Sometimes life hands me stories I never could have imagined—yet, once they occur, I realize that I should have expected them all along. This story from my life in an old folks’ home is one such instance.
A little over two years ago, my family placed me in an assisted-living facility for elderly people. (Under my breath, I call it “insisted” living.)
In bed, at midnight, nearly asleep, I roll from my back to my side. Suddenly, the universe spins. Or is it just my head spinning? If I were standing, I’d fall over.
I lie still, breathing, and waiting for the dizziness to pass.
Why am I so dizzy? I haven’t had any alcohol. I drank a lot of water today. I didn’t even take any of the medications in my cabinet that help me sleep.
Oh shit. A not-unfamiliar thought enters my head: Has the cancer gone to my brain?
“The odds of anything going sideways are less than one in a hundred,” the cardiologist said.
I was only half listening—too busy signing the papers indemnifying the Medical Colossus against any undue outcomes from my pending cardiac catheterization and probable stent placement.
“Less than one in a hundred,” he repeated.
No problem, I thought.
Editor’s Note: This piece was a finalist in the Pulse writing contest, “On Being Different.”
“Hello. My name is Joan, and I have Tourette syndrome.”
This is my fantasy greeting when meeting people. It would give them notice that there’s something different about me—that I have a chronic neurological condition. It would alert them that I might make repetitive, annoying sounds, like clearing my throat or sniffing; or suddenly make a strange body movement, like flinging out my arm or jerking my head or shuddering. Not to mention the unexpected outbursts of irrational anger.
June 2020
I’ve put it off for as long as possible because replacing a knee is major surgery, and things can go sideways fast. Infection is #1 on my doctor’s list of concerns. Blood clots are #2, and I’ve heard stories of people who had clots travel to their lungs and died before they could get to an emergency room.
Pain is at the top of my list. My knee is now bone on bone, and I can’t limp all the way around a grocery store without packing it in.
Editor’s Note: This piece was a finalist in the Pulse writing contest, “On Being Different.”
“What are you?”
It’s impossible to count the number of times I’ve been asked this question, directly or indirectly.
When my family moved to Milwaukee from the South, I was twelve.
One day soon after, I was digging in my locker at Audubon Middle School when a girl named Tammy walked up to me.
Editor’s Note: This piece was a finalist in the Pulse writing contest, “On Being Different.”
I was a disaster in fourth grade—too chubby for my Girl Scout uniform, which gapped where it should not have gapped. I dragged my right foot, so I wore orthopedic shoes. My horn-rimmed glasses made me look like a sixtysomething church lady. My jet-black hair with five cowlicks had been partially tamed with a beauty-shop permanent. I was the last chosen for red rover and other recess favorites.
Ten-year-olds know when they are different from their peers. I didn’t want to be different and felt self-conscious. Then came the coup de grâce.
Editor’s Note: This piece was awarded an honorable mention in the Pulse writing contest, “On Being Different.”
I’ve just received a call from a hospital: An urgent appointment at its fetal-medicine unit has been arranged for me for tomorrow.
I try to get all the critical information.
“Which hospital did you say?” I ask. The medical secretary repeats the name, sounding a little surprised. I haven’t heard of this hospital; but then, I haven’t really heard of any, except for our local one.
Editor’s Note: This piece was a finalist in the Pulse writing contest, “On Being Different.”
Being different is often viewed as bad. At a young age, I learned that it meant you didn’t belong. I vividly remember watching the Sesame Street puppets dance and sing about an object that “didn’t belong” because it was “not like the others.”
Throughout my school years, I tried hard to fit in. Being overweight, and as uncoordinated as they come, I constantly felt out of place in my body and among my peers. I remember trying so hard to make people laugh, to win them over.
Editor’s Note: This piece was awarded an honorable mention in the Pulse writing contest, “On Being Different.”
I dread visits to the gynecologist. Even though I’m a healthcare professional myself—studying to become a physician assistant after years as a clinical-research coordinator—I struggle with the prospect of the impending visit on a deeply personal level.
The crinkly gown, the pressure of the cold speculum and the pinch of the tiny brush that scrapes the cervix. A pap smear was bad enough when I identified as a woman—but as a nonbinary person with gender dysphoria, these visits act as a reminder that I was born into a body I don’t identify with, and I find visits to my gynecologist unbearable.
Editor’s Note: This piece was a finalist in the Pulse writing contest, “On Being Different.”
When I was diagnosed with breast cancer, my doctor, Dr. Thompson, who looks like the comedian Norm MacDonald and tells smart-ass jokes and likes to draw stick-figure breasts on a whiteboard to show surgical options, asked, “Do you have a family history of breast cancer?”
He had already drawn a series of disembodied breasts before he asked this. The breasts were squared off, with Lego nipples—nothing Victoria’s Secret-ish, nothing human.
I sometimes tell my children that they have superpowers—usually when they’ve done something amazing, unique or powerful.
I’d like to think that I, too, have a superpower: I can move physical pain from a 9 to a 0, just with my thoughts.
I’ve been practicing this power—honing it—for more than twenty years now.
© 2024 Pulse - Voices from the Heart of Medicine, Inc. All rights reserved.
