturn this week as I still lie in confinement in the hospital. When I got home Friday, he perked a bit, but was basically unable to move much at all anymore on his own. He walked a bit saturday but just couldn't see anymore, missing his water dish and falling over. This morning I lay next to him on a small divan on the porch and began to write this. I'm still on an oxygen tank, so it's still tough for me to move around well without dropping pretty quickly. But, this too in time. I put my stinky foot next to his nose so he knew I was there. I played some music next to his ear and he lay, panting with eyes wide open, fixing on some distant point. I had prayed somewhat selfishly the night before that God make the decision, or at least reveal to me what I should do when the time came. Again, God was gracious and it never went that far. Booker T took one long last breath as Cat Steven's "If You Want To Sing Out, Sing Out" played him through.<br /><br />It was perfect, in fact, to me. I think he was waiting for me... he knew how sick I was and was waiting to complete his mission. In a way, I like to think he knew he had to give his life as well as my host to keep the universal balance in order. He died today, on Palm Sunday. It means something to me this way, if it only has to mean it for me. If it was any other time or way it may have not been the same.<br /><br />My good nephews dug a hole down in the pasture at the old pet cemetery and we brought him down. I stood as long as I could and blessed him wit that same holy water. I recited Psalm 23, the Our Father, and a Hail Mary and they covered him up as I played "Two of Us" by the Beatles. Beautiful and perfect under the old oaks and cool afternoon breeze.<br /><br />Perfect and Beautiful. There is no light without dark, no life without death, no joy without pain. This post is for my donor, Booker T. and for Joe Ginnane, a great Wacoan who, about my age, died a sudden and premature death from illness this week. I never knew Joe personally, as he was a few years older, but we went to the same Catholic schools. He was beloved by his many friends and did great work a a faculty member of MCC theater. Rest in peace to them all.<br /><br />Good night to you all with love! Truly, we are in Holy Week.<br /><br />Love,<br />Pat<br /><br />11:59 PM from Windy Hills Farm<br /><br /><iframe width="420" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/NDq36YD1ESM" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe>Pat Buchtahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09033396576622212388noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3383597951409274969.post-23538393624943804352012-03-22T07:13:00.005-07:002012-03-22T14:56:46.167-07:00Third Time's a CharmGreetings Brothers and Sisters!<br /><br />Pat here, sending back a signal from the far edge of the universe... I hope this day finds you all well and in good spirits! <br /><br />As you know, we had another false start Saturday when we got the call for a second shot at a donor liver... this time, as it turns out, I was ready, prepped, and literally on my way down to the O.R. when the doctor cancelled the whole production because they had found signs of cancer within the donor organ. Certainly better to miss the chance to say Pat got a liver on St. Patty's Day than to find later that we made the wrong choice! We were released back home and came back within 36 hours due to a pretty drastic downturn that had me in ICU until yesterday. I'm now in a private room and may be here to stay until we get that next chance. My liver has pretty much shut down (MELD is now 31) and my kidneys are starting go downhill a bit as well, so we really are praying and hoping for that miracle soon! To be sure, they actually said that they've never seen a patient with a MELD of 31 respond so well and look so good at this point in the process, which is great news.<br /><br />This may seem like a frustrating setback for us, but I really feel that it's important today to let you all know what this means from my perspective. The thing to remind ourselves of now is that it's not all about the quick fix, the end result. It has to simply go a little deeper than that for us all at this point. I think that is the lesson to be learned here. Life now has taken on a very spiritual and mythological context that I never knew I was capable of, and I'm so thankful for that, and that my experience and learning may serve in giving others hope as well. <br /><br />We can indeed find that true core of our humanity at this point when all ego, regret, past guilt and attachments to the illusion of this world are able to be stripped away and all that remains are ourselves and God in our purest form. In this moment, we find an inner strength and resolve that allows us to confront our death without fear, consequence, or hesitation. <br /><br />So, the real miracle of learning happens for us not in the quick fix, instant gratification of simple solutions, but in the actual hero's <br />journey that we all must undertake in getting TO that point. To truly cross over that dark night of the soul and prepare ourselves for battle, we must purify our minds and souls, sincerely looking within and forgiving ourselves of past transgressions, so that we can meet our opponent face on with no distractions or trepidation. In this pure moment, we find that all suffering is merely an illusion, because our physical forms cannot be lost or gained; it is the soul that remains eternal and untarnished!