A snakey path. Last Saturday, as I reflected on my ideal journey through treacherous waters, I was pondering the pain that was spreading through my abdomen. I had quickly recovered from my first week in the hospital in March, had come through three cycles of chemotherapy, and was well. No one would expect how well. Amazingly well.
But Saturday felt different. I woke up with nagging suspicion and pain to match. A call to the consulting nurse sent us for a midday bladder check. And after the group zoom chat, I called for results. Negative. Positive would have been a more welcome word.
With that diagnosis came the traditional sounds of “Manage your pain”. I can imagine generations of ancestors silently screaming with that directive. I was trying. I had never used the narcotics in my collection. I tried one type, switched to the other at the next time window. No change, no relief.
I called the consulting nurse line again. “I don’t know how to manage my pain.” How many people struggle with this every day of their lives? I have so much compassion.
This time, there was far more concern. “Go directly to Urgent Care.”
I packed. I packed the bags for a hospital stay, my computer, my journal, cell phone charger, changes of clothes, hairbrush, deodorant. There was no point in making Kwami and Nyasha dig for what I wanted. Resignation. Sigh.
Who knows what? That is becoming an issue. As more diagnoses have evolved, as more people have a baseline, it gets harder to remember what information has been passed. It is certainly not self evident what interpretations transferred into each person’s view. And there are pods of folks who don’t know, and that I cannot conceive of the right way to express the information. Ironic. Work knows. Friends don’t know.
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