Terribly Wrong

Hospitals have always made me nervous
Ever since I was a kid,
I’d do anything to avoid a doctor’s appointment.
The smell of cleaning supplies and fresh linen
Cling to my nose like depression to a broken soul.
The smell is strong enough to make me vomit all over my black jeans.
The plain hallways and ordered rooms make my skin itch.
Sweat begins to collect at the creases of my arms
And my heart begins to beat dangerously fast.
My best-friend of four years is with me
But even she can’t tell what I’m thinking and feeling.
The fear of not knowing what’s going on,
Constantly reminds me that something could be terribly wrong.
Just the day before, I was told that there was something wrong with my heart.
Maybe all the stress, broken dreams and shame finally hit me where it really hurts.
I sit on a table, with nothing but a large gown covering my body.
The room is poorly lit, and the only thing that I can hear
Is the ticking of the clock located in the upper right corner of the room.
A white man in his fifties quietly walks into the room,
Clipboard in hand.
My heart begins to beat even faster.
He tells me that I must remove everything from the waist up.
I think he can sense how uncomfortable I am with this.
Because never before have I felt so exposed
So scared
So vulnerable.
Small stickers with large tubes attached to them are scattered all along my body.
I feel his hands slightly tremble as he places them close to my heart.
He turns on a large machine and eyes the screen
While I stare up at the ceiling trying to think about anything
Anything but the present.
He keeps his eye on the monitor as it beeps searching,
Searching for what?
He turns around to let me dress myself
But I already feel spoiled, so exposed.
No words are exchanged as I walk the long way back to my doctors office.
My heart rate is measured several times
With no one telling me what the results were.
It seems like I’ve been sitting here for hours before my doctor actually speaks to me.
“ It’s seems like your blood pressure is too high for someone your age, your heart rate too”.
She looks at the EKG the man took before
“ This will take time to analyze” she tells me.
She’s been my doctor for all my life
But I can’t help but feel like she’s hiding something from me.
164/62 the monitor read.
She tells me I need to come back soon for “ further evaluation”.
Suddenly I feel so sick
I feel the Cheerios I had more breakfast slowly making their way up my throat,
I swallow hard.
Something is wrong, they just don’t know what it is yet.
“ Weak hearts run in the family” according to my dad
But something isn’t adding up.
I go back to school, acting like nothing is wrong.
Something feels wrong with me
Something has changed.
I keep my index and middle finger on my neck,
Trying to measure how bad it is.
I’ve learned to run away from stressful situations
And act like everything’s okay and I’m healthy.
But no one’s heart should beat super fast and feel nauseous walking up a flight of stairs.
I’ve become a pretty good liar.
But when I lay down at night and my heart keeps me awake,
And I pray to god that each day isn’t my last,
I can no longer pretend,
That something isn’t terribly wrong.