<br /><br />As the risk of sounding like a loon (not that you guys didn't know that about me already!) I'll get into some of the mythological context that I've been ruminating upon as I synthesize all this new information to share with you. We can reference Joseph Campbell's "Power of Myth" or an old favorite, Holger Kalweit's "Dreamtime and Inner Space" to find that in all cultures, the Shamanic transformation happens after the body dies a literal of symbolic death, is torn to pieces (sounds gross, but try to keep up!) and is replaced with new parts to make a new man who can now heal himself and his tribe, aided with new insight from the spirit world. Sounds crazy, I know, but we see the pattern repeated over and over in history, most notably in Western culture with the story of Christ himself.<br /><br />I say this without ego, because I fully realize I'm no more special or different than anyone else. I'm the same old Pat, rest assured, and if there ever was a hero, it ain't me babe. But I'm beginning to understand that this is a process we ALL must go through in some form or fashion at different points in our lives, and it sometimes helps us to have a contextual framework to guide us and help us process what's happening. I'm simply God's vessel delivering a message of Hope and Faith. And, as I've said before, the True God that I speak of is simply too great to require labels, religion dogma, or any outdated historical/cultural frameworks to exist. It is in knowing that God can be found within and without ourselves at all times, and there is and endless supply of power, healing, and compassion therein.<br /><br />One of my favorite tales from Old English literature is the Arthurian legend of Percival (perseverance) and the quest for the Holy Grail, found within the story of Percival and The Fisher King, I had always identified with Percival in the past, a true knight who rode on and on in his quest to find the Grail and restore the kingdom. But Percival was somewhat of a loner figure, which I certainly was for a spell as a younger man, but am no longer, being a man of my world. I find that I more closely identify with the backstory of the Fisher King himself; Although there are so many interpretations of the story, in a nutshell, the King as a young boy found the Grail was filled by its power and holy purity. He was entrusted with its care for all time. As a young man, he began to see the ways of the world and lost his faith in the land and in himself and in the Grail. He suffered a wound in battle that would never heal, and lingered on in this state between half-life and death for years as his lands and people, connected to his very essence, continued to do the same. It was not until the fool Percival, through the pure act of blind compassion, simply fed him from the cup of the Grail "Because you were thirsty" that the King remembered that the Grail and its answers had been in his possession all along: he simply forgot where he had put it! He and the Grail were one, and through this, all of his kingdom (the external and internal) was restored.<br /><br />Well, enough of that weirdness. I'm about to do some laps around the nurse's station and then take a lovely afternoon nap. My nurse came in to inform me that the diabetic finger prick they just did on me thirty or so minutes ago was actually a mistake and was meant for another patient. We all had a nice chuckle about it (I believe this is called Gallows Humor) and everyone's happy.<br /><br />So, in closing, need not worry about me, my good brethren! For I am in a far better place than I have ever been. Again, it's not about the end result, it's about the journey and how well we played the game. And, in the end, if that result be that I do leave this mortal world behind, then know that this is not defeat. Far from it. It is redemption and salvation. And I'm good with that too.<br /><br />Love and light to all,<br />Pat<br /><br /><iframe width="420" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/y8AWFf7EAc4" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br /><br /><iframe width="420" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/S3jCFeCtSjk" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>Pat Buchtahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09033396576622212388noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3383597951409274969.post-33766017345401049972012-02-13T08:18:00.000-08:002012-02-13T11:49:04.479-08:00Waking Up the EternalIf there's one thing I can't stand, it's to dwell in a sea of self-pity for very long. Sure, it's frustrating to get sicker, feel bad all the time, and fight seemingly pointless battles with healthcare providers. But there comes a certain sense of strength and empowerment in taking action to heal oneself, even if those efforts result in only temporary relief.