#his pancreas is unfortunately fucked but he's doing better

[i3utterflyeffect]

good news everyone! things are ok thus far.

Basically last night i discovered one of my dogs is very sick, but I went to visit him today and he's doing a lot better. He even had some energy to be sassy at me, which sounds like such a weird thing but it's a good sign.

So! Things currently are looking up

[bellybiologist]

My heart aches, but I'm relieved.

I went to see my mom in the hospital today. (Was gonna go yesterday, but my 1st vaccine dose got me real messed up 😅, but it was a blessing in disguise because she wasnt really conscious/responsive yesterday, based on what i heard)

I was super glad to see my mom was conscious, and was able to respond to us. She was happy to see me. 🙂 I talked for a bit, and my aunt asked her some important questions, and ultimately.

Mother decided she was ready to go.

I'm so incredibly sad right now. I had to cry in the shower for a bit when i got home, and im honestly still crying but... im very relieved. This is a decision she made herself, and my aunt and I are glad we didnt have to make the decision for her, which we wouldve had to do because she ended up never waking again or something like that.

so in the next couple days, we're gonna take her off life support. I wanna see if I can be there when she goes. It's the least I can do. It's gonna destroy me, but i wanna be there.

These last few months have been so very hard, and I was mostly sad for her. In such a short time, she became almost completely unable to move, and not even able to breathe without assistance... I've been lowkey wanting all this crap to end because just seeing my mom suffer for so long (and hell, she was sick way up in like January/February, so the entire year has been legit rough), and watching her deteriorate right in front of my eyes is a harrowing experience.

I'm honestly very glad she can finally rest soon. I talked to my good friend who i've known since high school (we've been friends for ~17 years by this point xD), and i asked about his dad who passed away a few years back. His dad had pancreatic cancer too, apparently. He faded a lot faster than my mom did, unfortunately. In the span of a couple weeks, he told me.

Cuz man, pancreatic cancer really is just like that.

Well anyway. I'mma go and treat myself to some burgers. Treat myself to something nice. Thanks for all the prayers, good vibes, and well wishes. They really helped me get through these troubling times.

I'll be ok, though. I'll just be like. fucked up anywhere from a few weeks to a few years (who knooooows), but i'll be alright. I'm still gonna try and get work done, and i've been drawing some doodles that i hope some of you will enjoy.~

So, yeah, uhhhh. idk how to end this, sooooo; Always tell your loved ones that you love them, look into preventive care if you can, keep an eye on that mutinous bastard (the pancreas), cuz cancer fucking sucks. Also vote for better fucking medical laws. Peace.

[apapertrail-journalsir]

“the drunkards disease.” 6/18/21 3:04pm Final Copy

They say to just start writing even if you don’t want to, same as most things; practice makes perfect.

Now, with that being said, I want to talk about my father today the only way I know how to, through a piece of paper.

Which “technically” is just a handwritten projection of my own thoughts, so I guess I’m just venting to myself right now.

How Original.

My father has been in the hospital for days now, not getting any better. He’s been told his pancreas is dying, which is causing his liver enzymes to be fucked up. This as a result, will progressively lead his liver to fail. Concluding this sick and twisted domino effect.

“the drunkards disease”

I remember in my adolescent years, always complaining about my parents excessive drinking, of course words couldn’t even begin to describe the severity of what went on in my “home” every night after I got home from school. Every time I stepped foot down the school bus stairs onto the worn down asphalt of my street, it was like I was preparing to march into battle. Anxiety would suffocate me as I approached the front door.

This was a every single day reality for me and the only people who truly understood, were my siblings.

I read online that although it is possible “in EXTREME cases”, most heavy alcoholics don’t develop these issues until around 65-70 years old.

My dad is 51 and most likely won’t see the day he turns 52.

I am a fully committed pessimist unfortunately, not even a raging optimist can argue with the test results.

But would you like to know what frustrates me the most, leaving me tossing and turning wide fucking awake in the earliest hours of the morning?

The fact that he’s not telling me anything!

