It’s been over 5 months since I landed in the hospital late on a Friday night. I have been to more doctors than I can count. And every doctor seems to push me to yet another specialized doctor.
I’ve had additional brain scans.
More lab work. Which led to more lab work and even more lab work. And there will be more lab work in my future.
And at the end of the day – after a lot of specialized care – they’re not entirely sure why it happened. They have their guesses – but nothing they could nail down with certainty. At first I was worried. Worry turned to frustration. And frustration has become contentment. My anxiety of having another incident has lessened although it still sits nestled in the back of my heart. I really don’t have much to worry about at this point. I’m on medication – which limits my risk. And in reality I have a truckload of tests that tell me I’m relatively healthy. (Although I would love for my energy to resume – which I’m told is a side effect.)
What’s funny is I’ve always viewed my health in relation to how I felt. When I felt ill – I knew I was sick. When my body hurt, I knew I pushed it past what it was comfortable with. When I was tired, I knew I needed more sleep. And now I’m far more aware that my health is essentially a series of numbers.
My white count is this, my blood pressure is that…my blood clotting time is this, the size of the spot on my brain is that…you get the idea. Everything seems to have a number. And those numbers seem inconsequential…until the right person sees those numbers and to them the numbers tell the story of your health. I have a lot of numbers that tell me I’m quite healthy and then there’s those few numbers we’re going to watch over time. See if they change. See if they affect other numbers. Assess the risk.
But today I’m celebrating that last week was the last of my appointments – at least for 6 months or so. (with some labwork inbetween). No major test or appointment on the horizon and that is oddly comforting.
