“Liver – unremarkable. Spleen – unremarkable. Lungs – unremarkable. Heart – unremark …” I interrupt the specialist’s drone which has no evolution in timbre.
“Wait a minute. What do you mean ‘unremarkable?’ I’ve never been referred to that way in my life,” I screech, my heart pounding.
My physician’s eyebrows arch slightly, and he pauses, sighs.
“This,” he said, “is not the time to be remarkable.”
“You don’t want to be remarkable,” my mom emphasizes.
I’m hanging on to every word and definition with dear life. Critiquing and analyzing the tone, verbiage, and body language of each health care professional. I’ve wrestled with acute anxiety, and then some, my entire life. While I (proudly!) made it through most of my hospital stay with even and deep breathing, I was getting to that point.
I exhale. I get it. Being unremarkable is like celebrating being negative after a (insert whatever disease or affliction you don’t desire) test.
He’s seemingly as confused as I am that there’s no diagnosis to go on, but I’m not convinced this freak GI bleed is not caused by something.
***
A polyp was found in my lower bowel in my initial, inpatient colonoscopy.
I came out of anesthesia, laughing.
My doctor announced it was not the cause of the bleeding.
I cried.
“We couldn’t remove it while we were in there. We couldn’t risk you losing any more blood.
You’ll need another colonoscopy in 30 days.”
***
I deeply slice open my finger on a divot on my car door handle. Blood starts pouring down my right hand, curling around my wrist, and pooling in my palm.
“Remember,” the specialist says, “If you see one drop of blood after this procedure, call. You may need to go to the ER.”
At this point, I’m still waiting on test results to determine if I have some hemophilia-like disease or a rare blood disorder. I hold my hand above my head so that it’s higher than my heart and apply pressure to the source. I wonder if this counts, or if I’m only to be worried about blood which clearly is derived from my intestinal tract.
I run my pointer under cool water, feeling the uneasy pressure of liquid hitting an unusual layer of dermis and Google if I should assault myself further with rubbing alcohol.
I decide I can’t handle one more visit to the ER.
I should’ve gotten stitches.
***
I meet with my hematologist. I’ve raised this question a dozen times in last few weeks, and each time was met with, “That would be extremely rare.” But my gut, which has yet to fail me in the family of feelings for nearly four decades, whispers again, “It’s the naproxen.”
“OK. I’ve asked this of what feels like 20 people, and I keep being told it’s highly unlikely, but my gut, literally and figuratively disagrees. I was once told I should never take an NSAID* with an SSRI**.”
I watch his cheerful eyes darken and his body tenses. I recognize the stance – one I’ve often exhibited when I’ve needed to hide rage.
I know I’m right.
“But then,” I go on. “I was told by another provider that if I take it once or twice a month for cramps, because it is the only thing that helps, that that would be OK …”
He pauses as though he’s groping for the most powerful yet appropriate words to offer.
He informs me that as an expert in blood, and similarly as my psychiatrist is an expert in anti-depressants, I should never, ever take an NSAID with an SSRI. While rare (and not widely discussed, even in the medical community), the combination can cause severe internal bleeding.
“It is Tylenol only for you for the rest of your life.”
I simultaneously want to cheer, knowing that this is as close to an official answer as I’m going to get; cry, because it should not take a near-death experience to determine this; cause physical harm to someone or something – end something the way I felt I was being ended weeks ago.
I go straight for the bottle of pain reliever when I get home. It's right there. Black and white. Fine print.
* non-steroidal anti-inflammatory drug (NSAID ex: ibuprofen, naproxen, aspirin) also known as “over-the-counter pain reliever”
** selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor (SSRI ex: citalopram, sertraline, fluoxetine) also known as “many kinds of anti-depressants”
***
I have my second colonoscopy in a month.
“We removed the polyp. Typically, we get concerned when it’s 1 cm or larger. Yours was 3.5. It’s precancerous. You don’t have cancer now, but you’ll need a yearly colonoscopy,” one of my 87 new doctors tells me. “Please follow up with your PCP.”
My PCP flips through her electronic charts, simultaneously staring at me during our virtual visit.
“Molly,” she starts slowly. “This was really serious. And rare.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” I’m done talking about my mortality. At this point, it feels like a chat with acquaintances about the weather, when there’s nothing else to be said.
“No. I mean, it is by the grace of God that you’re alive.”
I stop. I remember being in the step-down unit thinking, “This is it.” And being OK with it. I was just so tired.
“That polyp? It’s huge. Had it burst, you may not have made it. And, as terrible as that bleed was, well, it really did happen for a reason. If you hadn’t been forced to have that colonoscopy … Well, it would've been too late by the time you’d had one at 45.”
***
It’s been a lot of “ifs” lately. If this, then that. If that, then this. Everything. EVERY. LAST. LITTLE. THING happens for a reason.
When my mom started with her “Well, maybe this happened for a reason” mantra in the hospital, I wasn’t having it.
Before I knew how serious it all was and my friend was driving me to the ER, I was complaining that my body had better shape up because I HAD PLANS that were being ruined. “Don’t think of it as ruining,” they said. “Think of this as you’re being redirected. This is happening in order to keep you away from something worse.”
They were both right.
The grotesque, the mundane, the morbid, the terrifying, the ugly. They all happen for a reason. Going through the muck is the only way to get you to the sun. Like my precious, little dahlia, buried in six inches of garbage: remnants of rind, coffee grounds, aged avocado peel. The things we dispose of because they no longer serve us, the things that feel like they’re burying us – those are the things we push our little flower heads through, as disgusting and exhausting as they may be, so that we may burst forth to experience the fresh and new.
I may still have a little bit of dirt on me leftover from this journey, but I’m going to expose my petals. When the rain comes again, and it always does, my stem will be deeply secured and strong, and I won’t be uprooted.
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