Well, I now know the same thing I knew last week, but with better tests.
I had a moment where I needed to cry, but it passed.
They’re going to cut a hole in me and make their way down to my lymph nodes and take one out and pull it apart and see what it is that’s going on.
I don’t know when, yet. I guess the next step is to wait around to hear from the surgeon.
The new doctor thinks it might be sarcoidosis. I think Dr. J had that in the pool.
Also, apparently I have the hugest tonsils he’s ever seen. He thinks they might be causing my apnea.
If I think about all the “what if”s, I start to feel dizzy and I have this raw spot in my throat and it’s hard for me to concentrate on what the doctor is saying. Instead, this is what I think about–a tobacco-tanned hand, roped with veins. That’s something that exists out there in the world, in the waiting room, in fact. And that’s something that will be there no matter what the news is.
I don’t know why other people need people, but that’s why I can’t do this shit alone. I have to have someone for whom life is going on in an ordinary way, so that I can let go of him, walk into the room where they poke and prod you when they’re not making you sit by yourself so long you start to forget why it is you’re there in the first place, and, when I’m done, come back out and steady myself again by him.