“You might need surgery again.” He said for the second time after taking maybe an hour listening to my history. This was the first time I met with my new cardiologist; he had no current tests; he hadn’t done any CT scans, MRIs, ultrasounds, etc. on me. Maybe that’s the part that scared me the most.
At thirteen-year-olds, I underwent my third surgery to help my breathing situation. At eighteen-years-old, I was greeted with the line, “Wow you have a large medical history for your age!” the first time seeing a new pain management specialist versus the normal “Hi, my name is…” Now, at nineteen-years-old, I had not thought the mention or surgery would phase me but it sure did.
I remember the last time I got the news that I needed to schedule my next surgery. I hadn’t understood why tears were forming in my eyes. I hadn’t understood why it felt as if my heart was breaking as I watched my mother melt into tears and breakdown. I remember only panicking because she was. In my mind, it wasn’t a huge deal that I was going through surgery for the third time. But, that day that I saw my cardiologist, it was the mirror opposite of years ago.
One night, I just broke into tears and cried until I fell asleep, exhausted from weeping. I had wanted someone close to me to just hold me and tell me everything was going to be okay. One evening, I was briefly mentioning the doctor appointment to a friend and couldn’t stop the tears from forming in my eyes. One night, I fought back the tears as much as I could as a close friend stood by my side but the second someone came and asked if I was ok, I broke.
Day after day, the daily tasks of life seem petty in comparison to the thoughts that continue to run through my mind. But, what did I expect, this has always been my life…