🇺🇸 Dazed and Confused in Denver - 08.23.2026

This is my dinner… intravenous food in a bag. I’m grounded 14 hours a day, tethered to a machine. Better than hospital jail tho. I’ll be stranded in Denver for a while… likely past Día de Muertos. So… let’s visit… I have extra time on my hands… waiting… forever waiting…

“Stranded” may appear to have a negative connotation… I do have other places on this planet I want to be… and if I’m in Denver, I prefer to be here on my own terms. That aside… I’m in a comfortable place, a place that’s familiar, and I have much lovely support close at hand. Although… I hate asking for favors, and I’m not comfortable needing assistance, and in an unhealthy—childhood abandonment trauma triggering way… I was groomed to be self-reliant... but currently… I’m in a space, needing support. And the twists and turns of life can put you in that space without caring what you think, or what your stubborn personal philosophies may be… or where you want to be… and if you have to bite your lip… then bite… bite goddamn you!

I was released from hospital jail on Monday on my own recognizance and for good behavior. Actually, I was probably close to being kicked out because I was quite crabby for being held 2 extra days, battling with the nurses over medication, being hassled that I needed to walk around but then not letting me walk around… and no sleep… they refused to let me sleep.

My chart read “treatment for severe malnutrition.” And without much ado… that’s what I was there for. The catalyst was a surgery in January in which a small portion of my intestine was removed. And for some reason… I have not been able to digest and absorb nutrients/proteins/fats… and have been consistently and dramatically losing weight. Also, no nutrition… means no fuel… which means no energy… dwindling dexterity… and loss of cognition. I get confused often… much more than normal.

I have… or had… been stuck in the U.S. medical system of never-ending daisy-chain of appointments, to get other appointments, to get referrals, to go to other appointments… all a month or more apart… to end up with a gastroenterologist specialist… who has gone AWOL. She ordered some tests and responded… once… “at least you don’t have celiac disease!” And there’s a longer story to go along with her disinterest… but when I was in Petaluma a month ago… feeling absolutely horrible… I brought out a scale to weigh myself. And I was mortified at the number. I sent a desperate message about my weight loss and condition to my “specialist,” requesting an appointment… and her response was, “Sorry you feel that way, I can see you in 2 months.” Ummm… sorry to inconvenience you… but fuck you! I have a base weight in mind that I pulled from the “all-knowing” internet that is officially in the unhealthy BMI range… and if I reach that I will walk into the ER on my own… and I was 6 lbs away from that… and dropping.

At that exact same time, I had a phone call interview with the surgical nurse for a post-hospital visit… the ER visit that stemmed from a cat-scan, reviewed by my primary, resulting in a call while I was sitting on an airplane to return to SF… requesting I check myself in immediately to hospital for a possible bowel blockage… and then subsequently tortured for 3 days with an NG tube and deprived of food and water… only to be released by the surgical team not finding anything… and when I questioned my primary about it, she admitted that it was beyond her knowledge, and now would refer me to an M.D. that is more qualified. “You’re not an M.D.? What are you?!? Why did YOU send me to ER???” Grrrrr… I’ll get back to you in a minute… 😠

Anyways… the surgical nurse calls me… for a “how’s it going” chat. And I start stamping my gotdamn foot… I’ve lost another 10 lbs in the 3 weeks since the hospital and the GI department has me on “ignore” and I sternly state… when does this become critical for someone to listen? Exclamation point!!!

She listened. And through a side door, set me up with the surgical nutritionist… who listened… and through another side door, set me up with a surgeon that specializes in the GI… and with great concern (as I was told), they admitted me to the surgical floor for severe malnutrition. Thanks baby-Buddha for something actually happening.

They seem to have a pseudo plan… but I’ve been generally confused about what’s going on. They tell me, “We’re putting in a PICC line… it’ll be easier for you…”

“Great! And what is that? And what are we doing?”

A PICC line is a semi-permanent catheter that goes in through your arm, through a big-ass vein, over your shoulder, and ends near your heart. “Nice! And what are we doing?”

The surgeons were talking amongst themselves, in my presence, about TPN nutrition… and eventually looked over and asked, “Will you be alone or will you have help?”

“Alone.”

And they proceed to talk about extensions and this and that… and I’m thinking, “help with what?”

They tell me I’ll be out in a few days… which sounds great… but how does I.V. nutrition put 45 lbs on a person in a few days? I ask, “How long are we doing this?” And in the Always-Doctor-Clarity response, “Don’t know, a few weeks, a few months… you’ll do the IV at home.”

“Great! Ummm… and we, as in me alone, is gonna do what?”

Well… we have a plan… make it up as we go along… and I’m the last in the know. I was set up with a training time to show me the logistics of TPN IV at home before I was discharged. They let me know a package would show up at my home that evening with all of the equipment and food bags… and Hannah from the food bag equipment demo asks, “So… we need to deliver the equipment tonight… where do you live?”

And how do I even answer that? I live everywhere… but nowhere. I have about 6 addresses I use for the necessities of modern life. I use my old studio address in Taos because I have a matching driver’s license. Friend’s addresses in ABQ for my moto and car. I get my mail in a Post Office Box in the Mission District of San Francisco… all of my things, including my handsome new motorcycle, are in storage in East Bay… and having no interest to go through the hassle of becoming a resident of California. I use my Kerouac apartment address in Mexico City to appease Mexican Immigration but have never received mail there. And I maintain residency in Colorado through various addresses that I may or may not be able to receive mail.

And here comes that, “you need to accept help” bit… and I’m blessed to be in a place with loads of appreciated support. Cornwall gave me a room while she’s out of town. Mertens always gives me a place to land with much positivity. The Bourrillion/Martinez clan lent me their spare vehicle. Michelle 1.0 drove down from Boulder to pick me up after I was molested at my colonoscopy/endoscopy. Michelle 2.0 gives me places to land and lots of care. Ms Hern, Ms Dusenbury, HeatherZenBird for visits and frequent check-ins… and on… and on… and thank you all. 🙏💙🌟

So… where do I live? Today’s answer… Colorful Colorado.

I sat down with my new primary care MD the other day, Dr Carolina Gutierrez at the Peña Clinic in West Denver (WestSide 4eva!!! For the record) who walked in the door having her shit together, intelligent, authentic, no bullshit… she had already done some research on my case… and that was impressive to me and I was glad I didn’t have to retell the story for the 1,000th time… but she asked a few questions… and I respond with, “I’m confused… I don’t know what’s going on…”

She replied, “We will be confused together… but we’ll figure this out.” And quickly had my meds in order, future appointments, noted that I’ve already gained 8 lbs… and is referring me to a new gastroenterologist at University Hospital. And with this and that, and “you’ve been through the ringer…” and discussion about pain management. I say, “I don’t want meds, or treatment, or an attentive gastroenterologist… I just want my body back, I want my life back.”

Change is inevitable… it is a constant that you can count on. Fighting it is futile. And accepting it will ease your process through it. Looking back eight months… I felt fit and healthy… complete… happy… I was in a foreign land… speaking a foreign tongue… having mariscos and micheladas… while shooting pool with my thirty-something, Spanish-only-speaking compañera... in a hip club, in one of the coolest cities in the Western Hemisphere of the Milky Way Galaxy. Living a bohemian dream… and now… my dinner comes in a bag, and my underwear needs suspenders, and I’m sorting pills rather than riding my new adventure motorbike… but I’m here… I am here with you. And a day with you… is a good day indeed. 🙏💙