My Journey with Necrotizing Fasciitis (Flesh-eating Bacteria)

My Journey with Necrotizing Fasciitis (Flesh-eating Bacteria)

***Fair Warning***

***Graphic Images***

October 14th, 2014 -

This Tuesday morning started like any other day, I woke up groggy and grumpy and pulled myself into a hot shower to wash away the sleep in my eyes and refresh my body and mind. Only this Tuesday wasn't going to be a normal day. Of course, it was expected to a little abnormal, life altering even. This Tuesday was the day I finally got to end years of suffering from that nasty little annoyance known as acid reflux. After putting it off for far too long, I was going in for a much needed Laparoscopic Nissen Fundoplication. For those that don’t know, the procedure is pretty simple to explain; the upper part of the stomach is wrapped around your esophagus and sewn into place. Doing so strengthens the valve that is responsible for keeping acid from backing up into the esophagus. I was three years out from the time the surgery was initially suggested and finally tired of swallowing a dozen pills a day to fight the hellfire that is acid reflux.

I had a little bit of apprehension about the procedure. My surgeon had expressed some concern about existing scar tissue in my abdomen from a rather scopious damaging car accident 18 years earlier. The scenario wasn't particularly troubling; if it was an issue laparoscopically that just meant he would have to open me up to finish the surgery. No big deal to me really, I already had an extensive scar wider than my first two fingers running the length of my stomach, a little incision on top of it all was nothing, comparably. The surgeon also had some concern that existing scar tissue from the previous injuries could cause some issues; it may make the surgery unable to be completed laparoscopically, it could also cause other injuries should the scar tissue rip or tear. Despite a couple of attempts, the insurance company had declined to allow a scan of my abdomen first to explore the existing scar tissue. And so, the procedure would be trial and error with hopes that an incision wasn’t needed. On top of those concerns, I absolutely hate going under anesthesia. My limited experiences consisted more of unpleasant awakenings with extensive injuries than pleasant awakenings. Nonetheless, my acid reflux had worn out its welcome.

My mother drove me to hospital bright and early. I was issued to surgery prep, met by a couple of very friendly nurses and very revealing hospital gown. We chatted, discussed my tattoos and the most recent book I was skimming, all seemed well. That’s the last thing I remember until two weeks later.

Waking up is kind of a blur…...a series of wicked hallucinations and fear for my life…..I’ll get more into that another time. For now, let’s look at those first two weeks as told to me by family and doctors:

Day 1 ushered in the first complications. For reasons unknown at the moment, I didn’t come out of anesthesia the way I should have, in short, I wasn't breathing well on my own. Doctors originally thought it may be scar tissue in my esophagus that was swollen from the anesthesia and surgery. I was intubated with a ventilator and assurances were given to my mother that I should be fine the next day as the swollen scar tissue subsided.

Day 2 I hadn’t improved any but, I still wasn’t viewed as being in a critical situation. As one of the nurses was cleaning my surgery sights, she noted a green pus oozing from one of them. The surgeon was notified and I was taken into surgery that afternoon. Turns out my small intestine has been damaged; there is a discrepancy here as to the actual cause and to this day I could not tell you if it was the result of scar tissue tearing open my small intestine of the nick of ultra sharp surgeons tools. Different doctors say different things, regardless the result is the same. I was opened up this time, the tear/nick was discovered, repaired, and cleaned. Once again, assurances were given that I would be fine the next day. My mother went home to rest, expecting an improved son when she returned the following day.

Day 3 saw my condition deteriorating even further. As my mother came into the ICU she was stopped by a nurse, inquiring if I was her son. My mother answered yes and which point she was told that I was very, very sick and if she was my mother, she would have me moved to another facility immediately. I don’t know who this woman was, but she is responsible for igniting the chain of events that would save my life. The surgeon was notified and it was agreed that I would be transferred to University Hospital in Columbia, approximately 100 miles away. And this is where the absolute cluster fuck begins: one doctor thought there was an issue with my esophagus, collapsing due to previous injuries, something that the doctors in Columbia could fix with surgical mesh to reinforce the walls and structure of my throat. Another doctor stated that I had pneumonia and my heart was enlarged on one side, leading me to being so sick. Neither had a clue.