<br /><br />After feeling spiritually and physically exhausted on Friday, I woke up Saturday with the urgent sense that I needed to shut the hell up and take matters into my own hands if I were to find any respite in the days that lie ahead. I've gotten to the point that fluid buildup in my chest cavity is so bad that I can't even perform simple tasks like mowing the lawn or walking up a few steps without feeling like I've run a marathon. The fluid is pushing against my heart and lungs so severely that it seems impossible to catch my breath. I stared out the window at my wild, overgrown lawn, healthy and full after recent rains, knowing that this was the only day to catch up before the torrential downpours started again. Try as I might, it was all I could do to get the mower started before I was spent. But as fate and good karma would have it, my good friend (who also happens to be my boss at work!) called up and insisted that he'd rather see me at work on Monday than see me kill myself over my lawn. He showed up soon after and put an entire afternoon in whipping that half acre into shape. I felt humbled and overwhelmed with the realization that I do have friends that truly care about me and recognize when I truly need help, even if I'm too proud to ask.<br /><br />At any rate, the point of my post here today is to talk about awakening the healing energy inside of us. Sometimes we need a little help to do that. I had a very strong intuition that I needed to call my dear friend Jen Hilman at jenhilmantherapeutictouch.com and schedule a massage to at least find some relaxation and stress relief. What actually happened is a very different and amazing story, in the most positive way that I could have ever imagined.<br /><br />I met Jen that evening at Guari Movement Studio to begin our session. After catching her up briefly with my developing state of affairs, she began to formulate her plan of attack and asked if I had ever had any real energy work done. I had tried some, sporadically, in the past, but never as a real focus in the form of massage or anything. Hell, I've only has a few massages in the past, and most have been either the kind that lulls your body into an oily mess of soporific bliss, or deep-tissue sports massage to work out shoulders screwed up from holding a 20 lb. camera on a rocky fishing boat for eight hours a day. To put it mildly, this was an altogether different experience entirely.<br /><br />Jen was determined to "wake up" my body's own trapped energy by combining several techniques from her extensive experience, as well as letting her own intuition guide her to try some new skills that she's been learning. First, by gently and then more aggressively rocking my entire body along the axis of my spinal column, she began to stimulate and release my Kundalini energy from its captive state. (This may all get to sound a bit New-Agey, but I'm not apologizing. I can tell that you this is a very real and visceral experience, as there are truly certain unseen energies that govern our bodies just as our heart, liver, and nervous systems do. Anyone who doubts this is failing to see the bigger picture in terms of our health. Just like those science books we grew up with where you peel back one transparent plastic page to see the next layer of the body, this could be considered the "missing page" at the very back... the one that is not visible to the naked eye, but is quite present nevertheless.)<br /><br />She began to work my circulatory system into play and stimulate the energy in my hands and feet, which are always freezing now due to my liver's inability to regulate body temperature. She vigorously beat (mildly, but it still hurt so good!) each inch of me to stimulate my entire venous and lymphatic systems. And, in a procedure I can only describe as "tuning the instrument" she loudly vocalized a tone into my crown and base chakras, essentially opening up the doors on either end of the long, dark hallway of my spinal column, and breathing tone and fire through the passageway to set the flow in motion. <br /><br />This was not at what one would describe as a traditional relaxing Swedish-style massage, although I found the entire process quite calming in the same sense that an athlete gets high from a rush of endorphins. Rather, I was awake and on fire and felt totally "in" my body for the first time in quite awhile, since often I tend to project away from the sense of my own physical self to avoid the pain and harsh realism of my disease. <br /><br />The feeling lasted the rest of the night, throughout the next day, and I was surprised to find my swelling today is at its lowest level in about two months. I feel calm, centered, and invigorated. So, naysayers can shut the hell up. Whatever sweet Jen did worked, and continues to do so as I write this. I don't know what tomorrow may bring, but knowing that there are keys to unlocking something deeper, more powerful, and ancient within myself than this disease, and that there are loving and skilled people in my world who care enough to do this work... well, that gives ME the strength to keep going.<br /><br /><iframe width="560" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/SxroabUx1Xs" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>Pat Buchtahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09033396576622212388noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3383597951409274969.post-41803460704822640342012-02-10T14:30:00.000-08:002012-02-10T15:08:22.531-08:00The Waiting is the Hardest Part...After a lengthy visit with my Baylor Medical Transplant team yesterday, I'm feeling a bit more frustrated than before about the progression of this whole thing. My MELD score is up to 23, the highest yet, and it's pretty obvious now that I'm unable to function in any normal capacity. The fluid buildup in my abdomen has become nearly unmanageable, and my energy level is almost nothing. Not to whine, but I've been on this train ride for awhile, and I am at a point now where I could use some answers.