The Gentleman (( The Sequel to Long-Awaited Victory ))

(( Preface: Hello again, everyone! I'm sorry I've not been very active lately. I've been working on this post, which, as you can see, is nearly 15 pages, so that's why it took so long. If you've read my article called "Long-Awaited Victory," much of this story will be familiar to you and that's a good one to start with. However, I've gone into much richer detail about my emotions, frustrations, and situations in this rendition of my story. I'll probably record a spoken version of this in a few weeks, but in the mean time I hope you find my story meaningful. Thank you for your continued support and prayers! God bless! Also, happy belated Star Wars Day! May the Fourth be with you. And, you know, yay for Mexican independence day or whatever... ))

Hey, everyone. My name’s Seth. I’m a teenager from Tampa and I’m writing this today to just kind of tell you what my life has been like over the past few years. My tale is unique and I wish I could say that I never wavered in my faith throughout my journey, but that simply wouldn’t be true. To everyone who suffered alongside me during this time of tribulation, fear, and death, I dedicate this to you. You are the reason I kept fighting and I keep fighting. God bless you.

Now, my story starts with running, like all tragic tales of woe. My family and I had just moved into a new school system the summer before my sophomore year and I decided that friends and physical activity would be good for me, so I joined the cross country team. If you have any respect for yourself, never. Join. A cross country team. When I started out, I was absolutely terrible at it. I consistently placed last or close to it in the competitive meets and I hated the sport with a burning passion. Why would anyone willingly do what other athletes consider punishment?

Anyway, I was bad at running when I started out, but as the season dragged on I started having frequent bouts of diarrhea. Kids, that basically means that I pooped all the time. My family and I figured this was because of the running and we didn’t take it seriously until somewhere around late October, early November-ish. Around that time I started bleeding a lot every time I scampered to the bathroom, so we went to the doctor’s office to see what was going on. I’m paraphrasing here but he essentially said, “Bleeding isn’t good. I can’t help you. Go see an intestinal doctor, you scrub.” So we met my Gastroenterologist, Dr. Guna. He was a nice little Indian guy and didn’t seem too concerned with my symptoms. However, he did say that they were problematic enough that I would have to have a colonoscopy. Kids, that basically means that I was going to have a 300-foot-long tube shoved up my bum. I wasn’t thrilled about the experience, but, as some of the older folks reading this know, it wasn’t that bad.

I was unconscious the whole time they were poking around down south, so the main thing I remember was the horrendous hospital gown. It was entirely open in the back, so being an insecure, hormonal teen, that wasn’t the coolest thing ever. Not that mooning twenty doctors isn't fun, but... yeah... it's, uh... really not…

So I had the colonoscopy and after I woke up Dr. Guna diagnosed me with a moderately severe case of an autoimmune disease called Ulcerative Colitis. Basically, my immune system was attacking my large intestine for no reason and that created thousands of pustulent, bleeding sores. At that point, I was using the toilet 15-20+ times a day and waking up an additional 8-10 times at night. So on top of constantly using the bathroom, I was also exhausted all the time. Dr. Guna assured me that there were a variety of treatment options and that I would be back to normal soon. He prescribed a steroid called Prednisone and I walked out of the hospital feeling optimistic that things would turn around within a few weeks. Hahahahahahaha! Oh, the blissful ignorance of youth.

After being on Prednisone for about 10 days, my symptoms had gotten worse rather than better, so we headed back to Guna’s office to move on to the next phase of treatment. He wrote a prescription for a medication called Methylprednisolone (essentially Predisone’s bigger, nastier brother), but warned us that the side effects of the new medication were considerably worse than the old one. I figured anything was better than 30 rounds of diarrhea every day, so I started popping the pills.

Within the first week, my face puffed up and I had really bad acne. Not like “oh-you’re-a-teenager-and-it’s-not-as-bad-as-you-think” acne, but more “wow-are-you-alright-your-face-looks-like-a-nasty-rotting-corpse” acne. So that was absolutely bloody phenomenal. As the weeks dragged on though, my Colitis symptoms did start to improve ever so slightly. I wasn’t bleeding quite as much, so I wasn’t necessarily about to keel over and die per se, but I was still in the bathroom pretty much constantly. With minor improvement came major side effects, however. My face continued to puff up and break out and I started getting stretch marks on my legs and lower back that looked like someone had taken a serrated kitchen knife and hacked at my body, back and forth, side to side, up and down, until I was reduced to nothing but a thin membrane over my veins and capillaries.

