Will to live
Thursday afternoon I had an ultrasound to check out a cyst, despite my physician’s assistant telling me it was probably nothing. It was nothing, but she thought an ultrasound and a follow-up with my doc would be a good idea, which I appreciated. While they were checking that, they found another cyst, a large one, on my ovary. Again, everyone tells me it’s a frequent occurrence for most women, usually goes unnoticed, and will probably clear up on its own in short order.
They’re probably right, but having had my fill of docs who cannot be bothered to actually do a full work-up of a problem (or even listen to the whole problem) before they write a prescription or pass you on to someone else, I hope I’ll be excused for not trusting them. They’ve been wrong before, telling me something was “impossible” when it turned out I was right and they were wrong.
So I wheedled copies of my films to send home to my mom to review, as she’s been an ultrasound tech for 25 years, and she actually cares what happens to me. It was a bit comical, actually. First, I asked for them outright from the receptionist, because the techs had disappeared. And she said, “Well, they’ll go in your chart,” as if that settled the matter. I said, “Well, I think I’m entitled to see anything in my chart, according to HIPAA.” I love that within two sentences, I have to invoke federal law. So she asks the doc if I can get them, and he seems puzzled as to why. “Will she know what she’s looking at?” I tell him that my mom’s an ultrasound tech, assure him that she will know what’s she’s seeing, and what’s more, “She’ll ask.” I don’t know that she would ask, but I really didn’t think I’d get very far with “Well, I’m sure you’re all professionals, but I don’t trust you as far as I can throw you, and since I happen to have—this one time in my life—someone in my family who can give me a professional second opinion, I’m just going to go ahead and do that, mmmkay?”
So the techs reappear, and he asks them if they can get me copies of the films. I’d already told them about my mom, so I repeat that she’d be curious, and I can tell that they’re not thrilled about doing so. Maybe because they felt they were being second-guessed, maybe because they’d already shut down the computer for the day, and would have to reboot to give me what I asked for. There was a weirdness in the air as we waited, and I played up the mom angle, and they reassured me that it was nothing to worry about, and that lots of people had this, and on and on. Finally, I decided to use humor to diffuse the discomfort, and said that I need copies of my ultrasounds to keep up with all my girlfriends who delight in showing their babies’ first pictures (in utero), and as I was not having kids, this was the best I could do. “This is my cyst; we’re going to call it ‘Paula.’”
I was amused. But I guess some of these are just for me; I think they thought I was serious. The lot of them must’ve thought I was a little weird and insistent, but I got what I wanted, so I can live with it.
I called my mom to ask her if she’d read the films and reassure me that I wasn’t about to be someone’s fatal mistake. Cancers of the female bits are too frequently deadly, and by the time you’re symptomatic, it may well be too late. She, too, said it was pretty common, and probably nothing to worry about. Which I’m sure is true, but I feel better hearing it from my mom.
In any case, this whole process has brought home in a very concrete way something that has slowly become true again since A died, which is that I’m in no hurry to die. People who don’t care if they live don’t harass their medical providers and mothers to make sure that they’re fine. I know that, for the most part, it’s out of my hands, and that when my time comes, not even my mommy will be able to save me. But I know now that, faced with the possibility, I’m prepared to do what I can for my own sake. That’s good news.
There’s something else, too. And that is this feeling I’ve been carrying around for years that I am going to die young. I felt it in my 20s, when I was always cracking the whip at my own back, trying to pack a lot into some kind of life résumé, because I felt like I didn’t have a lot of time. I let go of that for a long while in my late 20s and early 30s, figuring that it had more to do with trying to be someone my mother could at long last approve of than any sense of my own mortality. That may still be true, or not; I don’t know. But since A died, since I was dosed with a large amount of nasty-tasting reality that people die young and unexpectedly, that fear is back. And honestly, I don’t know if I’m a budding psychic, or if I have merely internalized my shock and bewilderment at A’s untimely death and this is how it manifests. That is, do I think I’m going to die young because A died, and I have no faith that the universe won’t do the same to me?
There was a time in my grieving journey when I felt bad enough that death seemed like a blessed release, particularly since one of my favorite people in the world would be there to greet me when I arrived in whatever comes next. But I never could spend much time thinking that way, because I was not alone in the world. And as horrible as the soul pain was, it was educational, because I knew I would spare E (also one of my favorite people in the world) that pain as long as I had any choice in the matter. When it comes down to it, I’m not afraid of death. I just don’t want to leave anyone behind feeling as awful as I felt. So I’m going to try to stick around as long as possible.