A Far Shittier Yes

 The other day I was in the midst of yet another medical test, in this case a more sophisticated vascular test, which form a seemingly boundless tapestry over the last two and a half year. When I step back and think about all the doctors' visits and tests I've waded through it's rather daunting: seven MRIs, three EMGs, two epidurals, two vascular tests, a stress test, who knows how many x-rays, seemingly gallons of blood work, etc. (truthfully, I often forget how many tests or doctors - general practitioners, spine doctors, pain doctors, neurologists, neurosurgeons, orthopedic surgeons, etc. - I've seen). Anyway, I was on my back while three doctors ran a series of tests to measure my vascular capacity (I still don't have that results on that one) and I turned to one of the doctors and said: "You know, it's strange, but whenever I get a 'no' or a 'within normal limits' on a test it actually makes me sad, because I feel that it's just setting me up for a later far shittier yes on a test." He nodded as if her completely understood. I don't mean to sound too depressed or bitter, because in many ways I'm not, even when I'm practically climbing up the stairs while using my hands or resorting to using my cane all the time. And I do appreciate all the hard work from all of these health care professionals. They can't seem to figure out my deteriorating condition, but it doesn't mean that they aren't trying. I received a lovely, and a bit heartbreaking, not from my neurologist the other day apologizing for not being able to diagnose my condition. In a previous visit I had told him that I wasn't angry or frustrated as much as simply afraid. The trajectory of my declining health doesn't inspire a lot of confidence. In November 2021, on my trip to Jordan with my son, I managed to climb all the way up to the Monastery at Petra, which was probably a ten mile hike and climb; at the end I barely dragged myself out of the siq, but, by God, I made it. Fast forward a year to November 2022 when, on a student trip, I barely made the half-hour largely flat walk in and out to the Treasury - and by the March student trip I didn't even walk from the hotel to the entrance of the siq. On the flight back by legs essentially gave up the ghost and I had to be pushed through the Istanbul Airport in a wheelchair (and experience made even worse by the nice airport assistant driving the wheelchair like I was a child on an afternoon stroll to the park - thankfully only my friend Cyndi was there to see me cry in sadness and humiliation). Unless something magical shows up on the latest vascular test, which doubtless wouldn't be very promising news, obviously, the next step will be Dartmouth-Hitchcock or some teaching hospital in Boston, as I queue up for a far shittier yes.