While I was being airlifted to Columbia my parents were heading home to pack for a couple of days stay. Before they could even finish packing their suitcases my mother’s phone rang; I had arrived in Columbia, with dire news. The doctor’s statement was simple, they could not wait for my parents to arrive to take me into surgery, I had to be taken immediately and all they could say was that they would do the best that they could do. The phone call, the outlook, was shocking and grimm. The doctors would later tell me that when I arrived, they immediately examined the surgery sights, and found Necrotizing Fasciitis the size of a man’s hand (this particular Dr, at over 6’ was a sizable fella, with sizable hands). In the 30 minutes it took to evaluate me and prep me for surgery, they watched with a naked eye the NF double in size! Debridement of the NF infected skin is the only option. It is essential that the infected skin be removed to prevent further spreading as NF acts quickly, very quickly. If the infection gets into the muscle it may cause limb loss, or worse. If it spreads too far, into organs and the blood stream, death is sure to follow, and as witnessed, NF doesn’t waste any time getting around. My doctors estimated I had 6 - 8 hours, at best, from imminent death.

Below is a couple of pictures after the first set of debridements:

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It was scary time for my family. One of my best friends and my daughter arrived to the hospital first. The news was shocking, they just didn’t know if I would make it through the night. Later, the doctors would tell my mother that when he returned to the hospital the next morning, he truly expected to hear the news that I had not made it. This was one of the most serious and severe cases of NF they had seen. Thankfully, I did make it. All told I had a half dozen surgeries over the next week or so to remove infected tissue. I would spend the couple of weeks wrapped in a wound vac, an interesting little concoction that is basically a great big giant sponge taped over a wound and hooked up to a vacuum on the wall to promote blood flow and drain all the nasty ooze that comes with a wound like this. It amazed me these giant containers of nasty fluid the nurses would dump out. How does the body do it?

Three weeks or so after being admitted to Columbia and diagnosed with NF it was time to start replacing my lost skin. The first step was to shave my head and use that skin for a test area on my side. It’s an odd feeling to have your head wrapped in a bandage that is literally stapled to head! All-in-all, the test site went well and the skin graft took amazingly. Now on to step two, skin was taken from my right thigh and placed over the remaining area of open wound. The bad news was that the sites where they take the skin hurt like a bitch! I was warned those sites could be more painful than the actual wound site (yeah, right!), they weren’t kidding! But with bad news there must be good news and the good news couldn’t be better. The skin grafts took so well (>95%) that I only had to have two surgeries in all. The results couldn’t be better! In the picture below, the mostly white, tightly patterned skin is the initial graft from head, all of the remaining is from my right thigh.

The doctors had a regimen and, despite the tremendously great care I was receiving,  I was determined I was not staying in the hospital any longer than I absolutely had to! I needed protein to heal and 3,500 - 4,500 calories a day. Now, I like to eat, but at that point, my stomach was still sore and my appetite was not the greatest so the solution was to drink four Ensure type protein supplements a day. At first, they didn’t taste so bad but let me tell you, they get old quick! I ate every piece of meat at my meals, drank every drink they gave me, supplemented with the occasional handful of NERDS candy (I still needed my sanity). I was not staying down for long!

By November 11th, just a few days shy of a month since this all started, I was on my way home, well, kind of. I was on my way to my parents house which had recently been outfitted with a hospital bed in a spare bedroom and an order for home health to come out and change my dressings and check my wound. By Thanksgiving and the Black Friday sales, I was braving Wal-mart, with a wheelchair and small army of bodyguards around me to ensure no one bumped into me or my side. The week before Christmas, I was headed to my own home. While I appreciated every single thing my parents and Grandmother did for me, the meals, the running around of my children, getting me to the doctors appointments and mostly, the dressing changes on a daily basis, I was ready to be in my own home. By the first week of January, I was back to work, full-time. For the most part, my life had returned to normal, just few months after it had nearly ended.

By the time I went to last my follow-up appointment in February, I was cleared with a return visit not needed again for another year. This last picture was taken the end of December, nearly fully healed and how my side will look for the rest of my life. NF is interesting, the fat tissue never grows back and so what you are looking at is literally just a layer of skin over pure muscle. No buffer. I guess I would have one hell of interesting looking six-pack if I ever worked out! Because the skin lays directly over muscle, the body’s natural moisturizers no longer have an adequate delivery system and so I have to apply lotion daily to ensure the skin doesn’t dry out and get damaged. A minor annoyance, in my opinion, in trade for my life.

