You Weren't Dead, But Almost.

We don't know what's wrong with you.
I hear it again.
Here's the phone number to another doctor.
It replays in my head.

 

 

Sick.
I am sick.
that's all I'll ever be.
I'll never be normal.
I am defined by my illness.

 

A for Achalasia
C for chronic
H for Heller Myotomy
A for Aperistalsis
L for how my life changes
A for another appointment
S for my repeating symptoms
I for the irrupted food
A for Alone

 

 

Alone.
I am so alone.

Less than 200,000 cases a year.
I stand alone.

 

 

The desired number is a seven.
Dead would be one hundred.
You weren't dead.
but close, ninety.

 

I remember laying on the cold table.
Vulnerable to the doctors I faced.
I wasn't like them.
I was broken and they had to fix me.

 

 

My hand.
Held my mothers' tightly.
Scared of my future.
Trying to be brave.
Not wanting to scare her.

 

 

The world a fuzz .
I fell into anesthesia.
The world a fuzz .
I woke up.

 

 

I was hooked up to monitors.
My hand still placed in my mothers'.
I couldn't see her.
But I felt her.

 

I couldn't see anything.
I heard voices.
Doctors.
Family.
My eyes unable to open.
I fell into sleep.

 

 

I stayed there for a week.
No food.
Just liquid.
My body  unable to digest.

 

My surgery, hours.
My journey, two years.
My condition, forever.

 

You weren't dead,
but almost.

This poem is about: 
Me

Comments

Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741