Don’t get me wrong, our relationship is in complete ruins but regardless, don’t you think that if he got his results back he should be updating me on something as important as that? It would be worth mentioning that I asked about the test results three times that same day.

Only to be thoroughly ignored, ALL THREE FUCKING TIMES.

The whole situation is just all types of fucked up.

I asked my youngest brother what hospital he was being treated at and he confirmed that my father is at the one only about 15 minutes away from my house. I’ve been debating back and forth for two damn days now on randomly showing up unannounced to his room in hopes to see him one last time, but when I get there what am I even going to say?

I genuinely don’t even know this man anymore and vice versa.

What the fuck do I say to the man who cold heartedly kicked out his first born son while still a teen. Selfishly leaving him to fend for himself on the unpredictably violent streets of the inner city. Meanwhile, he soundly rests his bald head comfortably in his materialistic kingdom of a home, filled with nothing but regrets and ruled by his new, stink eyed, pot belly queen.

The same exact man who looked deep in his sons struggling eyes and said he would never give up on him, and then did.

So now, here I am crying about a shitty and selfish man, who should have never been a father in the first place!!

Stupid.

I will admit, I do understand why that man is the way he is, he never truly had a solid chance at mental stability. Given away at birth and raised by his adopted parents, only to find his own adopted dad, dead in the kitchen by his own hand.

So, you tell me if you think he had a chance?

On second thoughts let me revise that, he did have a split in the road decision but took the wrong route, only to end up a bitter old man.

He had a chance, until his hand met that bottle. Refusing to put it down for a little to long.

Foolishly picked up, as a very effective maladaptive coping skill to numb the constant pain that subsides deep down inside his blackened heart.

Then, this same man hypocritically crucifies ME for struggling with addiction and chemical dependency issues so bad the majority of my life,

HM, I WONDER WHY???

MAYBE, IT’S BECAUSE THAT’S HOW I WAS TAUGHT TO DEAL WITH PAIN MY WHOLE CHILDHOOD!

Fuck.

I don’t know how many times I’ve attempted to explain my BPD and it’s anchoring roots, birthed from the seeds planted during the most impressionable years of my childhood.

Damning me to grow up to be a very mentally unstable and insecure shell of a man.

Still, they would without fail deny deny deny taking part in my inevitable downfall at all.

Acting like a bunch of clueless chickens with their heads chopped off, running around screaming... “what could we have done!?!????”

A fuck ton.

Yet you were always WAY to self absorbed and heartless to realize what you were ultimately doing to your oldest sons underdeveloped brain.

A sensitive brain.

So nowadays, I’m over it and bridges have burned.

I may bury my feelings the same way, but at least I never gave up like a fucking coward.

Where were you?

You weren’t fucking there,

so what’s done is done as what’s said is said.

In conclusion, I wholeheartedly swear to everyone reading this disaster-piece that it will be a cold cold day in Hell if I EVER abandon MY OWN son for struggling and needing his father. Just to shun him away as he continuously BEGS and BEGS to make amends in a attempt to solidify our damaged relationship once more.

I’m shedding tear after tear, still alone, preparing myself to mourn a man I once called “Dad” and now is nothing more then a painfully saddening memory... for the rest of my days.

You may ask me why I care so much about a failure of a father/husband. who has absolutely no place in his heart for his own son,

only for that stupid fucking bottle?

Because,

I loved you dad.

i.r.

[why-this-kolaveri-machi]

Fic: stabbed

This is a fill for the Whumptober 2019 day 8 prompt: stabbed!

yes, i’m still doing this! it’s been AGES since i last wrote and i’m more than a bit rusty, so i’m trying to ease my way back with some good old straightforward h/c :)

Summary: Set after the flashback in 2.04. Dick’s first mission in Gotham after the Titans disbanded doesn’t go well. At all. 

WARNINGS: SPOILERS for Titans s2, especially 2.04. Some swearing. Moderately graphic descriptions of a serious injury. Passive suicidal thoughts. Not really much comfort to be had here--Dick’s spiralling, and he will continue to spiral (in the show’s timeline) for many years to come.

stabbed

“Robin. Status report.”

