When Your Body Is Good
Man alive, it’s hot out there. I just got back from a divine weekend in the Berkshires that involved gigantic leafy reminders of trees, a froggy, fishy, lake, and incredible samba music. Yes.
I got my test results back the other day. And not only are they squeaky-clean green-flag perfect (hey, this is one area where aiming for perfection is not a flaw), but for the first time in maybe three years I’m actually starting to feel like I’m really, truly going to be ok.
After sitting tensely with Dr. Z before he told me what my scans and blood tests looked like, my world was seriously churning before me. I had been feeling so weird, so nauseated and tired, and upside-down, and the GP said I was anemic, and, and, I dunno, I was afraid that this would really be the time there was bad news.
But nope. I’m not even anemic. Stupid GP tests. After delivering the green-lights, he asked how I was feeling.
“Much better now that I know I’m not imminently dying.”
“You thought that?” he asked, surprised.
“Umm, yeah. It was a possibility.”
“Well, I can’t tell you that you’re not going to die,” he said. “But I can tell you that it won’t be before me.”
And macabre as it sounds I wanted to hug him and do a little happy dance there in the beige, windowless room. (He’s a good 20-30 years older than me, so it’s not that macabre.) Because really, it was the first time he’s said anything like that. Like, chica, you’re good. Go live.
After I shared some major recent stresses, he said, “Lymphoma-wise, you’re perfect, but I wish you were happier.”
“I’m working on it,” I said.
And I am. In my healthy, shiny, lake-cleansed, drum-danced, not-imminently-dying body.
