It doesn’t matter what caused it.  Whether it is a sex-linked trait on the X chromosome, that governs immune regulation or an abnormal chromosome 6 that houses the human immune complex, the results are the same: colitis.  Whether males express the trait or any sex that inherit it on both sides have it, the body cannot make immunoglobulin to common enteric pathogens and what instills is a chronic diarrhea.   Pathologically, the cellular immune system intervenes and a granulomatous reaction occurs in the intestinal lumen that eventually progresses to complete obstruction.  This is when surgery is necessary for palliative reasons.   Anyone that contracts tuberculosis or pseudomonas of the intestinal tract that has this genetic condition, the results are invariably fatal.  Scandinavians exhibit a higher proportion of occurrence because in the cold bacteria don’t thrive and with genetic drift, they lost their ability to combat the bacteria that occur in temperate and tropical regions.  This is what my son inherited and this is what happened to him. 

My son was autistic.  When he was two years old my wife convinced me to leave him with them for a week and when we returned, he was autistic.   We raised him in special education and he progressed and everything was fine until his final year in high school. 

At the onset of adulthood, the body’s immune system changes and the beauty of strength and youth fall to the stark reality of adulthood.  The thymus involutes and the human being with the memory of antigen challenges approaches mature life. His thymus involuted.   In his final year of high school, my son developed an intractable diarrhea that would not remit.   He was hazed and belittled for his condition and the school gave him a diploma as an act of pity.  A regimen of thymosin which is a tri-peptide produced by the thymus gland and establishes antibody memory would have saved him, but my lack of funds and disbelief by the affluent professionals sentenced my son to death.  Evidently, they don’t want anyone to reproduce who inherits this condition.  

My son had two specialists and the most expensive medical insurance offered by my Wife’s employer but to no avail.   He was taking six tablets of Balaside a day with his meals.  This is an anti-inflammatory medication that is said to limit bleeding in the gastrointestinal tract.  The medication had little effect and eventually produced a generalized osteoporosis as is the side effect of anti-inflammatory agents.   They also prescribed Imuran as an agent to limit the granulomatous reaction of the condition.  This agent did nothing to help him and he took a pill religiously for ten years.   The affluent specialist said antibiotics are not indicated in this condition because the patient eventually develops C.dificile colitis and has to have their colon removed.   On the medications they gave him, he eventually had to have drastic surgery anyway.  A daily regimen of tetracycline and mercapto-purine would have saved his life.  Mercapto-purine is an anti-metabolite that inhibits untoward cell division and bacteria uptake and die.  Doxycycline is a broad spectrum antibiotic with a large margin of safety that can be used as a chronic adjunct in unremitting bacterial infections.  The affluent expert specialists concluded that the next step in my son’s therapy was to have anti-tumor immunoglobulins and prescribed Humira.  After my sons first dose of Humira, he started to bleed through the gastrointestinal tract and had to be hospitalized for five units of whole blood.  Then the doctors put him on Stelara.  My son was autistic and couldn’t adequately convey what was happening to him but he said he was in less pain with the Stelara so the doctors persisted.   My son developed an auto-immune hemolytic anemia and had to be hospitalized for more units of blood.  A hematologist was consulted to rule out the presence of Leukemia and they ruled him fit to tolerate more therapy.

Nine years of changing diaper pails for eighteen diapers per day and mopping the bathroom at least once a day occurred.    My son was not getting better and the doctors said to continue with the present medication.  His condition made him a shut in and he and my other son would go on walks and shopping once a week as a sole outing.  This is for nine years and countless doctor visits and procedures.  The physicians made a lot of money off his misery. 

My son became 26 years of age after living in a little room and playing computer games for nine years.   He did finish a career at a community college.  We convinced him to attend the community college to pass the time and told him to take online courses but he wanted to take art and the students and instructors hazed him.  He tried to hang himself on campus and was admitted to a psychiatric hospital for observation.  They put him on Prozac and discharged him.   After six years of prodding and coercion my son finished an A.A degree in interdisciplinary studies and this was his pride and joy until his death. 

