Gratitude 25
Gratitude for possibility
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.”
Gratitude 24
...for all the hands that have helped me.
Gratitude 24/40
(written in November)
“I’m fine, mamma” I say as tears flow over my chin and collect on my woolen turtleneck.
My mom takes a breath on the other side of the phone, on the other side of the world. “Sometimes we need to be honest, Hanna. You are not fine. Ask a friend to drive you to the hospital.”
I would rather be receiving a call asking for help than making it. Stubbornness shoots through my bones, trying to keep me upright and able through the pain. My back has been in spasm for a week and, unrelatedly, my speech is starting to slur. The doctor suspects neurological damage and asked me to go for a scan.
I fear that my world will be changed by what I learn. I feel uncertain if I can make the co-payments. I bristle with the irritation of time spilt in fluorescent flavored waiting rooms. I feel the lull of avoidance, the turning away in hope that time heals.
It takes three friends and my mother to soften this willful independence. Soon my friend stops his car at the hospital, and I slowly swing my legs out. Soon I sign waivers and receive a wrist band identifying me as myself. Soon I cringe as I straighten my legs on the scanner bed. Soon I close my eyes as not to see the CT scanner hover over me. I think “I should pay attention and take this in.” But I don’t. I keep still, eyes shut, hands on my abdomen feeling my body breathe.
When I come out of the scan, I notice that some of the beige ceiling tiles are replaced by a backlit scene of a blue sky and green tree branches. Outside the Pittsburgh sky is a scoured pot bottom and the tree branches are bare. The nurse jokes that she wishes the weather outside was this good. I laugh with her.
That same day a patch of blue sky appears inside me as I receive the news that my scan is clear – whatever is causing my speech to slur didn’t show on the CT and it seems not be neurological damage. And the world view I cling to that requires me to be able-bodied and fiercely independent is softening as well. I’m learning to accept my changing health, my needing help. I feel a blue-sky full of gratitude for all the hands that have helped me in these two weeks of unrelenting pain and tests.