Doctors. Needles. Rubbing alcohol. Blood. You would think that these words would scare me. At the very least cause a bit of anxiety. The truth is I now hardly flinch when having blood drawn. The bad news is that my veins are small and hidden. The good news is that they are there. But it takes one experienced nurse to get blood on the first prick. I know exactly what to do - clench fist, pump my hand a couple of times, and then relax. Normally I look away but sometimes my curiosity gets the better of me and I stare at the steady stream of crimson liquid, hopeful that it will be the batch flooded with answers.
Similarly, MRI machines once made me nauseated and completely terrified; I still get claustrophobic in elevators. Now, after 30 MRI's, I can tolerate them without squeezing the panic rubber ball in my hand to alert Jeremy behind the glass window that I must, get, out. Now. I sat for one last week for two hours. That was a record even for me. But I did. I listened to Bach and Beethoven. I tried to relax in between the head brace that was placed to secure my neck from twitching.
Hospitals in the past made my heart race and my stomach lurch. Now, I navigate the hallways without hesitation. I am familiar with everything in the room. Every sound that beeps and signals. I am not afraid. I can even remove an IV line from the pump. When my father was in the hospital last week for back surgery, the only discomfort I felt was seeing him in pain.
Experiencing what I have over the course of the past six years, visiting doctors around the world, enduring surgeries and managing daily life with pain, has prepared me for life's roller coaster of uncertainty. One day I was playing tennis, the next day I was having x-rays and being prescribed narcotics. Now I am back playing tennis - my limit is 20 minutes before I surrender to the stabbing sharpness between my shoulder blades - but I am grateful for those 20 minutes. I took my last pain killer three years ago. And I have conquered some of my fears to the delight of Jeremy who now only has to retrieve me once from the scan tube. I am thankful for where the journey has taken me. I am grateful for getting out of bed in the morning without having someone lift me with a sheet. Walking down the street, I now walk at the same pace as most of my fellow pedestrians instead of 12 paces behind. All that gives my pain away is the tattoo of scars on my back that are visible when in a bathing suit. Plus, when a friend goes for blood-work and they need a hand to squeeze, they know just who to call.