I don't know what victims of Roman scourgings look like, but I assume it would be similarly bloody and grotesque. My stretch marks were long, wide, and the membrane of skin over them was thin, so I could slice my legs open if I bumped into the side of a counter or if I tripped into a water fountain. The physical stuff I could deal with -- that had never been more than I was capable of handling -- but the side-effects became overwhelming and terrifying when my mind started to be influenced. When I first started taking Methylprednisolone, I was kind of jumpy and agitated -- just your average, Type-A, obsessive-compulsive, firstborn teenager with a fishbowl complex -- but as the weeks turned into months I completely lost my grip on reality and time. The medication removed my social filter completely and utterly, so I would snap my hands randomly in public and talk really loudly. My friends have even graciously reminded me that "Psycho-Seth" (my mentally ill counterpart) swore several times. If you know me at all, you know how strange it would be if I got fed up with you and dropped an F-Bomb. I'm a pastor's kid, so I typically try to avoid profanity if I can. I just don’t like how it tastes. One of Psycho-Seth's most memorable outings was actually at church. We were in the middle of the worship service, belting out the latest Hillsong track, and without warning, I dropped to my knees and screamed at the top of my lungs. Needless to say, that got a few looks from some of the more conservative elderly folks in the church, but my shattered mind perceived the attention as encouragement to make more of a scene. I stood up on my chair, screeching and weeping about Christ's second coming. I was graciously instructed to sit back down by a lovely man wearing blue with an even lovelier taser. I broke down sobbing, not comprehending why a cop had yelled at me. Again, pastor's kid, so I've never been in trouble with the Feds (as far as you’re concerned, dear reader). I'm pretty sure I've only been to the dean's office once, and that was for bringing contraband, devil-exalting Pokemon cards to school and corrupting my good, Christian classmates in the lunch room -- but let's not open up that wound. Turtwig is the best starter in my opinion, by far.

Anyway, eventually, the Methylprednisolone messed up my brain to the point where I was hearing and seeing things that didn't exist. I vividly remember one night when I was lying, paralyzed in bed at 3:00 AM watching thousands of red-eyed spiders scuttle across the ceiling and walls, pincers clicking as if they were considering descending upon the feast of flesh and blood trembling under the blanket beneath them. I didn't fall asleep again that night, in case you were wondering. Not that whole week, actually… The pills made the simplest things in life like pouring a bowl of cereal and replying to a text message horrifying ordeals and I would shake and spasm like I was seizing every time I had to talk to an authority figure like a pastor or teacher. One day in March, my math teacher collected homework and pulled me aside because I hadn’t remembered to complete it. She asked me what was going on because I was one of the most consistent workers in my class. I couldn’t find the words to speak to her and stuttered for a few minutes while tears streamed down my face. To Mrs. Williams credit, she was very compassionate and walked with me all the way to the nurse’s office (essentially my home away from home, at this point). In transit, we talked about her son, of whom, she said, I reminded her, and how he was planning to attend the University of Michigan in the fall to study Nursing. I tried to interact, but some of the synapses or nerve endings in my brain must have been damaged because while I knew exactly how I wanted to respond, the best I could get out was one or two words after 30 seconds of stuttering. Mrs. Williams dropped me off with the nurse, called for my counselor and the school psychologist, handed me a Tootsie Roll Pop and wished me a wonderful afternoon. Man, I love that woman. The three faculty members and I talked about what was bugging me and the nurse taught me some stress relieving techniques like deep breathing to stop my racing heart rate and calm myself down. They also decided that since I was already a “special needs student” with my intestinal illness, they would add “may leave class at any time for an indefinite period” to my list of accommodations. Thank you, Mrs. Bialeschki! Miss you!

