Test Results
I made a mistake today. I logged into my medical records and looked at my test results. Wrong move. I got to read with my own eyes “Early Inflammatory Arthritis.” All of my joints are clear, except that pesky right hand. Fuck. I feel like scowling at the offending digits. Fuck you, fingers. Fuck. You.
My mind instantly dissolves into panic. My appointment with the rheumatologist isn’t even until the 24th, and I need to reschedule anyway. What the hell was I thinking, looking at the results? I’ll mentally beat myself up over that for weeks, I’m sure. Stupid move. Just plain stupid. I should know better by now, not to trigger my own damn anxiety. But I don’t.
My mind can’t think rationally right now. I can’t stem the flow of rapid thoughts flying through my brain. What if the doctor says it’s too early to do anything? What if she dismisses me? Just go home, check again in a year… Alternately, what if she hands me a prescription, declaring that we must slow the progress of this disease? Disease. Fuck. Here, take this poison to preserve your mobility. Medication terrifies me. There’s not a doubt in my mind that the medications for my father’s auto-immune disease are what caused the cancer that killed him at 45. There’s really no use trying to convince me otherwise. And so, my mind plays through the scenarios that may occur. Making the decision between saving my joints or rejecting the medications that carry side effects as equally debilitating as the original illness. I imagine watching my knuckles swell and push out of place. I imagine the aching pain getting worse instead of better. First fingers, then toes, and then? I imagine losing my mobility. Using a cane, or a wheelchair. Losing the ability to do the things I love. I imagine taking medications that make me ill. I imagine being hospitalized for infections because my immune system needs to be artificially suppressed. I imagine cancer, and the horrible medications that would follow. I feel sick to my stomach but I can’t stop these thoughts. I try to decide which one I’m most terrified of. I can’t choose. I don’t want my doctor to do nothing. Nor do I want to seriously consider pharmaceutical treatment. I don’t want this. I feel my mind throwing a metaphorical tantrum. Kicking, screaming, digging in heels. I don’t want to face this. I want to hide. I want to cry. I want to call my doctor and demand to discuss this RIGHT NOW. But I’m too afraid of what she’ll say. I cannot let go of the fear that she’s still going to say it’s nothing. Oh, it’s so mild, it’s early, it’s early, everything is fine…
This is life with anxiety. I know it. I know it’s not rational. This is my life, based on fear. A fear so paralyzing that I want to run and hide from my own mind. Just stop, please stop… I don’t want to think about this anymore. I regret ever mentioning it. I regret the tests. I regret looking at the results. I’m sorry. I’m sorry! Just make this barrage of thoughts stop… I don’t want this. Any of this. I’m so fucking scared.
