Magnetism

Pain pulls in emotion.

The crushing across my ribs snaps me to a breathless moment treading the Swim Across America 2-mile in cold Lake Washington, certain I would never breath again.

It propels me into the tight angry flesh clogged with lymphatic fluid, solid, hard, unmoving, reeling from chemo and a double-masectomy,

It smashes me into suffocating pain and pressure, a heart attack panic rising from severe constipation and heartburn.

It pounds in my chest, paralyzing me on the high ropes course.

It jeers in my ear, threatening loss, vulnerability, irrecoverable falls.

Without ever having any representative from your office speak to me, without ever speaking to me,  you tell your nurse to tell me there's no reason to see you.  I could wait for Dr. Wahl's return.

But you will see me.

How generous.

I've done a lot of the work myself - I meditate down the panic, Smooth Move the heartburn away, exercise gentleness into the angry flesh.

I use logic to calm my fear --  despite the pain and tenderness, I must know the ultrasound would have shown no bleeding, or they would have never let me leave.

I'm OK.  I say to myself.

But  I shouldn't have to justify why I need you to help me understand my pain.

The anger from the July 4th post grows out of shock.  I wasn't ready to feel this fragile, this vulnerable, this quickly.   I am screaming someplace deep inside.  That's nobody's fault.  It just is. Unavoidable.

But there is also betrayal.  A breach of trust brought on by one single major mistake (the FALL) and a dozen micro-insults, a small lie of omission about med students,  an unsupervised teenage observer chatting me up about my cancer, a non-response to a call for information from outpatient surgery,  an eager-to-get-Suzy-out-of-here nurse, the party atmosphere in the CT room.

The staff referring to the doctor as scurrying and hiding.

The nurse lying about checking me before having me try to get dressed.

The nurse explaining to me how her supervisor saw her point, that my fainting was unavoidable.

 I move backwards to insults past.

The Oncology receptionist snorting with impatience when I can't tell if Dr. Wahl works at "SCI"

(Sounds like a goddam TV crime show to me.  Is Swedish Cancer Institute really that hard to say?)

The lack of any printed instruction at all after the MRI.

It's all air.  Smoke and mirrors.

There is nothing real.

But emotion.

Ribs out of place?  Bones damaged?

Maybe.

Probably not.

But that's just it, right?   How can I stay with a team who doesn't understand?

Emotion is physical.