Chapter 17 Sick

                                    

                                          
I somatized the last few days.
I think it was a lot for me to deal with stress and anxiety while opening the door to the past and engaging with Alan in conversation. Today, I can't get out of bed. I feel hot and don't want to eat. My stomach and head hurt. I Called and reported it to work, hating every minute and feeling shame. It is like a duty impregnated in my subconscious; I cannot fail where they give me a second chance. It is silly, but I don't know how to explain it differently.
The semi-magical moment with Alan did not go further. The sound of a truck horn abruptly brought us back to reality, and we promptly returned to work. I felt unworthy of sitting next to him like that.
I'm trying to get better without seeing a doctor because I haven't found one I feel comfortable with. Sick, everything stands out in me.
Let me explain; I am more sensitive when touched. The light in my eyes annoys me to the point of causing pain. The hustle and bustle of a hospital exacerbate my anxiety, and hours of waiting in a noisy room cause me to grind my teeth into a headache. I'm often seen as the challenging patient when it's my turn.
And my mother seems to agree. According to her, the pediatrician was quite challenging for me when I was little. At first, I opposed undressing, disliked any form of touch, and cried nonstop. Once, I even kicked the doctor. In my defense, he was attacking me with a needle. Well, okay, it was a medication, but at that age, it felt like an onslaught.
She thought I would become more comfortable with medical procedures as I grew older, but certain things still make me uneasy. Injections? I prefer syrup. Lab tests? I'll pass. X-rays and CT scans? Do they have to use complicated equipment on me or make me enter those machines? I don't want to be tied up.
The nurses overlooked me. In my imagination, they played paper-rock-scissors, and the one who lost had to treat me. The technicians told my mother that there was no material. They asked us to leave. Nobody wants a patient like me on a Monday at 7 am.
At 12 years old, I convinced myself I could tolerate a lab test. I was going to absorb the way the needle felt going into my arm and endure having my blood drawn. I was talking to myself, saying that I could do it. The truth: I couldn't. I bent my arm so hard that they couldn't separate it from me.
As an adult, I cannot say I have overcome this; I only tolerated it because there is no other way. Taking off your clothes is an ordeal. I hated when they checked my abdomen; I felt like the doctor's hand was going to go through me and touch the stretcher. One once told me, — Tell me if it really hurts because it could be appendicitis or if it's because you are «difficult » and you get like that.
It was not voluntary; it was how the pressure made me feel in the abdomen and on my skin. I did not tolerate it, and for the doctor, it was that it was hindering his diagnosis. I'm not sure if there's another way to determine if I had appendicitis. However, I didn't have it, regardless.
My mom knocks on the door. Today, I get the version of the selfless mother, and she brings me chamomile. She sits on the edge of my bed and, with her hand on my forehead, says: — I've made you an appointment in the city. This way, you can leave now and not think about it. — I turn around and bury myself in the pillow — ugh!
— Eliz, don't be obtuse! You will miss work days if you do not receive care for your illness.
I don't answer. I stay very still, and my mother lies on top of me. She tells me with a falsely sweet voice, — You can't drag this out to stay in bed again. — and pinches my arm hard. I clench my lips and eyes tightly so that not a single tear or scream comes out. Being so close, I can already smell the smell of alcohol. It's not even ten in the morning.