memory

My son was born five weeks early and had to have various tests and procedures to monitor his health. The first two times blood was drawn from his tiny, fragile foot, he cried: a sighing, mewling cry. He was too small to make much of a fuss. The third time the nurse came to draw blood, he started to protest when she pulled off his sock. The fourth time, he commenced his complaint as soon as the blanket was drawn off his foot.

For the first six months of his life, he cried whenever his foot was bare.

One of the most interesting things about having a chronic illness is the fact that no matter how healthy or sick I am, no matter how old, or educated, or hopeful, I have a physiological response to certain experiences.

Today I went to see an oral surgeon. I've been avoiding the issue for too long; the cysts that grow in the bones of my jaw must be identified early to avoid devastation. I have had good dental and medical insurance since last summer but by habit or negligence I never made an appointment.

When my internal panic alarm went off, I opened the phonebook without much joy. Picking a new doctor, then breaking her in, negotiating care, helping her do the research to understand my complicated history, is both irritating and just plain boring. I always have a dozen more interesting things that I would rather think about.

Most of the doctors who treated me as a child are retired now. Imagine my surprise last week when I found that the very same doctor who performed my first jaw surgery is still in practice, in the same offices, in this city.

Today I went in for my appointment. I am not the tired, sick, angry teenager I used to be. I'm a confident adult and informed consumer. I pick and choose my health care.

Why then did I feel a reeling dismay, a frantic anxiety, before the appointment? I felt as though my head were not connected to my spine. Everything - the garage, the elevators, the restroom, the carpets, and the view of the city from the eleventh floor of the office tower - conspired against me. I felt nauseous.

This is sensory memory I suppose - if that is the phrase. It is literally true that although my sense of smell went missing thirteen years ago, I can discern all scents related to hospitals and doctors offices. Presumably my brain supplies the information my nose refuses.

I went to the doctor knowing that he would frown over my lack of attendance to regular check-ups. But it was such a relief to see his familiar face, to know that the person evaluating my xray understood the disease and could advise me in a competent fashion.

He opened my thick chart: all of the surgical notes, all the years of follow-up appointments. He pulled out the very first xray and pointed to the date. It has been exactly twenty years, this week, since the first cyst was found. That xray shows a massive round shadow, the cyst; my twelve-year molar pushed all the way down and under another tooth, and the wisdom tooth nudged all the way up to the joint. The doctor remarked on his skill and my luck. He was right: I was extremely lucky to get through that surgery without a metal plate to replace the bone. I lost a chunk of my jaw, three teeth, and the cartilage in the joint, but that isn't a bad bargain.

He ordered a panoramic view of my jaw. I wore the lead-lined apron and stood on the designated spot, my teeth gripping a piece of plastic as a machine moved slowly around my head. I can never remember whether or not I'm allowed to breathe; I usually choose not to risk it.

I stood in the examination room with my arms on my hips looking out over Elliot Bay at my home peninsula and the Olympic mountains in the distance. Before an appointment my anxiety makes my brain crazy wild, but as soon as I enter the routine I become utterly calm. In the moments before I learn the results of a test, I do not worry. I am devoid of concern, fear, or hope. I wait.

He snapped the film into the light tray. The xray was clean. No evidence of cysts. He pulled it out and took it over to the examination light to double check, tracing his fingers across the image, explaining what he saw.

My jaw is sound. I have not had a recurrence of the cysts since 1992. Eleven years without surgery. Amazing.

Posted by Bee at March 27, 2003 02:16 PM