<br /><br />My wonderful specialists at Baylor Medical say I should by all rights be getting a liver now. Two years ago they would have transplanted without hesitation, but because demand is so much greater now (older population, growing number of unhealthy people and lifestyles, etc.) they just don't have enough to go around. So I have to wait until i'm about at a MELD score of 30, which is pretty close to knocking on death's door. With the exponential rate this thing has moved along within the last few months, that may not be for much longer. <br /><br />I think one of the most frustrating things about this is that they tell me they could do a three-day inpatient procedure to help get some of this fluid off, which would improve my energy quite a bit, at least temporarily. Unfortunately, my Scott and White Healthcare provider has refused to cover this cost, even though I am paying a premium for the best all-inclusive coverage possible. <br /><br />Baylor says this is common with Scott and White and they have to fight these battles with them all the time. If I were with any other provider, they's simply refer all this care on to Baylor Medical and let them do all the work. So, I'd love to switch. But, I'm uninsurable right now with this pre-existing condition. Here's where it gets tricky: Medicare is my Primary provider, with Scott and White as my Supplemental Secondary provider, paying for the remaining 20%. Workplace healthcare only does Primary, not Secondary. I can get Secondary though Medicare if I'm 65, but I'm not. Baylor said that I'm in a tricky spot: I'm fully insured for transplant with the setup I have, so it's tough to change at this point. If I were living on welfare and destitute, I'd get everything for free. But since I'm working, paying taxes, and trying to build a future to the best of my ability, I'm pretty much fucked. It's tough to know that I'm paying out the Wazoo and not getting the coverage that I need. My biggest and valid fear is that Scott and White will drag their feet so long on these crucial care decisions that I will develop liver cancer, or other complications, at which point it will be too late to transplant.<br /><br />I keep telling myself that I have to stay positive. But I'm tired of putting my and Amanda's lives on hold while I get sicker from year to year. I don't want much; just the normal life that so many others seem to take for granted. Or, if the dreadful alternative is my eventual reality, then was was all this for? What did I leave behind? Does the suffering add up to some greater meaning in the end?<br /><br />Anyway, I'm too tired today to make jokes, or to say something inspirational, or to try to put on a smile. That's what tomorrow is for. I'll get up, and do it again, because I DO believe that this all has to mean something, and that there is peace for all of us to be found. Faith.<br /><br /><iframe width="420" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/UYjYgQX-Q0w" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>Pat Buchtahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09033396576622212388noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3383597951409274969.post-31316135663741810772011-12-23T11:19:00.001-08:002011-12-23T12:13:10.209-08:00Just a Song Before I Go...Well, here we are. I don't know anyone who would say that 2011 has been anything less than challenging. It seems that life continued to rain one hardship after another upon us, quite mercilessly, until many of us thought that we could take no more. I know for myself, I've been challenged in ways I never though I'd have to deal with... some from loss of loved ones, some from past mistakes that I've finally had to be honest about and deal with, some from a markedly different state of health over the last few months that I've been trying to learn manage. <br /><br />And yet, throughout all of this, there is hope. Perhaps not for a return to the innocence and carefree bliss that was yesterday, but for a wiser, more inspired future... One in which I can take what I've learned, improve what I can about myself, and put something positive back into the world.<br /><br />Look, I can easily say 2011 can go fuck itself. Really. But I'd be selling it short if I hadn't learned a lot and grown from all the strife I've been through. Perspective. And that's why I know the next year CAN be so much better. God, or whatever we want to call it, does test us and push us beyond what we think our limits should be... so far beyond sometimes that we lose sight of hope. And we can say that there's a reason for this. But what, really is that reason? I have to surmise that in the end, this is truly up to us. Make it count for something. Some of my best friends, old and new, have experienced such strife this year, and it's inspiring to me to see them rebuilding and redefining themselves in terms of a cultivating more positive future. <br /><br />This is usually the part of the blog where I let up and crack a few jokes for comic relief. But I'm feeling a bit more cautious this Christmas; a bit more solemn, and in some ways, I'm tuned in a little more to what this thing really is supposed to mean. Whether you're religious or not, the sentiment can certainly be embraced: That a period in one's life, good or bad, has ended, and that if we choose