HeartStrung

photo by Ron Place I walk in smiling. I'm not necessarily keen on meeting new people, especially new people who are doctors, but I know that after the first appointment they are no longer new and every subsequent appointment will be easier. I walk in smiling. I'm grateful to be seeing this doctor. I'm hopeful that some benefit will come from the appointment. Or at the very least, I will be heard. I walk in smiling. I like people. I want to be a blessing to everyone I meet. And I know that sometimes a genuine smile from one person is all it takes to turn a person's day around. I walk in smiling. I know how this is going to end. But I walk in smiling. I wait. I do it with patience, even while I wonder what the point is of showing up 15 minutes early, as requested, when I will end up waiting in a colorless room for 45 minutes beyond my appointment time before they get to me. I wait with patience. I speak. I try to be clear, even as I use unusual simile

It's November. November 2016. The air outside is chilly. The trees are half bare, their vibrantly colored leaves scattered on the ground, curling at the edges as their remaining moisture seeps into the air. My first friend-in-motherhood has been dead for a year now, her tragic death still feeling as fresh to my heart as the day it happened. And the anniversary of my getting sick has come back around. This month we mark five years of undiagnosed illness. Five years of unexplained, untreated pain and ailments. Five years. It is safe to say there is a lot of reflection happening here. I remember arriving at the testing facility for my first MRI in 2012. I'd driven there alone, not knowing what to expect. My palms were sweating as I signed in at the desk. I was afraid. Afraid of what the MRI would show. Was there a tumor growing in my brain, pressing on a cranial nerve in my ear? Was this MS? Was it nothing? The receptionist asked me some questions, one of which was how lon