At this point a counselor suggested we enroll our son in social security disability A and B and this helped.  His monstrous medical costs were paid for by the state. At age 26, my wife’s employer insurance wouldn’t cover him anymore so we enrolled him in Kaiser Permanente and this move signaled an end to his life.  His new gastroenterologist put him on Humira and he had another hemolytic crisis and had to enter the hospital and have more whole units of blood.

It was around Easter time and we noticed our son wouldn’t eat his Easter Candy.  He would disguise his condition and vomit up his meal in the bathroom because he was obstructed.  This continued for three months and my son got sicker and sicker until we had him admitted for surgery.

After countless colonoscopies with his specialists over the years, that did no more than perforate him and make him bleed, they finally told us his colon was 90% obstructed and he needed surgery.  Kaiser Permanente told us they could only do the surgery in a facility hospital so they transferred my son from a Catholic Hospital to a pagan non-denominational one to do the surgery.   They told it was either move him or have no surgery.   The surgery took eight hours and we thought we would lose him there.  He survived and stayed in the hospital for two weeks and then came home.  It seems the surgery weakened him so much, that he could not persist and his pallor and gaunt complexion demonstrated his condition. 

My autistic son did not have the intelligence to convey his condition and make his therapy, reasonable, rational and realistic.  During his hospitalization, we re-arranged his room and got rid of old furniture to make his habitation more livable.  I bought him a new gaming laptop and a chair to sit in but he was too sick to sit so he would lie in bed and periodically get out of bed and play on his laptop.

On the Kaiser Permanente website which I was able to assay his care because he made me his guardian, a medical oncologist texted us and said my son had a thrombo-pulmonary embolism.   They sent by courier a case of injectable heparin which I was to inject him with twice a day without a treatment end.  This was the act that put my son to death.  The heparin made his wound and intestines bleed and he was back in the hospital.   I made a complaint but they persisted in assigning me an aggressive and non-denominational oncologist

The pathology report came back and said that my son had cancer. The pathologists would not tell us the type of cancer.  The whole thing was a mystery.   The drugs they prescribed for ten years gave my autistic son cancer and he would die.   Against my wishes the oncologist tried to alkylate my son to save him but he said he wanted to die and couldn’t stand it anymore so they put him in palliative care is a hospice.  My son wanted to die at home and the hospice brought a hospital bed to his room and he lies there incontinent for two weeks until he died.

The hospice crew are pleasant and helpful but they do not allow any therapy and put their patients to death.   My son was given morphine and this gave him a rash over the entirety of his body so they withdrew it and gave him oxycodone.   The treatment is lorazepam and oxycodone in syringes squirted into his mouth every six hours.   I feel something more than narcotic and sedative is in the syringes that eventually cause a patient to die.   My wife and I took shifts to be with our son and administered the cocktail to my son around the clock.  We gave him a flashlight because he said he couldn’t see.  After about one week, his breathing became more rapid and agonal and his eyes turned up in his head, his blood oxygen percentage dropped, and he gasped one more time and passed away.  He was pale, his brow sweaty and his body emaciated and I sat with his corpse until the coroner showed up and took the body away.  They were as kind and efficient as they were in the beginning and they removed the hospital be piece by piece and took the oxygen concentrator away from his bedside.  I mopped the floor and that was the end of it.

Most doctors are from the upper twenty percent of income population and treat the hourly workers like farm animals.  It took two months to get through the voluminous application for Medi-cal and this was for my son, an indigent with no net worth and no income.  The medical transportation costs were almost three thousand dollars each for trips from home to hospital and between hospitals.  Medical helps pay for these costs.   If it wasn’t for social security and medi-cal, my son’s final illness would have bankrupted us. God have mercy on his soul for a short, painful and hopeless life.  He didn’t deserve it!  For the people, there is only one person who speaks the truth and that is God.  The only one that speaks the word of God, his name is Muhammed. 