I consider myself fortunate. Realistically, I made it out of all this relatively unscathed. While the wound is pretty large and nasty looking (Dr’s estimate 15 - 20% of my skin was damaged, one report put it as high as 23%), I didn’t lose any limbs, didn’t damage any internal organs and didn’t suffer any detriment to my private parts. I don’t remember the pain that so many others have suffered through when they contracted NF, the drug-induced coma those first critical days carried me through the most of it. I don’t suffer from a massive amount of on-going pain now that I’m healed. Yes, it can be painful sometimes, especially if I’m bumped into or touched. Some days are more sensitive than others and it’s a pain when the lotion wears off and it starts to dry out but, all that is more than survivable.

I’m still working through some of the hallucinations the needed drugs caused (I could write a short book on those stories, maybe it will be another blog entry).

More importantly, I wasn’t hit with depression or anxiety or any other type of mental anguish a life-altering injury like this can cause. Sure, it hit my self confidence some and

Edit - When I originally published this back in September of 2015, I truly didn't believe, at the time, that I was suffering from any sort of depression. I couldn't have been more wrong. I knew my self-confidence had taken a hit but I didn't realize just how damaged and fragile my mental state was. In a world that puts so much value on outer beauty, I quickly discovered just how cruel and insensitive people can be towards others.

One of the things that hit me hard while I was in the hospital was simply a sense of feeling incomplete. I had a great number of family and friends by my side, showing support and love. But, I was missing that ONE person....in my case, not anyone particular, but yet, there was still a sense of emptiness. I had no spouse or serious love interest by my side.

For many years I had been in and out of relationships and/or living the single life, with no commitment to anyone other than myself. I knew, then and there, that's not the life I wanted to lead any longer. And so, I determined I was going to get back into the dating game, and seriously start looking. After a few months, I was worn out. Countless conversations ended once people saw my physical condition. Some of them just ghosted me, others bluntly expressed their appall at the site of my wound. I was already down and I was just being pounded into the ground again and again. Interactions brought about tremendous anxiety. I withdrew. I became desperate.

I grasped at the chance of love when I should have known better and entered into an extremely poisonous relationship. We were hell for each other. Hate, animosity, seething words intended to destroy each other ruled the relationship. We stayed on again/off again for two years. Every time we split, the same cycle started over again. I tried dating; I met rejection and humiliation over and over again. I was convinced I would die alone. I had to go back. It was my last chance. I convinced myself every time. I allowed myself to be poisoned by my own depression and delusions of self-worth.

After nearly two years of torturing each other, we finally went through counseling. It was then that I had a harsh realization. My reasons for being in this relationship were all wrong. Instead of healing, I was just agitating my mental wounds. I had only continued to withdraw. I had neglected friends and family. I didn't leave home. I gave excuse after excuse for why I couldn't attend various invites. All because I was placing my self-worth and confidence on whether or not I believed I could ever be loved again as this deformed monster. I was willing to accept less than I deserved out of this desperation.

It wasn't until that relationship ended and I stopped looking that I found true love (ask me about that story sometime, it's a doozy!). I'm happy to say I've been happily married for some time now and to a woman who never lets me forget just how madly in love with me she is. Yes, I still have my moments of self-doubt. My moments of "how could she love me". Unbridled fear that I will lose here to some chiseled-abs Chip-n-Dale dream of perfection. And when I do, she never fails to remind me just how much she loves me for me, and all of my imperfections.

This short story added more to this entry then I intended but I find it of utmost importance. I failed to be truthful with myself when I needed to do so the most. I failed to get help when I should have; even when I was encouraged to by others. I damaged relationships and withdrew from those who cared about me the most, when I needed it most. I set myself on a hell of path that could have been avoided if not for my own ignorance and stubbornness. And this cautionary tale is tell you, that you don't have to go down the same path. There is no shame in being scared, in losing self-confidence, in being anxious to reveal how damaged you are. But there is hope and there is help. There is no shame is seeking it. You are worth it!

All-in-all I feel like I came out of this far less unscathed than it could have been. I had an amazing group of doctors in Columbia to whom I owe my life. I can not thank them enough for their quick actions and stellar care during my stay. I’m blessed to have this life, to have more time to spend with my children. I’m blessed to have an incredible family that literally never left my side through this entire process and that has supported me through so much. I’m blessed with a multitude of friends who sent well wishes, came to visit me, and made sure to make sure I knew how incredibly loved I am.  I am blessed with this life and so many great people in it, that I can only be thankful.

