Scared, searched for the medical prognosis within her velvety-blue eyes as to the name of this predatory pain that uninvitingly, rabidly, and spitefully ran amok with vengeance.
Reminiscent of a pending execution at the gallows, tearfully begged for amnesty from this temperamental gastrointestinal gatecrasher which, without provocation, would graze, grasshopper, or pulsate tortuous pain within the cavity of my body.
For over a year, voluntarily submitted my body as a cadaver to a succession of doctors who probed and prodded their way to various analyses which I prematurely thought was the final analysis.
First visit, it was my gallstones.
Zap….had them removed.
Second visit, it was a UTI (urinary tract infection).
Zap….swallowed antibiotics.
Third visit….it was anemia.
Zap…ingurgitated iron pills.
Fourth visit….could it be your kidney stones?
For sanity’s sake, take all of my freakin’ stones!
Fifth visit, sounds like rheumatoid arthritis.
Alas….get the picture?
As the pain wretched-up and ravaged my body with razor blade intensity, my multiple emergency room visits were akin to a frequent-flyer program——upon arrival, the personnel instinctually knew my rank, my file, my serial number, and my dogged complaint.
Again, I punctuated my sense of despair and hopelessness to yet another “white coat” (doctor) who really felt the potency of my pain.
In a lickety-split, “doc” declared medicinal war upon this unnamed infectious disease that was pilfering my body.
Chop! Chop!
Hospitalization.
Assigned to a room with a river view.
To another patient, this placid scenery would have served as an antidote. However, named after the sunken Italian liner, Andrea Doria, personally, it meant that my calamitous plague coupled with my “water phobia” would be dueling for attentiveness that my raw emotions, punching-bag body, and frail nerves were too weakened of delivering.
Hospitalization felt similarly to a tobogganer as I was being ferried throughout the nerve center of the hospital for blood tests, scans, x-rays, ultrasounds, and to my nemesis….the infamous claustrophobic MRI machine.
Yikes!
Dispirited, received a telephone call from my BFF. In true form and fashion, Wesley served as my consummate cheerleader-in-chief by yelling to my noggins….focus….focus….focus.
Subliminally, I think Wesley was really telegraphing to every fiber within my body to fight….fight….fight!
Minutes earlier, “doc” had surmised that my “readings” had indicated liver cancer and more tests were ordered as he needed to proceed cautiously but with deliberate speed and certainty.
Why?
Due to family history, cancer had stricken every individual on my paternal family tree and left its fatal track record….death.
Now, it was my turn.
Damn.
During the next round of blood tests, scans, x-rays, ultrasounds and, yes, another visit to my nemesis….the infamous claustrophobic MRI machine, I had unceremoniously dismissed my husband and daughter from my room as I wanted to be alone when I absorbed the ill-fated news.
Scared, searched for the medical prognosis within her velvety-blue eyes as to the name of this predatory pain that uninvitingly, rabidly, and spitefully ran amok with vengeance.
So, broke the deafening silence that existed between us by asking, “Am I dying?”
Discharged the next day, reflected upon the New Year.
Yes, I am dying:
Dying to resume writing this weekly column as I have been on sabbatical for the past eight months. Truly missed my publisher, editor, readers, and my muse, Lucius Gantt.
Dying to resume picking up the political gauntlet on behalf of my family-friend, Harold. Want to ensure he wins the sheriff’s race in August then eventually the gubernatorial race, too.
Dying to serve as a beacon of love to my husband (Nicholas) and daughter (Mantha).
Speaking of love, dying for Wesley to eventually become the beneficiary of his “soul mate.”
Meanwhile….
“Doc” revealed that the test results for liver cancer were “false positive” and I was not a candidate for death….at the moment.
YAHOO folks!
Hence, over the next three months, will be chewing lots of pain pills as I await plans for surgery because the culprit has been pinpointed thanks to my nemesis….the infamous claustrophobic MRI machine and….
God!
