A little like PTSD

Alone in the rain

Today I had to go get a bone density test. I had one last year and the point is to figure out if I’m still losing bone. When I started on this path some years ago I was a patient of Stanford Health Care and had a couple of years of treatment. When I was laid off I had to move to Randy’s Kaiser coverage and I had to keep on them about upcoming drug transfusions and regular bone density tests. It was good that I knew exactly what was needed because they really don’t like giving patients access to specialists.

Anyway, when Randy died I went back to Stanford and today I went for this test. And I was nearly overcome by all of the bad memories of Randy getting so many tests and follow-up appointments — so much fear and sadness in the last years as compared to the hope and happiness around the transplant. All the things that everyone hates about medical offices and hospitals — the fluorescent lighting, uncomfortable furniture, dressing rooms, whirring beeping equipment — all of that is so much intensified for me.

I was okay through all the waiting and form filling, but the moment I was back in my clothes and on my way to the garage I had to catch my breath and steady myself. It was like when you’re swimming in the ocean and a wave catches you by surprise and dunks you—for a moment you can’t breathe and you’re disoriented and just a little bit afraid.

By the time I drove out of the garage I had a grip on myself, but I could not stop thinking about all that likely awaits me. I’ll get older and weaker and less healthy and likely need tests and time hanging around hospitals and medical offices. For the years that Randy had to go through that he had me to take him places, wait for him, keep track of appointments and tests, and deal with scheduling and prescriptions. After a long day of that he had me to snuggle up with and talk to.

I will have no one.