Necrotizing Fasciitis is a rare bacterial skin infection that spreads quickly and kills the body’s soft tissue, also known as “flesh eating bacteria”. Its rarity causes the infection to often go undiagnosed/misdiagnosed, further leading to complications from loss of limbs to loss of life, in a very short period of time. Because the infection kills the soft tissue, antibiotics are not always able to get to where they need to go and often, debridement, cutting a way of the dead tissue, is necessary. The CDC records only 650-850 cases of Necrotizing Fasciitis from Group A Strep per year! Even though this is likely an underestimation due to lack of reporting, the rarity and seriousness of the disease cannot be underestimated. Medicinenet.com estimates the mortality rate between 25% - 75% depending on where the infection occurs.

Sources:

http://www.cdc.gov/Features/NecrotizingFasciitis/index.html

http://www.medicinenet.com/necrotizing_fasciitis/article.html

The Selfishness of Suicide

This past week the world was rocked by the untimely death of the well-known and loved comedian, Robin Williams, a tragic suicide. In light of his death, my Facebook, news feeds, blogs and Twittersphere have been inundated with comments and articles on suicide. There seem to be only two views. On one hand, some believe suicide is the most selfish act a person can commit, done without regard for and leaving behind loved ones, friends and family to mourn. On the other, a myriad of personal stories of the struggles of depression and how at some point, suicide seems to be the only option a desperate act to end the despair. These articles and viewpoints make some solid arguments but also miss the entirety of the selfishness of suicide.

Suicide is not always about depression. Sometimes, it really is nothing more than an extremely selfish act designed not to end their own suffering but to inflict it on others. The soon to be divorcee who is going to teach their spouse a lesson. Embracing some sick belief that killing themselves in front of their soon-to-be-ex will inflict some massive degree of pain on their life; ensuring they never live happily ever but, only with the everlasting torture of that final image of suicide. Or, the parent, temporarily angry at life, the spouse, the job, etc and in a fit of rage, decides to take their life on their child’s birthday, forever scarring what should be a day of celebration.  Unfortunately, these are real examples, people who did not suffer from depression or mental illness but only their own selfish motives.

Some don’t argue the selfishness of their own suicide. Dr. Jack Kevorkian assisted several individuals in what was often referred to as “assisted euthanasia”, ensuring a peaceful transition from this life to the next. There is certainly large amount of criticism and skepticism around his practices and widespread debate on whether his assistance was right or wrong, a selfless or a criminal act. We are not here to debate those things. I use him as an example only because of his recognition and his underlying concept, the right to die. Proponents believe we should have the ability to enable our own selfishness in these instances; a simple concept that holds, just as we have the right to live, we also should have the right to decide when enough is enough and leave this life, by our own design. Primarily, this concept is meant for those who suffer from debilitating, terminal illnesses that have severely hindered their quality of life. For these people, death, moving on to the next life, whatever they may believe that is, is a much better option than the pain and suffering they are enduring in their last days. One could also argue that it is the survivors who are selfish, not allowing them this relief, for our own fear of losing someone we love, not wanting to let go. Regardless of agreement of disagreement, some degree of understanding can certainly be garnered when these situations are experienced personally.

Depression is real. Yes, the world is full of people who blame this disease for their own laziness and use it as an excuse to make the same poor decisions over and over again, causing the same undesirable results. They are selfish people and have found a crutch to support their self-inflicted despair. They refuse to change their path, to help themselves, to break the cycle. We can not help those who refuse to help themselves. Most unfortunately, these abuses along with a mass misunderstanding of mental disease have allowed those of us who do not suffer to undermine the seriousness of those who are inflicted.

Those who suffer from depression do not want to, they do not want an excuse, they do not want to suffer any more. Ask a true sufferer or a survivor of this mental disease and they will tell you, they would do whatever it takes to be rid of it. Whatever. It. Takes. Depression takes on an ugly form, zapping away both emotional and physical energy. The outlook on life is bleak, you cease to care, you’ve never felt more alone. Depression feeds on despair, it alters your entire outlook of the world. For most of us, the sun is shining, the sky is a beautiful blue, the clouds are dancing to our favorite song. With depression, you only see dull, gray skies covered in menacing clouds that look like they are ready to dump all of life’s whoa on you, every damn day. You’re edgy, you’re uneasy, you’re easily annoyed. Even those you love, you friends, your family your co-workers become that nails-on-a-chalkboard sound you just can’t stand. You motivation evaporates, you isolate yourself. Justification becomes a sneaky little devil, whispering lies to your broken mind. “I deserve to feel this way, I’m only miserable because I really am a horrible person. I am an ugly person.”  Death becomes a way out, a way to escape the pain and suffering of life. Death is the answer to whatever it takes….