to accept it, there is hope for a brighter tomorrow. We just have to put a lot more work into that than I used to think... "Sweat Equity" for peace, if you will. <br /><br />I personally think that celebrating that idea of hope each year is important for us to keep sight of. Symbolically or literally, whichever you choose to believe, it serves us well to remember that light and salvation are possible when darkness is all around. That, my friends, is what Christmas is. You don't need to mace your fellow man to get your fat little fingers on an XBox at Wal-Mart to get this concept. You don't need to rush around to fill up a shopping list with things you can't afford. You really don't need anything in the material world to keep Christmas in your heart. <br /><br />I'm trying to take a little time this weekend to actually pick up the phone, text, get on email, or even Facebook as many of my loved ones as I can just to let know I care about them. I don't know when I'll do it again, so why not? And if you're reading this, Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, and Happy New Year to you!<br /><br />In the meantime: Let your heart be light. In a year our troubles will be out of sight!<br /><br /><object width="420" height="315"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/yudgy30Dd68?version=3&hl=en_US&rel=0"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/yudgy30Dd68?version=3&hl=en_US&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="420" height="315" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true"></embed></object>Pat Buchtahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09033396576622212388noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3383597951409274969.post-14529225865591387502011-10-13T12:47:00.000-07:002011-10-13T14:48:17.186-07:00Belief in BalanceFinally. It seems that with cooler temperatures blowing into Texas, the high pressure system we've been under is finally beginning to dissipate. High pressure indeed. A summer of loss, lament, stress, and and worry for so many I know, including myself. In fact, the last two years have pretty much read as a laundry list of unimaginable life disasters, many too painful and personal to list even here, where I try to be my most honest. <br /><br />And yet, I'm not one to dwell on negativity or the past, for that matter. Rather, my point here today is that all life has a balance... a Yin and Yang, a dark period and then abundant light. And from paying attention to nature's subtle cues around me, I can tell that the light is coming once again. Good God, it's exciting. And again, I'll hit on the same points that I've talked of in the past months to get to this. Perseverance. Humility. Trust in the fact that if you work hard and do your best, at the end of each day you'll know that you've done all you can and the rest is beyond your control. And, for some, the belief that a higher power that we cannot fully perceive will take care of the rest. I think I'd call that Responsible Faith. Faith with the option to call bullshit upon oneself when we rely too much on some idea of a God, and not on ourselves. <br /><br />Everywhere lately I am overwhelmed by the fact that most people, at their base level, are fundamentally good. I've seen amazing things in the past weeks, as our community has focused on helping wildfire victims who have lost their homes, and in the protestors who are occupying the streets of our nation to let government, tyrannical corporations and financial institutions know that a change is needed. Albeit misguided and unfocused at times, their hearts are in the right place, and they are being noticed. I tend to agree mostly with the recent musings of my friend Mason Arnold, who suggests that real change must happen initially at the local level. We've got to change our way of thinking, help local business grow, and stop playing the victim role. I'm not sure that this is enough when dealing with Corporate America, but it may be the best weapon we've got.<br /><br />I know, I know, I'm pontificating once again, and this blog was supposed to be about my liver transplant, and I promised to try to make it funny whenever possible. At least for now, my situation is stable. Signs of potential cancer in my "current" liver have not been investigated further at this point, as my docs have seen no recent indicators to believe it's developing into anything more drastic at this time. Basically, we know about all we're going to know for now. But, my symptoms are not too bad lately, my color is good, people say I've got a great glow about me, and I feel pretty well overall. More than that, I've learned some valuable new skills to help me cope with the disease... respecting my physical limitations, saying no to people and events when I need to recharge, and taking the time to quiet my mind and soul and meditate when possible. There's no more, "I need to do this," now. It's been replaced with, "I'm doing this, for my own damn good."