Today, my doctor called. I figured she was just checking up on me to be sure that I'm eating all right. That's what good doctors do, right?
They also call when there's bad news.
Without going into details, let's just say that this is the second summer of cervix hijinks. Last year, I went through the adventure of having an ultrasound. The photo of my uterus is on the refrigerator. It makes for a nice conversation piece. This year, the diagnosis is scarier, because there is a slight risk that I will develop cervical cancer.
It's funny how two syllables change everything. When my doctor started to describe the test that I'll have done on Thursday, my stomach fell to the ground and I had to interrupt her with "I'm sorry, but I think I am going to throw up. Can I call you back?" Then I hobbled over to the bathroom, the sides of my head coming closer to each other. It was like a magnet was drawing them together, and I knew that if I didn't find a place to lean against, I was going to smash into the floor. And then my coworkers would find me sprawled on the dirty floor with my teeth knocked out, and that would cause a scene. Fortunately, I made it into the bathroom and steadied myself on the sink. I then tried to throw up, but I couldn't do it because someone else was peeing in the other stall. Then I walked back to my desk and telephoned my doctor to confirm the appointment. She also prescribed some Valium for me, so with any luck I won't be hyperventilating through the pain.
I had to go home from work early. I called my mom and then Jesse (who, as you can tell, has been a very kind friend lately). Jesse gave me a hug and some Dunkin' Donuts napkins for my runny nose and splotchy face. He helped me calm down and not rush into total panic mode, but I still feel very scared and very alone.
I wish I had something more introspective or eloquent to say about all of this, but I don't. I don't want to have these tests done. I don't want to be crying in a coffee shop right now. I don't want to keep up the crumbling facade of me being strong and brave. I want vulnerability to be something other than a luxury. I don't want to go home to my apartment, because there is nobody there to hug me and tell me that it's all going to be okay. I want it all to be okay. I want to be eight years old again, now and forever, still.
They also call when there's bad news.
Without going into details, let's just say that this is the second summer of cervix hijinks. Last year, I went through the adventure of having an ultrasound. The photo of my uterus is on the refrigerator. It makes for a nice conversation piece. This year, the diagnosis is scarier, because there is a slight risk that I will develop cervical cancer.
It's funny how two syllables change everything. When my doctor started to describe the test that I'll have done on Thursday, my stomach fell to the ground and I had to interrupt her with "I'm sorry, but I think I am going to throw up. Can I call you back?" Then I hobbled over to the bathroom, the sides of my head coming closer to each other. It was like a magnet was drawing them together, and I knew that if I didn't find a place to lean against, I was going to smash into the floor. And then my coworkers would find me sprawled on the dirty floor with my teeth knocked out, and that would cause a scene. Fortunately, I made it into the bathroom and steadied myself on the sink. I then tried to throw up, but I couldn't do it because someone else was peeing in the other stall. Then I walked back to my desk and telephoned my doctor to confirm the appointment. She also prescribed some Valium for me, so with any luck I won't be hyperventilating through the pain.
I had to go home from work early. I called my mom and then Jesse (who, as you can tell, has been a very kind friend lately). Jesse gave me a hug and some Dunkin' Donuts napkins for my runny nose and splotchy face. He helped me calm down and not rush into total panic mode, but I still feel very scared and very alone.
I wish I had something more introspective or eloquent to say about all of this, but I don't. I don't want to have these tests done. I don't want to be crying in a coffee shop right now. I don't want to keep up the crumbling facade of me being strong and brave. I want vulnerability to be something other than a luxury. I don't want to go home to my apartment, because there is nobody there to hug me and tell me that it's all going to be okay. I want it all to be okay. I want to be eight years old again, now and forever, still.
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