To be held

I’m having a hard time coming up with what to write. Everything I can think of sounds trite and contrived and cliche. I’ve been becoming one of those people saying deep things on Facebook which is mostly disgusting- then again I feel like I’ve lost the last few days in a bit of a stupor- depending on everyone else to take care of me.

I am uncomfortable with being taken care of. And I have been leaning on everyone from God to distant friends to acquaintances. All I can remember is screaming for oxygen and reglan and begging my mother I wouldn’t hit anyone else. And then holding on to my cousin Baniah for dear life and crying about how scared I was.

They don’t talk to you about that part- how scary it is. We go over the lack of dignity; your experience getting bathed by other people- but truly my modesty was the first thing to go out the door. I cannot ever remember wondering whether or not my mother wouldn’t wash my ass and hide me from all these people I didn’t know.

The things that become clearly in focus: this contrast tastes terrible, my head hurts, neurosurgeons are scary- mommy is still holding my hand. All I could think was thank God for everyone holding my hand. And I was just reaching out blindly- grabbing onto whoever and whatever was around me.

And I hate that I’m unable to come up with anything elegant to say- I can’t paint out my heart as my little sister can, these damn drugs are scrambling my ability to write well on this dang computer- and obviously I don’t want to incriminate myself and make it look like I’m not ready for this next year- this year where I am suppose to dedicate myself to taking care of others- which is all I want to do, and here I was, laid flat, in need of some serious care myself.

And part of that is probably necessary, I can sit here and tell myself that I know I will learn from this experience, I will understand my patients better, I will understand all that encompasses illness better, I will be a better physician for having been in need of one myself- but all of that is really quite far in the background. All I can remember is wanting my mommy- and being worried my daddy was all by himself. I don’t know about your daddies- but mine hasn’t seen me naked since I was like 3. He started knocking on doors and having us attempt to shower on our own as soon as we could stand up on the porcelain. And apparently he found me fallen out in the middle of the bathroom…and immediately ran to get my mommy.

And this is not to say that he couldn’t handle it on his own- there are all sorts of times where I can remember my daddy taking care of me. After my fibroid surgery my daddy drove me around and checked on me and bought all the multicolored pads and forced down all the broth I could take.

All of my fears surrounded the time I would have to take off- I didn’t want to push my interviews. I didn’t want to have to move back this intern year. But there was never any doubt that my family would care for me, and I would just have to seriously chill out for this next year.

And hearing that everything was ok, that there was no underlying malignancy, there was no more underlying blood mass, that everything was just gone- still hasn’t quite stuck to me. I just know that everyone has held on to me, and I don’t like needing to be held. and I have needed to be held, and I love you for holding me.


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