When you are chronically ill, hope is a dangerous thing.
At first you do. You hope. You hope fiercely. It’s what gets you through so many doctor appointments and awkward procedures and pain-filled days. Hope is what gets you through. But eventually, that hope fades.
After going to get the ninth second opinion, your hope is beaten down. After the third surprise rectal exam, you need more than hope. And so your hope becomes steel. Steel that laces itself through your spine and your soul. It helps you stand up straight when you’ve gotten embarrassingly ill at a dinner party. It helps you keep your chin up when your latest doctor tells you that they found nothing new in the latest round of tests.
Last night I had an MRI. I was pretty annoyed going in. While I was sore and worn down, I wasn’t full on sick and therefore, getting imaging work done seemed like a waste of time and insurance money. The problem with scheduling imaging of just about any kind is that those procedures have to be set up usually at least a week in advance and my abdominal troubles have no interest in observing any sort of rational calendar. It’s like shooting at a target from on top of a moving train. It’s hard to get data, and this problem can’t be solved without data. It’s immensely frustrating.
So, last night I went to Weill Cornell Imaging and settled in for three disgusting rounds of contrast and half an hour in a giant magnet. And I got sick. I’m not sure if it was the contrast that distends your stomach or stress from pretty much anything, but by the time that they put me in for imaging I had already needed to take to pain killers and spent a while laying on the cool tile of the bathroom holding myself in the fetal position. It was the best thing that could ever possibly happened. I got sick right when I needed to be.
And now I have hope. And now I am terrified. Because what if the tests don’t show anything? What if this doctor gives up just like the last one? The last one was lucky and when I saw her the first time I hadn’t eaten anything in several days so she could go in immediately. She did a colonoscopy and found ulcers and though she had a diagnosis. But a year and a half later after blood tests proving her wrong, she threw in the towel. If this test shows something, will it be enough? I want to hope. I want to be better. But every time I get my hopes up, my spirit gets shattered when nothing comes of it. How many times can you get a punch to the gut like this before you give up? How do you find the balance between pursuing a cure that may never come and finding a way to live your life as it is so it doesn’t pass you by. I don’t know. Finding the answer so far has been terribly painful and I’m not sure I want to keep looking.