And we, you and I who don’t suffer, we can do more.

A short story, a giant revelation:

A few months ago I had the opportunity to visit Denver, Colorado for a work conference. That afternoon, as the cabbie took me downtown to my hotel, I noticed several dozen people standing next to several large storage containers, precariously angled and positioned in an odd arrangement.

"What’s going on here?", I asked.

"That’s some of the art they have downtown, we have stuff everywhere. Denver is an art centre."

"No, I said, all those people, what’s going on this afternoon?"

"Oh," he replied, "they are all homeless."

Holy shit! I literally had never seen anything like it. There were literally dozens and dozens of people in this little square and tucked away in the corners of downtown Denver’s cloud-high office buildings. I had seen homeless people, one here, another there, but never like this before.

We arrived at the hotel, I rushed to my room, freshened up, changed my clothes and headed down to meet the rest of our team who had been there since the conference had started a few hours earlier. When the end of the day finally came, it was already 10pm and I was famished. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. I had planned to eat lunch  when we changed planes but with an unexpected delay, I had less than 10 minutes to make my connecting flight. With the time change, it had been a good 13 hours since my last meal. I ran back up to my room, changed back into my casual attire and headed out onto Denver’s downtown shopping center, 16th Street, to satisfy the grumbling in my belly. I hopped across the street only to find the bar’s kitchen had already shut down but the Hard Rock Cafe just a couple blocks down the road was suggested. I turned around, walked out of the door and headed up the street.

I hadn’t made it two blocks when one of the dozens of homeless approached me:

"Hey man," he pleaded, "can you just talk to me? I’ve been out here for three hours asking. I just want someone to talk to me."

"Ah man, I can’t right now," I replied, "but I’ll be back."

And I walked on, my eyes focused on the bright neon lights of the Hard Rock Cafe just a couple of blocks up the road.

I made it to the cafe and within a few short minutes was seated on the glassed-in rock room on the second floor; surrounded by guitars, gold records, concert posters and other memorabilia from many of the legends of rock, sipping on the cold, sweet taste of flavored tea and eyeing the biggest damn meal I could find on the menu. As I sat waiting for my meal to arrive I did my best to keep my mind occupied, reading emails, texting a buddy, checking my Facebook.

My wait was short and I had food at last! What a relief! Here in front of me sat a pile of hot wings, a side order of onion rings, potato boats and bruschetta. I grabbed that first wing and ripped it apart like a rabid dog…..and immediately lost my appetite. WHAT A SELFISH FUCKING PRICK!

Since the moment I walked away, all I could hear in my mind was that man’s pleas. “Hey man can you just talk to me? I’ve been out here for three hours asking. I just want someone to talk to me.”

Here I was, sitting at a nice restaurant, eating a high priced meal on the company’s dime, wearing my third set of fresh clothes for the day and resting in the comfort that I was going to get a good night’s rest in a plush bed after a nice, relaxing shower. I was a hundred times more fortunate than that man. There was no telling the last time he ate, had a hot shower, a fresh pair of clothes or a bed under an actual roof to sleep in and be sheltered from the elements. He hadn’t asked for money, he hadn’t asked for food or alcohol or cigarettes. This man had asked, simply, for someone he could talk to, a friend, if only temporarily. I wouldn’t give him a measly few minutes of my time for my own selfish reasons.

I packed up what was left of my meal, paid my bill and headed back out onto 16th street to find him. The meal was his, a token of my sorrow, as was all the time he wanted to talk that evening. I spent the next 45 minutes walking up and down those few blocks looking for that man, even venturing into the alleyways and side streets. I never found him.

