I am trying to decide what is worse.
Two years ago this night (and I only remember because it was a Thursday…the season finale of Grey’s was also on but we couldn’t bear to watch it), Stephen and I were alone in his hospital room. He had just been given a death sentence. We didn’t know it at the time. Maybe we did but I’ve mentioned before about how denial can get a person through almost anything. We were alone. I was not eating. He was not talking. We just sat there…looking at each other. And then one of us would look away. It was too painful to watch. For either of us, I suppose.
I remember saying Well, at least now we know. Now we can make a plan. Now we can do something about it.
So, today I went in for bloodwork. I asked my doctor for it. He is having checked: thyroid function, glucose, kidney function, liver function, blood count and electrolytes.
I asked him for it. And I might be crazy. Okay, I’m most likely bat-shit crazy but that’s beside the point. But I just have to rule out the possibility that my constant yucky feeling, crazy weight gain, exhaustion and ragey-cagies aren’t somehow biological. Something that, maybe through the use of pharmaceuticals or some sort of directed modification, may make things better. May make me feel better? Grasping at straws here. Little tiny ones. Like a swizzle stick in a stiff scotch and water.
What would be worse? Having something wrong. Some kind of abnormality. Or…would it be worse to have every freaking thing come back normal?
What if it’s all in my head?
Stephen thought that for a year. His leg hurt as that tumor was growing. He took a mind over matter approach to it. He worked through it. Gardened. Went on trips to see family. Amelia was born and he held me up after my water broke and danced me through the contractions. His leg hurt him through all that. As that tumor was growing and changing and killing the rest of his body, he did everything he had to do to keep living. Except go and get it checked out. Repeat the MRI. Have a little blood drawn.
After a year of living in pain (that was not well controlled by anything at all), he was convinced that most of it must be in his head. Most of the pain was in the middle of the night. He could still function all day long. He thought it was in his head. And I didn’t push him to follow up.
I have to take care of myself. Nobody else can push me…nobody can see the decline, if there is one. I have to do this myself. So what if it isn’t anything? So what? Three vials of blood, a copay and an hour out of my day. So what?
If it isn’t biological…if it is in my head…then things are much, much worse.