For godssake, B, Dick wants to snap, it’s just the two of us working this job. You don’t have to talk to me like I’m your soldier. The words crowd against his teeth, pushed there by a now-familiar swell of resentment in his chest. Instead, what comes out is: “Everyone’s been rounded up and handed over to the cops on my side. I’ve passed on the coordinates and date of the next big meeting with their boss.”

There’s a brief pause on the other side of the communicator. “Next meeting?” Bruce says, with the same sort of delicate scepticism that he might employ when Dick’s reaching for his third slice of butter sponge cake at the dinner table.

Dick grits his teeth. “Maroni got away this time,” he admits.

“I see.” There’s a snap and a click, and the distinct low hum of the Batmobile powering up. “I expect a full report at the Cave this morning.”

“I’m—” Dick shifts, swallows a gasp.

“… do you need me to pick you up?”

Dick looks down at the blade stuck in his gut and the blood seeping through between the armour plates of his costume, and thinks about it. He definitely needs medical attention but the thought of going back to the Cave, to sit there alone at the centre of its yawning blackness to convalesce, stewing in the ways he had failed—well. Dick can’t even stand the thought of it.

“I’m good,” he says. “Catch up with you soon.” With that, he turns off his communicator before Bruce can reply.

It’s like a string that’s been holding him upright has been cut. He slumps back against the grimy alley wall, breath stuttering with every inhale. The mesh of his uniform and the armour plates are doing a good job in securing the blade and to prevent, well, torrential bleeding, but that’s not going to hold if he starts moving. But if he doesn’t move and get some goddamned help, he’s going to bleed out anyway. He’s fucked unless he can get help to come to him, which—

which—

(we’re over, dick.)

No. No. This is fine. Things could’ve been worse—he could’ve been shot, which could’ve caused a perforating injury instead of merely a penetrating one, more tissue damage, and a greater chance of infection. Given the angle and position of the blade, it likely didn’t hit his liver or his pancreas, which means fewer chances of imminent death-by-exsanguination or auto-digestion. That the knife was able to penetrate him at all through the miniscule gaps in his armour must mean the blade is very fine and thin, so if he can just keep it in place long enough for him to seek help, he might be able to prevent the one complication with the power to kill him: infection.

So, you know. Bar a contrast-CT scan or two, Dick is very optimistic about his chances. He might as well get a headstart on writing that report for Bruce in his head:

In my first mission after losing a close friend and losing my team, I managed to lose a straightforward fight, lose the crime boss I could’ve normally captured in my sleep, and I’m probably going to lose a little bit of my intestine and shit in a bag for a little bit. Just an all-round loser losing things.

Very punchy, off-puttingly whiny, and utterly unprofessional. Bruce would absolutely hate it, but at least it would be something other than the vaguely disapproving looks he’s been giving Dick ever since he crawled back to Gotham like a pathetic thing.

Taking as deep a breath as he dares and securing the blade in his abdomen with one hand, he grabs the lip of a nearby dumpster with the other and begins to pull himself upright. Every inch of movement is like being stabbed all over again—an icy, electric pain that shoots up into his chest and squeezes his lungs. The pain makes his breathing progressively fast and shallow, which just worsens the pain, and by the time he’s able to extricate his mind out of that vicious cycle he’s sprawled on the ground again and the knife in his gut is smearing his blood on concrete approximately a foot away from him.

Well, fuck.

Dick thinks briefly, giddily, about putting the knife back in to plug the hole in his gut, wastes a few more precious moments berating himself for even thinking that, then removes his communicator from his belt. His fingers leave bloody, webbed smears all over the keypad and the screen wavers in and out of focus; he squints and pants and steadily scrolls past his long list of contacts.

To call any of the Lanterns or Superman would mean the Justice League would know about this, and that would mean Bruce would know about this. The Titans… well, clearly they’re out of the picture. (Donna would probably come and help him if he asks but the thought of facing her after letting her down so spectacularly feels like someone’s flaying the inside of his chest.) Roy can’t possibly make it on time.

That only really leaves Wally. He’s another bridge Dick’s managed to burn, but maybe—just maybe—

This number has been deactivated.