Side note, around this time, we realized that I have a minor heart irregularity, so my resting pulse rate is much higher than most people’s. I went to gym class, like, once while I was battling UC and psychosis and I threw up halfway around the running track. I stumbled back to my teacher and asked them to take my pulse. He listened to my heart for a minute or so and the most baffled expression I’ve ever seen flashed over his face. He told me my heart was racing at 175 Beats Per Minute and that I could very well have a stroke or heart attack if I didn’t calm down immediately. The typical teenager will have a resting heart rate of around 60-65 BPM. Hard-core athletes may break 125 if they’re sprinting to finish a marathon. We went to a cardiologist who determined that my resting pulse rate is 135-150 BPM and that exercising for any length of time could get me up to 185-200. People have pacemakers installed to prevent massive BPM spikes or dips, so the doctor said that might be in my future down the line in order to prevent a lethal stroke or heart attack before I’m old enough to drink. I didn’t get one that day though and I kept dancing through the daily grind of relentless diarrhea and waking, psychological nightmares. There came a point where the hallucinations and panic attacks were just too severe and frequent for me to be exposed to general society. I wasn’t quite to the point where I was a psychopath that could potentially harm myself or someone else, but I wasn’t far from it. John Hersey High issued me a homebound tutor, and it’s entirely credited to God’s grace and the commitment of my mom and Mrs. Levin that I even finished my sophomore year.

Towards the end of May, we started looking into alternative treatment methods, because Methylprednisolone was killing me almost as efficiently as the disease was. I went to the hospital every couple weeks for an IV infusion called Remicade (I basically just sat on a hospital bed with a tube in my arm for a few hours, binge-watching Lost) that was intended to block the protein inhibitors in my body that my immune system was attacking and inflaming. Unfortunately, the infusions never did anything to help my symptoms, so I had to continue taking Methylprednisolone through most of the summer so that I wouldn’t bleed out on the toilet and slip away from this present reality forever. Forcing myself to swallow those stupid pills that I knew were responsible for screwing up my mind every day was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. I knew that I was functioning like someone with crippling Autism and I hated that I was powerless to do anything about it. I’d be lying if I told you that suicide never crossed my mind. I felt like death would be significantly easier than the physical and mental trauma I’d been enduring for eight months. I even thought that God might forgive me for killing myself given my extreme circumstances. I knew Jesus died to pay the penalty for my sins. I knew I was forgiven. I just didn't know why I was suffering.

There was one night I vividly remember as a landmark moment in my life. I had just used the bathroom for the fourth time at 2:00 AM on a Wednesday night in April and I decided to grab a drink of water from the fridge. I tiptoed into the kitchen, careful not to disturb anyone else's slumber. My trembling hands filled a glass with minimal spillage and I took long, shaky breaths as I swallowed the liquid. Hopping up onto the countertop, a pill bottle caught the corner of my eye. I picked up the Methylprednisolone and thought for a long time about why I kept taking those damned pills. I sobbed the first real tears I had cried since leaving my friends in Louisville to move up north before my freshman year. I silently screamed at God to kill me and bring me before His throne. I was ready for judgment and didn't particularly care what the sentence was. I was already living in Hell, so what was the worst that could feasibly happen? God refused to strike me down though, so another man walked in. He was tall, thin, and wore a midnight black tuxedo with a golden tie.

He waltzed over to my side, removed his hat, and sat down with me. We talked for a few hours about what I had struggled with over the past few years and he made me a simple, attractive offer; he would release me from my life, escort me to Heaven's Gates, and take care of my family on Earth. He explained that I would pass quietly in the night, free from the pain, psychosis, and disease that had been killing me and that I would see God in the morning. I inquired about my parents and brothers, worried that my death would trouble them and that choosing to leave would cause them to suffer. The gentleman in the midnight suit just smiled at me, an indescribable warmth in his beautiful, golden eyes, and said that they wouldn't even realize I had left. He claimed that he could re-write their memories so that they would reminisce about a wonderful child whom they loved, but who had passed away from a terminal disease before he graduated high school. They would remember me as a coward who killed myself, but rather a martyr who was taken into God’s arms before I was ready. This seemed reasonable to me; after all, they would still remember my life and I would see them again one day in Paradise. I nearly shook the gentleman's hand, taking his deal and terminating my horrible life, but a nagging voice that I can only describe as coming from within my soul told me to wait. My hand faltered in midair and I let it drop back into my lap.

