I asked you to do the surgery. You said you could or a colleague but I trusted my life in your hands. It felt like there was so much at stake, more to lose than body parts. I can’t explain how afraid I was that I’d throw a blood clot or bleed to death. I was so scared I kept calling to my mother!
I had a dream about her last night. She was a helpless infant in my arms. I rolled around in my wheelchair with her head on my shoulder. I made sure she was safe and warm. Safe.
Anyway, I had no idea I’d feel so much about you. I want to sit you down and tell you what it was like waiting for the surgery. What it feels like to have your skin rot and die. I want to tell you because it seems too easy for you to remove something and treat it medically. Your work is important so maybe you shouldn’t know, maybe you shouldn’t know this side of it.
I am devistated that in 3 months time I have to move on like there’s some med book timeline saying I have to ‘get over it’ and move on. It feels so cold.
For years to come I’ll see the doctor that makes my heart smile with a word. He’s got a booming voice. A tall, older man from Egypt who worked on my case very aggressively. The team of doctors and surgeons was incredible, absolutely top of the line. No one was cold or forgot that I’m human. You were a little harder to make laugh, but I did. I don’t want to make it sound like you’re cold or distant. It’s just that in all my life I never expected to be here, never dreamed I’d be in case files and lucky to be alive.
Let me tell you too, I understand photos of my wounds can be used for teaching purposes. I understand my case is one people want to study. So this will help, right? It’ll make it so this nightmare helps someone else lying in a hospital bed with their teeth chattering and eyes blood shot from crying. I hate the idea of morbid fascination at what my body did, but if you’re telling me the case study will do good then ok.
I trust you like I trust the Big E, the one who makes my heart smile. I knew to follow your instructions to the letter because your experience says you know your field. I wanted you to be happy that your patient listened and acted on your advice. Any advice during our last visit will be held with the same high esteem.
Maybe in 3 months time and a lot more therapy sessions I’ll be ready to let go.
August 24th I’ll walk into my therapist’s office for the first time in six months. He has faithfully called me every Monday through this ordeal. Finally, I’ll sit in his office. It’ll be like going home after a very long, unscheduled trip.
Several years ago when the Lupus started to really get bad I asked my therapist if he was going to be in this for the long haul. I knew I’d miss appointments. I knew I’d be emotional. I knew things were going to get ugly, not this ugly, but I knew I’d turned the corner. Dr D said he was in it for the long haul and he has been! He’s gone above and beyond. Thank you for that.