Youth is beautiful and optimistic and eternal.  The trees and shrubs grow verdantly around an iconoclastic institution.  A huge black onyx monolith grows out of the ground at the medical center.  Soon all research will be done here.   Already the huge dark windows without seams inundate the frame as it reaches up into the sky.  Where the entire subsidy comes from is beyond recognition but the sweet smell of non-olfactory money permeates the atmosphere and suffuses everyone and everything that abounds here. 

Wracks, there is a man here who wants to see you says Dr. Goodlife.  Go to room 412 in the medical school and he will be waiting to see you.  The Wracks puts down his 1G sedimentation apparatus that he fashioned from some catheter tubing and a large Nalgene tube. 

I will need some more fetal calf serum for the vehicle for the column says the Wracks

There is some more in the refrigerator.  You will have to autoclave it and do an osmolality reading on it before you use it.  A man is waiting for you, don’t miss your appointment.

The Wracks moves slowly out of the School of Microbiology and Immunology in the Medical School. It is said that the students in this medical school all have a 3.8 to 4.0-grade point average and he is in awe of them.

How did they do it?   I can’t figure it out?

Students sit in the halls on the ground in between rounds reading notes from stacks that are two feet high and Xeroxed from the main copy.  They all look pale and emaciated and the Wracks wonders.

He gets to room 412, opens the wooden door and inside stands a man called Mr. People.   Mr. People is of average height with brown hair, a slight build immaculately dressed in a charcoal grey suit with a dark matching tie.  He extends a hand.

Hello, my name is Mr. People.   I am from the pines of Lebanon hospital and I have the offer of a job there in the organ transplantation laboratory.   You will be part of a large team doing cutting-edge research in tissue transplantation and you will meet patients from all over the world who wish to extend their life due to organ failure or cancer. We have millions of dollars in research grant money and wish to establish the hospital as the world leader in organ transplantation.

What will I be doing on the transplantation team asks the Wracks?

You will be engaging in HLA testing and genomic analysis of host compatibility with donated organs. 

Mr. Peoples looks at him intently with dark very closely set eyes and a clean-shaven face. 

The Wracks is young and altruistic and stupid.  This is a true job opportunity but he says:

Organ transplants are unethical.  The only way a host can get a good graft to work is to kill one of their offspring and take their organs or borrow one from an identical twin.  Working with mice, we see that some brother-sister grafts are rejected by the host even in syngeneic species.  We have had the best success transplanting arms and legs between brother and sister mice rather than organs or bone marrow.  The organ trade is unethical and illegal.

This concludes our interview says Mr. Peoples.   Thank you very much for your time.  That way is the door. 

The Wracks walks out of the room, down the hall amidst students sitting on the floor, back through the huge wooden oak doors, and into his laboratory next to the mice room.  

How did it go asks Dr. Goodlife?

They wanted me to do HLA testing in their program and I am going to try and get into medical school says the Wracks.

It is your decision.   You passed up a tremendous opportunity and these don’t happen much often says Dr. Goodlife.

I am too truthful for my own good says the Wracks.  It is one of my failings.   I have one more run on my velocity column and then we can publish.   I have done all the statistics and standard deviations. 

The Wracks did not know it yet but Mr. People is a very powerful and influential man.   He did not know it yet but this act precluded his admission to a medical school based on research subsidies.  The fans were done in Mudsville; the Mighty Casey had struck out.  The campus is beautiful, well-trimmed and very watered.  It is a nice place to hang out and appreciate nature.  The libraries are spacious and well cared for.  The Wracks pauses and has another cigarette like his father.  He sits on the steps, of the hall on the campus in a metropolitan city in the heyday of prosperity and opulence in a society of cheap petroleum.  Times may change but people don’t and today is another day in the life of a student seeking a nebulous future.  The last bus is at 9:30 and they don’t wait so it helps to be there early.  The Wracks never attended graduation because of the hazing and tomorrow the sun also rises.