<br /><br />For those of you counting on my usual humor, all I've got for you today is this: Kiss my grits! I can't be funny and charming all the time. I can't tell you that my love of white linen suits and lounge music will sustain you for life. I can't count on the fact that my gorgeous face will continue to warm your heart each and every day. All I can promise is that I'll keep "BE"ing... as the sweet old maid that lived up in the rat-infested shack at the top of my neighbors' hill when I was a kid once told me... "What Be's, Be's." I think she was mostly talking about how she hated her employer, the rich old neighbor lady, and how much she must have hated living in squalor and drinking ripple every evening. I spend a whole summer at age 16 painting her place, replacing and fixing her appliances, and saving up a little change to buy her a teeny black and white TV. She paid me back with a whole bucket of figs.<br /><br />And I can do that for you too, metaphorically, if you're brave enough to keep reading... I hope I can help fix you up too. All I want in return is a big thing of figs.<br /><br />Love,<br />Pat<br /><br /><iframe width="420" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/s-KAvPbO8JY" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>Pat Buchtahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09033396576622212388noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3383597951409274969.post-17743817349586849082011-09-09T07:41:00.000-07:002011-09-09T12:07:37.541-07:00We Who Must RemainI don't know of anyone this summer that would say it's been anything less than challenging. We've all heard the old adage that God never gives us more than we can handle at any given time. I'm not sure how much God really has to do with it, to be honest. I do believe there is a much larger master plan that we are all part of, one that we may not even fully realize in this incarnation, but that does very little to assuage the relentless strife and turmoil that many of us seem to have to face so unfairly. <br /><br />Within the last week, a very dear old friend lost a six-year long battle with cancer. I had reconnected with her and talked a few times over Facebook in the past years since we were both going through similar struggles with our health. I was always inspired by her undying strength, humor, and resilience during her battle, and I tried to apply those lessons, sometimes unsuccessfully, to my own plight. When she finally passed, she left behind a husband and three lovely daughters. <br />Three days later, another old friend lost his dear wife to cancer after a long and hard fought battle. Similar story again... same age, three sweet kids and a really solid, good example of a man were left behind. <br /><br />Where in God's grand scheme does any of this make a lick of sense? I could pontificate and go on to say that they lived their lives so that we would all learn from their example, and that would certainly be true. But I guarantee that's not going to make any sense to a small child who has just lost his/her mother. <br /><br />So what am I really trying to say here, if I don't have any useful advice to offer? Everything I want to say seems trite when dealing with the kinds of issues many of us have faced this summer. Just this week, so many people very close to Austin have lost everything in the horrific wildfires that are a bi-product of the unrelentingly brutal summer we've had. The upper East Coast is flooding. Our economy is screwed, jobless rates are absurd, and politicians on both sides seem to be completely lost and useless. <br /><br />It's easy to think that everything that's happening is connected in one way or another. And it may be... I'm certainly not enlightened enough to make a ruling on that. It would seem our Yin has come back around to bite our Yang in the ass. But perhaps in that very model we can take some solace... it's can't always be light, and it can't always be dark. The true nature of the universe implies balance. What we're experiencing now won't last forever. Things will get better again. But right now, there's simply not much solace to be found. So, the real question must be, is is pointless to even try?<br /><br />But that's really all we can do. Embrace our pain. Own our loss. Strive to find some sort of meaning out of it all that works for you on a personal level. And for God's sakes, keep helping each other! I'm overwhelmed this week by how rapidly and selflessly our community has come together to aid those who have lost so much in this week's wildfires. It's heartwarming to see so many people come to each other's aid without hesitation... they know instinctually they have to, and that they gain essential life's worth in doing so. It's addictive to help others, and it's the best kind of drug... a drug that actually helps us in a very real and tangible way for once! We simply cannot afford to lay down to life, and even more so, there's simply no excuse for it when so many opportunities to help and heal ourselves are ever-present as they are today.<br /><br />Look, life is hard as hell for most people. A lot of it really sucks. But we have to keep at it, if for no other reason than the simple knowledge that we will achieve balance, and possibly even find joy, once again at some point. And when you've suffered, joy is a much sweeter gift than if you had not. <br /><br />In memory of:<br />Laurn Boehner Schroeder<br />Mindy Bryant Lanoux<br /><br /><object style="height: 390px; width: 640px"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/dKwnE_jR8l8?version=3"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/dKwnE_jR8l8?version=3" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowScriptAccess="always" width="640" height="390"></object>Pat Buchtahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09033396576622212388noreply@blogger.com0