I think about that man every day, the loneliness in his eyes, the desperate pleading in his voice. I don’t know if he was just lonely or suicidal. I’ll never know. I know he pleaded with me and even though I could plainly see his despair, I turned him away anyway. What I should have done is stopped and talked to him for a few minutes. What I should have done is invited him to share a meal with me. What I should I have done is put my own selfishness aside. Maybe I can’t fix his homelessness but I can still listen, I can still care about his mental well-being, I can still be a friend.

I wonder whatever happened to him? Did he ever find someone to talk to him? What if he didn’t?

This man asked for someone to talk to, plainly and bluntly. Yet, I still failed to hear him.

According to the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention, between 50% and 75% of people who attempt suicide tell someone of their intent. They aren’t as direct as this man. They don’t scream “I’m going to kill myself”. The signs are often much more subtle. Ultimately, they have the same needs as this man did; to just talk to someone, to know someone cares, to know someone will listen and will support them and will help them get the help they need. Are you so wrapped up in your own selfishness that you are missing the opportunity to listen?

We will never understand every reason why. We may never prevent every suicide committed out of loneliness, depression and despair but, we sure can try. We can become better educated and understand the signs of a troubled soul. We can reach out to those who may need nothing more than to know someone cares. We can stop and listen when reached out to and we can put one hell of dent in that Son of a Bitch called suicide. We only need to realize that sometimes, we are the selfishness of suicide.  

Suicide, regardless the cause, is a disastrous, nocuous demon. When it rears its ugly head it is painful, both for the person who suffers from those thoughts and the ones left behind. We are here not to judge but rather, charged with love. It is our duty, as neighbors, friends and family, as brothers and sisters, to be compassionate; to those already gone, to those suffering today, to those left behind.

For more on the signs of suicide, check out the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention’s website here:

https://www.afsp.org/

https://www.afsp.org/preventing-suicide

https://www.afsp.org/understanding-suicide/risk-factors-and-warning-signs

Or, visit or call your local Suicide Prevention Center.

A response to Joshua Feuerstein's "Dear Mr. Atheist ... allow me to destroy evolution in 3 minutes!"

Originally Published June 19th, 2014

HOMO! HOMO! HOMO!

Last week my teenage son had some questions for me, in particular about being gay. Like most conversations involving the inquiring mind of a teenager, I’m not exactly sure how it started or why. Nonetheless, the primary basis of his inquiry was to whether people choose to be gay. I didn't want to get too complicated and lose his attention but at the same time, I thought this brought about several issues we should discuss. So please, excuse the simplicity of this article, as it's not meant to be an in-depth, heavily referenced and cited piece.  I also thought this worth sharing. Thus, our conversation ensued:

For ease, let’s address this in four simple parts.

Part 1: Do you choose to be gay?

"Do me a favor," I said, "answer me one question: What’s your favorite color?"

"Orange", he replied, without hesitation.

"Why?", I asked.

He pondered this for a minute…."Hmmmm, I don’t know," he said, "it just is."

"So, you didn’t just wake up one day and decide, from this day forward, orange is my favorite color?"

"No."

"This is a pretty simple example," I said, "so let’s do another. You have dozens of girls in your school to “choose” from for a girlfriend, right? Yet, one stood out above all the rest. Did you choose to be attracted to her?"

"No, I just am. I like her the most."

"But, you have so many other girls to choose from, why don’t you just pick another?"

"I don’t like them like that."

"Why not? Can’t you just choose a different one?"

I could see the wheel’s turning and with thought he asked; "well, then why do some people say that a gay person chooses to be gay?"

Part 2: Why do some people think being gay is a choice?

First, most religions throughout the world, condemn homosexuality. The United States is most heavily influenced by Christianity and so for us, our main religious focus. Biblically speaking, Christians generally believe that homosexuality is a sin and this is supported by several passages in the Bible. Various interpretations label laying with another man, as with woman, or a woman with a woman, as a detestable act, an abomination, immoral and shameful. Sodom and Gomorrah were destroyed by God himself over their sins, largely including homosexuality. To add fuel to fire, many also believe, that all sin is a choice; you choose to lie, covet, steal, worship idols, deny God, murder and host of other sins. Since, homosexuality is condemned as a sin, it must follow that to be gay is a choice. And if being gay is a choice, then a person can just as easily choose not to be gay.

Second, Christian or not, many supporters of homosexuality being a choice are quick to point out that scientist, despite years of looking, have never discovered a “gay gene” in our DNA,. If there is no “gay gene” inherent to our DNA make-up, like, say, our eye, hair or skin color, then, it is reasoned, being a homosexual must be a choice. In short, no “gay gene” is interpreted to mean no one is born homosexual.