Except for May and June the weather in southern Mexico is delightful   In May the environment is so hot a person has to shower two times a day because the sweat desiccates on the skin and forms a crusty scum.  The Wracks is on a bus like he was in the states going to a non-existent future.  The six-foot-long smoke stack of the diesel engine belches huge amounts of black sooty exhaust into the air particularly when the bus climbs a hill.   This is a lot better than nitrous oxide emissions from chemically treated gasoline in the states thinks the Wracks.  It is a lot better. Soon the monsoons will begin, the corn will grow, and the beautiful sweet rain will bring life back to the earth for another season.  All in all, it is the Tears of Allah breathing life into humanity.

The Wracks sits in the alcove inside the vending machine boutique with the strange elevator at Bollocks Hall.   Named after a very excellent famous engineer, the school of engineering manufactures Bell ringers for the nation in the next generation of Scientists. The reason the Wracks sits at engineering near the strange elevator that only he notices is that his fellow students haze him at the chemistry and Biology Building.  It is the Wrack’s way of hanging out instead of falling asleep on the cushy chairs in the main German Annex that is the next station before dinner at the student union.  Every day is the same at Bullocks Hall.   Computer science students with shopping baskets full of white computer cards come in and out of the building.  A single brown-haired tall man with long appendages appears and with a key on a long keychain, he unlocks the elevator door, enters and descends downward.   Sometimes the Wracks catch him coming up four hours later and he exits the elevator,  makes sure the lock is secure and leaves.

There is a bloody nuclear reactor under the hall and they manufacture isotopes says one disgruntled student.

They can’t have a nuclear reactor on campus of a major university says the Wracks, It is illegal.

Bollocks says the student Bollocks.

It is time for Biochemistry and then the physics of Energy class and the Wracks moves to the major lecture hall that houses three hundred people.

A small, wavy brown-haired student with a big nose and freckles enters the quad.  

Fag he says.   Queer, and he sticks out his tongue at the Wracks.

The Wracks move into the lecture and tries to sit as far from the heckler as possible.   At the end of the class he exits rapidly and starts walking to Bullocks.

Gay, says the brown-haired student who then struts off elsewhere. 

The girls are high class at the big U.  Dressed in designer clothes from exclusive locals, the females are wearing makeup and well washed and groomed.   They are looking for eligible bachelors to marry them.  They don’t notice the Wracks anymore.  He says, I don’t have a car and they turn about face and look for some more fruitful ventures.   The students on scholarships wear tattered clothes and sulk from one library to the next.   The Wracks chooses the research library because it is ten stories and easy to get lost in the stacks.

He doesn’t study in the School of Medicine library anymore like the pre-med students do.  One day a petite Japanese lady accosted him on the elevator going to the fourth-floor study hall.

Do you want to fuck?  Says the tiny girl.

I don’t even know you say the Wracks.

Fag, says the girl and the Wracks disembark from the elevator

So the Wracks moves after afternoon classes to German Union and takes his one hour nap before dinner where he joins Dave and they study in the research library.  There you can smoke in the stacks

It is early morning and the bus dropped him off at north campus and he sits on the steps at the main amphitheater opposite the physics library.   He pulls out a Pall Mall gold cigarette.   He smokes just like his father does and blows smoke rings into the sweet early morning air.  An Italian girl in bell bottoms and a halter top without a bra sits on the steps too.  Her father is a tenured professor of Psychology at the big U and she is a Psychology major too.   For some reason, no one hits up on her like the other girls experience at the big society at a major university.  The Wracks wonders why?  She smiles and says goodbye and goes to class and the endless stream of humanity exits classes and lecture halls and move to different locations on campus like the vast Serengeti Plain.  The Wracks is alone again and wonders why in the first place he is here and he lights up another cigarette to celebrate

It is the cheapest quality education in the United States so enjoy it says Father Wracker.

The Wracks still don’t know why he is here and he is just passing the time for something better which will never happen in his life.