Forever is a Long Time

The hum of fluorescents burned overhead. The scent of medical supplies made my stomach churn. My endocrinologist swung the door open, stepping over the threshold of the exam room. She had a stern look on her face.The stale, sanitized scent of ozone followed her into the already nauseating room.

She launched into a clinical monologue, the kind of sterile explanation only a doctor can deliver. Dizzying weeks of blood draws and nuclear imaging had narrowed my life down to one question: was I surviving, or dying at an accelerated pace? I already knew ‘normal’ wasn’t on the table; my symptoms had been screaming the truth for months. It was an autoimmune disease, and treatment was simple. I was told, “Your thyroid would need to be destroyed by nuclear radiation and would be placed on a synthetic thyroid hormone for the remainder of your life.”

My throat felt tight. I tried to swallow what little saliva I could muster, but it stuck. Forever is a long time to be on anything. My stomach knotted itself. I couldn’t hear her anymore. I could only feel my body coiling up.

”…refuse the surgery…you will likely…heart attack…” she rattled on in such a calm manner.

And then my chest tightened as the crescendo of my body’s protest came to a head.

I inhale: one, two, three, four; my nostrils flare, and my lungs expand. I hold: seven, six, five, four, three, two, one. I release my breath, slowly: eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one.

I don’t remember the walk to the Jeep. I don’t remember what I told her. I’m in my Jeep now. It’s unbearably hot.

Out of the freezer, into the oven.