Oh, Dick thinks. His mouth feels dry and slimy, and blood trickles steadily around his now-slack fingers covering his wound. I didn’t know that. He can’t remember the last time he actually called Wally (or Wally called him), when he last remembered to properly sync his communicator with the Batcave and JL servers, can’t remember the last time he remembered to do things other than breathe through the ball of guilt and stress that had taken residence in his chest and smile and fight and eat and wake up the next morning to do it all over again.

Dick presses his forehead to the crook of his elbow, takes a shaky breath, feeling suddenly, soulcrushingly alone.

Minutes pass like hours, and more of Dick seeps out over Gotham pavement, his blood black in the moonlight. His heart is pounding in his chest, his head is gripped in a vise of pain, and he barely has the energy to keep pressure on the hole in his gut. Nausea crashes into him in waves, and at some point, he does throw up bloody bile, his throat burning, his guts feeling like they’re being stirred with a white-hot poker.

He still doesn’t call Bruce.

It’s… it’s probably not a terrible idea to fade away right here. He’s fucked up so much, much more than he’d ever realised, fucked up in ways that seem irreversible, and if his punishment for that is to die, alone and cold, in a dirty Gotham alleyway, then so be it.

so you’re going to roll over and give up. i thought i taught you better than that.

The familiar voice drags a chuckle from Dick. His eyes are open to slits at this point and what he can see is blurry, but he can just about make out Bruce, dressed impeccably in a suit, bending and peering at Dick like he’s a particularly interesting piece of roadkill. “I was wondering when you’d show up,” Dick rasps.

you summon me for a personal crisis at least every other month. Bruce grins sharply. i wouldn’t have wanted to miss this doozy, would i?

“Nothin’ much you can do,” Dick slurs.

that’s true, Bruce agrees. but i wouldn’t be here if some long-suffering survival instinct in that brain of yours isn’t throwing a hail mary so that you don’t kill yourself.

“You’ve never been the reason I’ve tried to stay alive,” Dick says.

oh, good, Bruce says. then what’s the reason? the glorified friends’ club you called a team? the memories of all the people you’ve gotten killed? or maybe the so-called friends who are still alive, when you can’t even bring yourself to even bother to keep in touch with them?

“I—” Dick blinks, long and slow. When he opens his eyes, Bruce is gone. “I don’t know,” he says.

He blinks again, and when he opens his eyes this time, it’s daylight, he’s lying on something warm and soft, and the pain in his gut isn’t nearly as sharp. He can hear a faint, steady beeping. He stares at the ceiling for a long moment before looking to his side and meeting Bruce’s steady gaze.

“You’re in Gotham General,” Bruce says. “It’s been two days since I found you, nearly dead, just off the docks. It’s really unfortunate,” he picks delicately at his sleeve cuff, “that you were mugged like that.”

Location, time, cover story—Bruce is nothing if not efficient and to-the-point. Usually Dick strives to match that discipline with his own, but his thoughts are too scattered, his chest too hollow, to really try. He just grunts in response.

Bruce frowns and leans forward. “You were bleeding out for hours and you didn’t try to call anybody for help—in fact, you lied to me about being injured at all. This is beyond being irresponsible, Dick—this is outright reckless.” He pauses. “I thought I taught you better than that.”

Dick thinks he knows the response to this. It’s not usually difficult to get out, even when he’s injured like this. But there’s something devastating about going to sleep thinking you’ve lost everything you’ve ever had to lose, and waking up to find that you were wrong about that last part.

i thought i taught you better than that.

Dick’s eyes burn, and tears drip steadily into his hair.

Bruce looks stricken, just for a moment—he reaches out, touches Dick’s hair—says, “Dickie,” like Dick’s twelve years old again and desperately, shatteringly alone and Bruce is still visibly trying—

He gets up, a little abruptly. When he speaks, it isn’t with the Batman growl, but with the mildest quaver, something that goes well with his rapidly-greying hair and deep lines bracketing his eyes. “I’ll go fetch Alfred—I’ll let him know you’re awake.” With that, he leaves the room.

Dick closes his eyes.