I told the gentleman that I was sorry, but that my work on Earth wasn't quite finished. He smiled his warm smile once more, nodded, and stood to leave, a hat the color of onyx on his head. As he was crossing the threshold to return outside, I stopped him and asked when I would die. He turned back and I saw a sorrow in his eyes that was as beautiful and melancholy as an autumnal sunset on the coast of the Atlantic. He stared at the floor, unsure for a moment whether or not I had the right to know. After a moment, he looked up again, a single golden tear running down his face. "Soon, but you’re not quite done yet, Odd One," he said, his voice like the low rumble of a waterfall at twilight. Our eyes met once more and I smiled his same, radiant smile back at him. He tipped his hat, turned on his heel, and vanished into the darkness. To this day, I don't know whether he was an angel, demon, Death incarnate, Satan, Jesus, or even a long-deceased relative of mine transcending space and time to encourage me in my faith. All I know is that he offered to release me from my suffering and I refused, daring to hope that good might one day come from my testimony. I saw several other ethereal figures throughout those months of psychotic torture, but they didn't often talk to me. Their place was elsewhere, their mission separate from mine. I encountered the gentleman in the midnight suit once more, but that comes later in my story.

After that night, I continued to struggle through the summer, getting increasingly mentally and physically ill as time passed. My resolve, however, had been reforged and I had never felt more confident that my destiny would change lives. The gentleman had encouraged me in his unique, melancholy way to press onward through my trial, holding onto the hope that something better awaited me. Perhaps he was nothing more than a figment of my fractured mind, but even if that were the case, he was very, very real to me. I sometimes wonder if he'll be the one that brings me before the Father or if he was, in fact, nothing more than a sympathetic servant of the Dark Prince. Regardless, his interaction with me is the one reason that I'm not in a coffin right now.

At the end of June, Dr. Guna finally recommended surgery. He transferred me into the service of a colorectal specialist named Dr. Park and wished me good luck, apologetic that his practice had been unable to help me. Dr. Park warned me that the operations necessary to cure my disease would be long, invasive, and painful, but he gave me his solemn vow that I would recover from Ulcerative Colitis and get off of the medication that had been killing my brain. My family and I eagerly scheduled the first of three surgeries for the end of July 2016 and felt real hope for the first time in months.

I showed up at the hospital, put on the immodest gown that was essentially my uniform, and waited. It took over six hours for the surgeon, anesthesiologist, and nurses to come and make sure that I wanted to go through with the operation, but at around 2:00 in the afternoon, they finally stuck me with a needle and knocked me out. I woke up that evening and was told that the surgery had been a resounding success. Dr. Park had successfully removed my entire large intestine and had pulled the end of my Ilium outside of my mid torso. I now had a lovely, swollen, bloody ileostomy.

That means that I had a bag strapped on to my belly that caught the feces and liquid that my “stoma” was constantly expelling. The small intestine doesn’t have any nerves or muscles, so I never felt myself passing a bowel movement and had to manually empty the bag every couple hours. It was disgusting in every sense of the word. The bags weren’t waterproof, so I had to take them off every time I took a shower and thick, sticky sewage would run down my body and into the stall. I got good at showering in 5 minutes or less.

I did, mercifully, get off of the Methylprednisolone so my mind eventually returned to normal after a little over a month and a half. While I’m certainly glad I got my brain back, those first few months after surgery were still some of the hardest I’ve had to deal with. I had six months with an ileostomy and they were both physically and emotionally exhausting. I had to drink 60-80 fluid ounces of water and Gatorade (exclusively the red variety; the blue and green ones are abhorrent) and have a bag of sodium chloride pumped into my arm through an IV every day.

I was still awakened to empty my ostomy bag two or three times a night, but I slept significantly better than I had in months. I actually did get to go back to school, but it was humiliating to be the kid that almost everyone had forgotten existed during my 6+ month leave of absence. My good friends remembered me, which was both a blessing and a curse. They had known me when I was screwed up, so they would occasionally make some casual jokes about Psycho-Seth that hit a little close to home. I caught up fairly quickly in my classes and my teachers were very supportive and understanding of my condition. Except for the freaking scumbag who “taught” my physical education class. He was a grumpy ex-marine who never once checked his email, so on my first day back at school he hadn’t even read the synopsis of my story that my counselor had sent him. I put up with maybe three days -- knowing me, it was probably only one -- of his grotesquely ignorant “F***-You-I-don’t-give-a-F***-if-you’re-diseased-any-F******-retard-can-F******-run-F***-off-you-F******-piece-of-F******-F***-I-F******-love-cocaine-Holy-F***” philosophy before I scampered to the nurse’s office and asked to be switched to a study hall. There are times when the path of least resistance is simply the wisest route to take. Don’t judge me, man.

