After she tells me, she hands my mom a Kleenex. Where’s my Kleenex? Hello! Is that even ethical? I exist too. Just because I’m not showing dynamic emotions doesn’t mean I’m not freaking out here. I’m pretty sure sitting frozen is a sign of shock or something. Stop helping the extrovert and help the introvert because I won’t ask for help myself. Between my mom’s staggered breath and whimpering tears I can hear them taking turns discussing my situation. What if I don’t have what they say I have? I mean people get diagnosed wrong everyday. I couldn’t have just got a random disease. I’ve never even heard of it. It doesn’t even run in our family. This has to be a mistake. My band had mono last week; maybe that’s it. I mean I was normal three months ago. I just went to a check up once a year so I could play school sports. I’m a burden and I don’t want to be. I’m independent by nature. I can’t just start asking people for help and special treatment. Will I be required to sign up for disability services? That would be weird. What would other people think? Do I tell people or should I hide it from people? Will people who don’t know me start caring out of obligation rather than their own willingness? How am I going to pay for medical bills? I don’t have a job. No one is going to hire someone who has this many medical bills.
I don’t want to be here. I could plan my escape from the room, from my diagnosis, from life. I want to speak, but saying thank you for my diagnosis is a lie. I don’t want to ask questions because I’ve already done the research, I already know. So I just sit, I don’t want the medical answers. I just need someone close to talk to about what’s going to happen with my plans, with my family, with college, with side effects, with my extracurricular activities. I had my life planned out. Breathe. I guess I was too in control. I knew where I wanted to go to college, what classes I was taking, what career I wanted. Who can I talk to though? I can’t talk to my mom because she clearly can’t handle the situation without making me more upset, my brother’s too young, my dad’s in another state. I just need my best friend to external process about all of this. Wait, she’s Christian Science, she doesn’t believe in chronic diseases. I’m alone.
Breathe. It could be worse…right? What if today hadn’t happened? What if the last three months disappeared? I want calm, but control is a fairytale that exists only in the past. Why can’t I go back? Is it my fault? Did God do this to me? If I had changed something, could I have prevented it? Why me?
My skin emits an uncomfortable humidity that fights the daydream. The crisp air gushing out of the overpowered air-conditioner turns stale and hot, suffocating me on the outside, while fear burns inside me. The painful emptiness in my gut rises towards my throat as an acidic spurt. The sudden metallic liquid that splatters my tongue makes me aware of the room. I float in my rigid chair. I look down at my fidgeting feet, so swollen the veins are engulfed in fragile skin. My heartbeat crescendos. I’m overwhelmed. I’m hyperventilating in my mind and possibly in my chest. This is too much; too much information, too much crying, and too much restriction. Too much out of my control.
I sit frozen in the generic room that changed my life. A few minutes before my medical records categorized me as normal. Now I’m a case study, a test subject, someone with interesting symptoms that people want to learn about medically, but not know about personally. Oh, how I crave feeling normal. I want to live out my dreams without restrictions, but I can’t. Doctors. Medications. Symptoms. TB. HIV. Everything and anything is now a potential risk for me.
The words that were spoken by the doctor in those eighteen minutes consumed my identity. I am my disease. My dreams have been crushed, my bank has been emptied, and my physical appearance is changing. Can happiness even exist for me?
No comments:
Post a Comment