I cried, waking up from anesthesia. Literally, my eyes filled with tears and I began to weep.
Sure, I was tired and half aware of the world around me. It was the only time in months I didn’t feel pain and I had slept comfortably. I couldn’t swallow and my chest burned. As the room is spinning, I’m trying to gain my thoughts and contemplate how I feel. I see the nurse, who held my hand as I starting shaking, afraid to let go and go under. I remember the anesthesiologist, she was beautiful, and the last thing I remember is her telling me that despite the risks, everything was going to be alright, and I was going to start to feel some intense burning in my arm soon… I felt nothing, nothing compared to how I usually feel. But now she’s gone. There’s another nurse there, she looks familiar. I see my husband, he’s so handsome. They keep telling me to wake up, but I don’t want to. I’m tired… my mind is tired, my body is worn. The doctor spins into view… “Everything is fine and went well. No complications. I stretched your esophagus. Should be easier to swallow now. We took a lot of biopsies along the way. We’ll see if they show anything. But overall, I saw nothing inside you. Everything looked normal.” And I could feel my face burn with tears.
What do you mean everything is normal? All the stress of this test, praying for an answer. The pain, the constant and unbearable pain, the bleeding, the nausea, the cramping… I haven’t eaten in weeks. I literally believed this was going to be THE TEST that would ultimately give me answers. An end to my pain. A diagnosis. How can there be nothing wrong? My chest hurts too bad to weep. I can barely breathe. I don’t care how tired I am. I start putting on my clothes. I sip some water. I want to go home. I want to go home and sleep forever.
The nurse is encouraging, letting me know there’s still the biopsy results to wait on. Am I sure I’m ok to get up? Stress can cause a lot of pain. Are you sure you’re ready to leave? She’s sweet for trying. I’m heartbroken. She doesn’t know what it’s like to lose your only hope, your last hope. My husband, on the drive home, says again, there’s still the biopsies. Let’s wait until we see your normal GI doc. She know’s what’s she doing. Don’t give up yet. I can’t hear him. I’m forcing my eyes open. No sleeping on the hour and a half drive home, since I don’t have portable oxygen. I can’t swallow. I can’t cry, because the lump in my throat is too painful. Why do I have heartburn so bad? I’ve never had heartburn, really. The one thing I DON’T have. It’s from a broken heart,…it’s burning and making it impossible to swallow down the tears I’m holding back. How? How is there nothing? And I look out the window, the mountains are beautiful today. They look like heaven, with their snow covered peaks. It’s breath taking… literally. I think of everyone who’s been waiting for answers. The one’s have been so encouraging and loving and supportive. I feel like a failure. I feel crazy. Who feels failure for being “normal”? Crazy people. I think, well there is the abnormal CT scan. I see the Urologist this week. Maybe he’ll know. Maybe he can put the pieces together. He’s got to. Maybe he’s my only hope… I’m tired of living undiagnosed. I need answers, I DESERVE answers.
We pull into the driveway, I sleep. And I sleep. And I sleep for two days. I don’t want to be awake another moment, with no reason for the pain…