I heard the words.
My doctor had said that it was NOT going to get better.
She probably said “I” am not going to get better, but I translated "I" to "it" in my head. “It” made it seem less personal – less a part of me. My doctor said it multiple times: “It is not going to get better”. She looked so apologetic, possibly even sad. I felt bad for her. It can’t be easy for a doctor to not be able to fix what is wrong with a patient. She continued speaking as I sat and stared at her with disbelief etched into my face and a stream of tears slowly making their way down my cheeks. I didn’t bother to brush away the tears. What was the point? I tried to focus on her words. Something about how the damage was at the microscopic level of my brain so it couldn’t be seen … we had tried all of the therapies (physical, speech, occupational, mental health) and although I had done well and made progress, it was not going to be enough.
There was nothing more to try.
She may or may not have said that I might get a little better, but I distinctly remember attempting to understand how my life was NOT going to get much better. My doctor said something about consulting with colleagues and all of them arriving at the same conclusion.
The battle to get better was over.
I think the tears were still falling. My doctor had handed me a tissue. I was working hard to push away the panic. With the panic came the anger. I did not want this. I did not ask for this. I had done EVERYTHING all of the doctors and therapists had asked me to do. What was I supposed to do now? I didn’t want the pain and exhaustion and confusion to be my constant companions. They were supposed to go away. THEY WERE SUPPOSED TO GO AWAY!!! I did not want to be broken. This could not be happening. Was the rest of my life going to be an ongoing nightmare from which there was no escape?
From the time of THE ACCIDENT to that moment in my doctor’s office, I had relied hope. Hope that my faith would provide healing. Hope that consistently battled anger and overcame it. Hope that had given me strength and courage to face each moment of pain. Hope told me THE ACCIDENT had broken my brain, but it would get better. I would get better. Now that hope was gone. I vaguely remember asking what I was supposed to do now. There was no answer. There was only an unbroken emptiness.
Comments