Monday, July 23, 2012


usually, it's part of my routine:
pouring pills into my mouth every day and quickly chugging water.
having needles stuck in my arms each month so my doctors can monitor blood counts and organ function.
sitting in waiting rooms and sterile offices until the doctor comes so i can beg her to let me take fewer pills.
usually, it's all okay, and these things are inconveniences, but life moves on.

then sometimes, the routine gets shaken:
despite the medications, my body drags and aches and little things like Garmin telling me she's "recalculating" causes me to burst into tears.
blood tests come back with values that are no longer normal.
i sit in more waiting rooms, but instead of begging for fewer pills, i beg to feel well.

sometimes, the thought of more invasive testing leaves me sobbing, even though i've ordered the same invasive test on a hundred of my own patients and promised them they would be okay.
sometimes, i shudder at the memory of coughing up blood for days after my last bronchoscopy and swear that despite my doctor's recommendations, no one is putting another camera in my mouth. 
sometimes, i just don't want to do this anymore.

and someday, i hope things will be okay. 
that my body won't feel like its breaking.
that there won't be tests i'm avoiding. 
that there won't be infusions to schedule. 
that my soul won't be weary of the pills and the bloodwork and uncertainty. 
that i'll recognize the privilege in all this - that i can opt out of testing and treatment, when my swazi friend has been waiting months for a CT scan.
that i'll see that maybe, somehow, this is grace.

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