So I learned to manage my ileostomy, got back to being one of the better students in my class -- not the best in most classes, but far from the worst -- and worked through my first semester of Junior Year without too many issues. I did have one day where my bag decided to peel off when I was on the opposite side of the school from the nurse’s office, but aside from that, everything went fairly smoothly. Finally, in February of 2017, I returned to Lutheran General Hospital for my last operation. This was the decisive blow, the ultimate test, the final curtain. After going through the usual routine of donning the stupid gown, giving consent to all of the doctors to fix me, and getting an IV shoved in my arm to knock me out, Dr. Park sliced me open one more time to shove my ostomy back inside my gut and create a “J-Pouch.”

A J-Pouch is really exactly what it sounds like: The small intestine is wrapped around itself into a “J” formation, stitched up, and attached to the normal human waste-disposal zone. The cells in our digestive tract are so good at adapting that the J-Pouch can learn to function like a large intestine by itself over the course of just a few weeks! Or so I was told… In reality, my recovery was much slower than the average 17-year-old's. I was homebound for the typical six-week post-op period, but I was still using the bathroom 8-10 times a day for the better part of a year. Now, granted, that’s nothing compared to the 30 daily bowel movements I was putting up with when my Colitis was at its most severe state, but 10 bathroom trips a day was definitely not fun. I started going back to school and figured out a system where I would dash to the bathroom between every class, but I stuck with study hall -- passive-aggressively giving the finger to Mr. Scumbag Wartface -- and tried not to go anywhere off-campus without an easily accessible Port-A-Potty.

I finished out Junior Year with straight A’s and B’s (which I considered an achievement since I hadn’t even been there for the majority of my classes) and learned to manage my J-Pouch over the summer. Then in August, my dad got a call from a church in Tampa called Oakwood and we started making plans to relocate to the promised land of Florida. As much as I’ve loved being here, I can’t honestly say that I didn’t feel a substantial degree of regret and loss after moving. I had kind of figured that my testing was complete and that I’d at least have a year or two where I didn’t have to make a major sacrifice. I’d connected with my Chicago friends very well and they were there for me during the darkest years of my life. It was hard to let go of a stable future that would have been mine if I had graduated from Hersey, attended a Midwestern university, and lived my life without much more drama or pain.

I struggled with bitterness and resentment towards God for a good, long while after my final surgery. I blamed Him for the opportunities I’d lost and the suffering I’d endured because of my disease and there were a number of months where I went through the motions of church without any desire for a relationship with my Lord. God and I filed for divorce, and I fought for custody of my life. I felt like I couldn’t forgive God for what he put me through when, in actuality, it was I who should have been on my knees asking for His forgiveness. I held on to those feelings of injustice and outrage long after my physical wounds had healed.

It was around this time that the gentleman in the midnight suit paid me another visit. I wasn't on any drugs at that time, so I assume this memory was from a dream -- unless he really existed and took a physical form to speak with me. I was once again awake at 2:00 AM walking to the kitchen for a drink of water. I opened the fridge and the light from the door illuminated a pair of warm, golden eyes. The gentleman in the midnight suit smiled at me and we shook hands, his radiant smile washing me with an indescribable peace. I poured him a drink and pulled up a chair for him to recline on. I sat down next to my metaphysical friend and we chatted about my misadventures for most of the night. Mildly concerned, I asked him why he said I would die soon since I had made a full recovery from my disease. As the sun began to peek out from behind the treetops, he refused to answer my question, looking out the window with that somber beauty that I've only ever seen in the eyes of a husband who has lost his wife after half a century of wedded bliss. I inquired about whether or not I would reach adulthood and he responded in his deep, resonant voice, "You already have." As he finished his drink and began preparing to journey back to his time, dimension, or wherever else he might have been from, he looked at me once more with his warm, golden eyes and said, "Fate is in your hands. Use it to save lives, my dear friend. You will be renowned in the Hall of the Saints." As the gentleman put on his hat of purest onyx, I, puzzled, called out and asked who he was. He merely smiled at me and whispered, "I am a man with many regrets. Speaking with you is not one of them. You may call me Lucas King, if you wish, but I fear I shall not be speaking with you again until you cross over from this life to the next. God bless you, Odd One." With that, the gentleman in the midnight suit bowed, tipped his hat and walked out the front door into the brisk, morning light.

