I should be scared, I tell myself. Lying on the table, eyes closed, machine whirling around me and a needle in my vein. I should be scared spit-less.
Months ago, when the familiar symptoms returned, slinking in like a scolded child or a cautious mouse. When I first recognized them, I should have immediately been scared to death.
Weeks later, as they progressed, tugging at my ignoring of them, just wishing they would go away, I should have been frightened beyond reason.
But I am not. Ironically, I am not feeling much of anything. Not even the mind blurring numbess from before that had followed the initial fears. When the doctor yesterday said let’s run a check and see, I knew I should be scared but was not.
Concerned, yes, curious, yes, certainly perplexed. The questions tear at me instead of the fear. What shall we do? Why? Again?
And, as before, it has a great way to realign one’s priorities and places importance in new orders. Seems some of us need those occasional reminders. Perhaps that is why I am required to walk down this road from time to time.
So now it’s done. Only the waiting is left. I half expect some ambiguous shrug of an answer. I also half expect another ‘can you believe it?’ comment. Well, no I can’t believe it but then again, yes I can. So now I wait, not feeling fear, just a patient resignation. Shall I have to rally the troops and march into battle again? Or is it something else entirely? Something new, just posing as an old nemesis?
Only time will tell. The days ahead. Perhaps as soon as tomorrow Either way, I know the way well, as I have been down this road before.