Gratitude 27/40

My goodness but the health system here can be so speedy quick! The result of the MRI arrives in my inbox before I get home from the scan, thirty minutes away. I don’t look, because right now I distrust my meaning making capacities. But then I get a call from the doctor’s office– and the scan is normal. So I feel so relieved! And I feel intrigued.

I wrote this in the summer. It feels relevant today.

J. takes a minute before responding to me asking him how he’s doing. He puts the pruning scissor down, lean on his knee to straighten up, places both hands on his hips and arcs his back. The august air is thick with humidity.

Then J. says, “I guess I am okay.” The sound of “okay” has a long and weary tail, ending like a question.

A. responds in a similar tone. “I’ve had better days.”

“What about Hanna?” J. asks as I snip the cerise chard stem. I still cannot believe how pink it is.

“Well,” I say looking up, “for the first time in my life – at least that I now of – I am the host of 52 parasites.”

“What?”asks J. “How?”

“We went to lake Erie on Sunday and swam for hours. But we weren’t alone in the waters. There were sneaky parasites looking to make their home in ducks. But because we are hot bodied too, they mistook us and burrowed into our skins. So now I have all these hungry parasites hanging out under my skin, making me itch much so much that I wake up in the middle of the night longing to I scratch my body on the bedside like a cat. There is nothing I can do but wait for them to discover that we are incompatible and die.”

“Ha,” says A. “Are the parasites transferable once they are in your body?”

“No,” I reply.

“Mine is,” she says.

“Your what?” asks J. with a bit more animation in this voice.

“I too have a parasite.” A. brings her left leg forward and there, halfway between her ankle and knee is a ring almost as bright as the chard stems.

“I have ring worm.”

“Seriously? How did you get it?” J. asks.

“You get it through skin contact or by sitting in dirt. I think it’s through the dirt, because no one else I touch has it.”

“How long will it last?” I ask.

“A month or so,” she replies.

J. straightens up again, his right hand filled with four tomatoes. “Well,” he says, “I guess I’m doing really great then!”
We laugh.

In this moment, I am grateful for all the nasty things I do not have.

Gratitude 26/40

Standing under the gym’s blow drier, my head bowed while my hands move over my skull, I imagine that somewhere in here something is happening to my brain, but I have no way of touching, seeing, solving it.

Today I get an MRI. The first one in my life! And I feel both a rush of gratitude and aversion.

Gratitude because… I live in this time when these smart machines exist. I don’t live in the sticks, but in a medical town where I could to get an appointment two days after I called. Unlike a lot of people and unlike my past self at different points, I have medical insurance and I have a robust enough safety net and network to know these costs won’t bankrupt me. I have access to a car and I don’t have to get up at four in the morning to line up at a gas station, hoping to get gas. I can get care — there isn’t a war or pandemic raging around me. Pittsburgh’s electricity supply is stable. I’m relatively healthy. I don’t suffer from other complications, I don’t have four kids dependent on me. So so so so so much gratitude and with it the wish for this to be accessible to everyone.

And then, aversion. I mean, if this was a choose-your-own-adventure, the other options need to be pretty dire for me to choose an MRI. Really. Imagine being pushed into a coffin-like scanner that whirls around you like a loud laundromat while you need to keep perfectly still. And then, after 20 minutes or so, they’ll pull you out, decant a liter of dye into you and do the whole thing again.

My friend smiles when I tell him about the MRI. “Ha!” he says, “You will have so much practice going to your happy place.”

Which is true. All those times waking up with mid-night anxiety has given me a lot of tools to hold my fear and aversion in tenderness, to breathe me into a less stressed state, to imagine things that bring me joy and be silly – how many fart jokes can I remember?

So, I’m starting my day with a warm coat woven from gratitude and a feeling of nausea and a knowing that I am damn lucky to be here now.

Gratitude 25/40

On Friday I cried in the doctor’s office. It was not a polite cry where you dab a tear drop from the corner of your eye. It was more raw, like my lungs were desperately gobbling up air and my vocal cords were too stress to open resulting in a series extended moans. I wasn’t in control, and I felt embarrassed by it and gave the Ear Nose and Throat specialist a thumbs up while wailing.

I’ve been having issues with my voice and speech for more than a month. I’ve gone for scans and tests, all the while hoping it’s not serious. But in moments before my wail, he told me this was neurological. And from the little desk research I’ve done (thanks Ti), it is not good news.

The ENT doctor with his curly grey hair and grey eyes looks at me with tenderness. His face mask is shaped like a duck bill which makes this moment more endearing.

“Do you have people that care about you in Pittsburgh?” He asks knowing I’m an immigrant.

“I do.” I say.

“Good! While I would like to be your care person, I can’t. But you will need your people now.”

Not only do I need my people, I also need those who can echo-locate me in this darkness. As I drive down the spiraling tar of the parking garage, I leave a voice note for a friend who has MS. MS is one of the many, many possible fists behind this punch.

Her response is soothing. “I know in my own experience how scary this can feel. I am sorry that you are here. You know, I can’t say that I feel hopeful for many things, but I do believe in possibility. I believe in the possibility that whatever comes can be worked with and I want to be there with you.”