I've never seen him again, and part of me agrees with his prophecy that I won’t until I pass on. My phantasmic companion is walking a path separate from mine and I sometimes worry that we won't even be reunited in eternity. The gentleman in the midnight suit was certainly wise and compassionate, but I have no assurance of his spiritual allegiance or salvation. Perhaps he was nothing more than a vision from the troubled mind of a traumatized child, but I feel that he was something more. The more I consider it, the more I think that maybe the ethereal entity that visited me was Lucifer himself. Lucas King is a contemporary equivalent of Satan’s original name and the remorse in his voice was one that you only ever find in people who have lost everything. If he was, indeed, the Prince of Hell, it’s interesting that he approached me as a friend rather than as an enemy. While his goal was initially my self-destruction, his lies were well-crafted and made it seem like he was genuinely on my side, desiring nothing but my glorification.

For a long time, I refused to tell anyone about the gentleman in the midnight suit. I was psychotic when I first encountered him and I was afraid that people would assume I was still mentally unstable if I mentioned him. How many of us truly see demons, after all? He was very real though, not merely a fabrication concocted to create an engaging fable.

Perhaps I will see the gentleman in the midnight suit again one day, but since my mind has now been made whole again, I don’t think I want to… Don’t misunderstand me, Lucas, wherever you are. I am grateful for your guidance and influence on my life. I would be rotting in the ground right now if you hadn’t spoken to me, so I thank you for that. Wherever you are, friend of mine, I hope you find peace and forgiveness. I wish that I could ease your regret, but people like us have loss engraved on our hearts and it’s difficult to have a transplant. Farewell, oh gentleman in the midnight suit. Until our paths cross again…

And this is where my story ends. Or, rather, this is as far as I’ve gone as of the time of writing. Maybe my testimony has impacted you and maybe it hasn’t. This story of mine isn’t one that everyone will appreciate or respect, but it is my own and I’ve treasured every moment of it. If you’ve been through an experience like mine, you understand the anger, anxiety, bitterness, depression, frustration, and sorrow that come with suffering, but I’m willing to wager that you also know the joy, peace, compassion, hope, contentedness, and happiness that come with perseverance. If you are in the midst of a trial, my prayers go out to you. Nobody knows what it’s like to feel Death’s presence quite like I do and I’m genuinely sorry for your loss. If I may give a word of sentimental, disgustingly cliche advice, however: Dare to keep your chin up. Dare to hope. Dare to dream of a world where God Himself smiles down at you from his magnificent white throne with his warm, golden eyes and tells you that He’s pleased with your service. Dare to believe while you are alive. Dare to be.

God bless you, my tremendously supportive brothers and sisters.

Amen.

(( A Final Note from the Author: Thank you for reading through this absurdly long account of my story. I survived this because I had the support of people like you. Thank you so much for your prayers and counseling. I've recovered from my illness, but my faith is still evolving and growing. I'm far from perfect and there are times when I relapse into depression and anxiety and forget who I am. Please continue to keep me in your prayers as I prepare to head off to college in the fall and start my life as... *GASP* An adult. This is an exciting and intense time for my family and me, so I appreciate your ongoing encouragement and support ))

(( Bonus Final Note: I struggled trying to find the right name for this piece and initially went with "The Conqueror," but felt that old Lucas King was more of a Conqueror than I ever was. This article was about a gentleman. The gentleman in the midnight suit, so I feel it's appropriate that he gets the title. The End. Adios ))

(( The Real Final Note: I'm still dealing with UC, my J-Pouch, and relapses of mania and depression. I see my doctor again in a few weeks so pray that he gives us answers. I'll keep you all in the loop. Top of the morning to you. Fare thee well ))