I was not suspended in a timeless brine like my pickles. I was not a stoic javelin of cellulose waiting to strike a bored palette. My answers would not be in rigidity, in control.
I couldn’t fight off the sense that there is a certain absurdity to getting tested for a disease for which there is currently no cure.
This dichotomy in American health care is well-known to patients with chronic illness.
All my life, I had looked for answers in books, and I was no different when it came to endometriosis.
I want medicine to meet me where I am, not where it wants me to be.
I got a D in math and my sister got cancer. These aren’t causalities, only things that happened one right after the other.
I have spent most of my life hating the fact of having a body. It makes sense that my body would eventually start to hate me back.
On some level I know the system is designed to break me down, but I feel guilty because I am good at letting it.
Who will remember a girl’s pain when the evidence disappears?
Can I trust the sparse memories in my long-Covid brain? If I don’t record this, will my Frankenstein-ed memories escape, just like Grandma’s did?