It still hurts to swallow, and I can feel I’m not quite drug-free. I managed to contain my thoughts this morning, not ramble into the thicket of fear or worry about bleeding and complications. Though it was cold—of course it was cold —I focused on the moment. Milked how nice the nurses were and asked for three more blankets after discovering the throws were fresh out of a warmer.
I abhor hospitals and all their close cousins. The forms to sign, the smell, those ugly scrubs the color of flat twilight. Why couldn’t the staff sport something more cheerful? The process, the incompetence that lurks and has no place where people are fearful and suffering. Yet there I was, dependent on the system and machines to tell me if I can go on in hope, can count on a semblance of normalcy to my days. Or if I’ve been harboring anything unwelcome along my G.I. Like cancer.
It was my first time on the oxygen tube I’d seen only in movies and on old people. Between the nasal cannula and the faithful monitor, I felt like a fully certified sick person. I hated it.
They didn’t tell me it was going to be so awful. At least the surgeon listened; saw that at 85 pounds, I didn’t need as much sedative as the others and gave me half the normal dose. They lay me on my left, and I soon realized I would not have been able to hang in beyond those ten minutes. Though no one’s intention, it was rough — plain violent. The bite block kept my mouth open, keeping me from biting and damaging the tube. I learned exactly why I hadn’t been allowed to eat or drink all morning. I gagged and gagged as the tears ran. When I continued to wipe my eyes outside the room, the nurse explained the Versed does that to a lot of people.
The good look down my esophagus and stomach showed all was clear. Still sore from one of the biopsies, I realize the third had been unnecessary. Why hadn’t the doctor seen the stomach test I’d passed? Important thing is my innards looked healthy, and I at least got out of it cool photos for Tennyson who’d just learned the parts of the digestive system.
I didn’t tell many friends, didn’t want to burden anyone. I don’t bother trying to explain to people the trouble I’ve had eating the last several years. One wonderful doctor of mine once said my life is difficult to describe. But pray, I did. Not so much for fear of dying but for the brute powerlessness of it all. You look in, you look out. And you see nothing but the unknown dark, hear nothing but the echo of your questions. For all your dreams and aspirations, you come up short, face-to-face with your humanity.
You look up.
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