"Ok, so then, what do you think?", he asked.

Part 3: What I think….

What do I think? I’m not really sure, I don’t really care (more on that soon). If you do your research, you will find homosexual advocates of choice. They not only will agree that being gay is a choice but will tell you from their own personal testimony that they themselves chose to be gay. I’m sure that very well is true, for some people. I would assume even more so in the case of those who identify as bisexual. But I don’t know, that also assumes they had an equal attraction to both a man and a woman and chose the same sex…,I’m now sure how true that can be. Is it any different from liking two women for me, but choosing to pursue one?

From what research I’ve seen, most (homosexuals) would argue that it is not a choice, it is who they are; part of them they can not change regardless of desire. I tend to lean toward it not being a choice, no different than many of the aspects of our life, and who we are. Sure, we may not have found a “gay gene”; then again, we haven’t found a straight gene either. We haven’t found genes for a number of things; my love for pizza or disdain for spinach, diseases such as diabetes, cancer, schizophrenia or depression, preferences and/or ability for sports, actors, musicians or, why some people prefer science why others prefer the arts.

Part 4: What Really Matters (Why I don’t really care why or how you’re gay):

Rick Warren said: “Our culture has accepted two huge lies. The first is that if you disagree with someone’s lifestyle, you must fear or hate them. The second is that to love someone means you agree with everything they believe or do. Both are nonsense. You don’t have to compromise convictions to be compassionate.”

God’s greatest commandment was to love Him, his second to love one another as you love yourself. He didn’t say love everyone but those horrid sinning gay folks. It’s a pretty simple commandment. It should apply whether you’re religious or not. If you are religious then you also understand that we are all sinners, we are all doomed for hell and we are all worthy of His forgiveness. John 3:16 says; “For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believes in Him should not perish but have everlasting life.” I’m sorry, I don’t see an “except homosexuals” clause…now we could go on and on but I’ll spare you the Bible Verse sparring session...Loving one another should be enough.

I wanted my children to understand one thing, above all others: there is no place for hate. Homophobia is absolutely senseless. What could possibly be wrong about two people loving one another? Being gay is not a value to judge someone’s worthiness of your friendship or love. Honesty, integrity, commitment, motivation, passion and courage; these are some of the many character traits of a good person. I know a lot of straight people who lack them, all. I hope they never lose the chance of a great friend because they judged them for being gay before really taking the time to discover who they really are.

Whether you are heterosexual or homosexual, religious or secular, we are all worthy of being loved and there is just simply no place for homophobia and hate. You don’t have to agree on whether being gay is right or wrong or, whether being gay is a choice or ingrained at birth. I’m not asking you to change your mind, I’m just asking you to love, unconditionally.

100MPH Techno Hump?!?!?!?

Ummm.....what?!?!?!?!

What the hell does it mean?

Like most stories, it’s much funnier seen then told. …maybe someday I’ll tell the story...or someone will tell it for me…it’s as ridiculous as it sounds and yet typical me...

What can you expect reading this blog?

A little of everything….

I’m slightly crazy, a bit of nerd, a lot of fun. Nothing extraordinary and even less ordinary. My face hurts from laughing and smiling. I have my rants and my raves. I only have two moods, happy or mad. I love everybody, until I don’t. I say what I mean and mean what I say. Crassly blunt. I’m misunderstood. I can be a real asshole and your best friend. Genuine intent but often harsh advice; life lessons, some plain ol’ common sense. Praising the intellects, calling out the idiots. Ignorance can be remedied, stupidity can not. I’ve learned a lot from my own mistakes. I’m a hypocrite; better at preaching than practicing. I’m educated. I never stop learning. If I made you think, I have succeeded. I love playing devil’s advocate. I’m steadfast in my beliefs. I enjoy a good debate. I’m hard headed. I reserve the right to change my mind. Some of you will applaud me, more of you will hate me. I’ll piss you off. You’ll piss yourself laughing. I have kids and they do some pretty comical shit. I’m an immature, big kid at heart and give them a run for their money. “Hold my beer and watch this” is a great idea. Hesitation is not. We can do anything if we put our minds to it. Some things we should never do. I’m all over the board. I’m right where I need to be.

So sit down and strap in, you’re in for a hell of a ride.