I made an appointment with my GI doctor for Monday. As in, Monday, April 17th. But I called the hospital that morning and rescheduled it for Thursday, but on Wednesday, I called and cancelled it. Did I want to reschedule it, the lady asked?
“No, no. I’ll call back in a few days,” I said, and hung up and rubbed my forehead a while.
I will call back. This week. I really, really will do that and I’ll go because it’s important. It’s like, the most important thing. But I just couldn’t do it this week.
I was too scared.
I’m scared to go see my GI doctor because I’m afraid to get bad news. I’m afraid to endure the tests that she’ll want to schedule because that means scopes and needles and stuff. I’m not ashamed to tell you that I have a prescription for an anti-anxiety medication that I can fill when I have to go do this kind of thing. That’s how freaked out I get, that’s how bad it feels, that’s how potent the fear is on account of the past.
One has to psych oneself up for these things, I told myself on Monday morning, and I was not properly psyched up. As Thursday approached, I was slightly more psyched but recalled that in the past, I have done far better at GI appointments when I have a friend go along with me. But I don’t like to bother anyone, for one thing, and for another thing — second confession — every time I think about asking a friend (or one of my sisters) to go with me to a GI appointment, I start crying because… I don’t know. I just have all these memories of being sick and all the loving things people did for me during the worst of it. And I just start hiccuping with these deep, breaking sobs and I don’t even know what that’s about. But I feel sad and I don’t want to ask anyone to do that.
Confessing to you that I cancelled my appointment twice and promising that I won’t cancel again is my attempt to be accountable. I’m going to schedule the check-up. I’m going to phone a friend. I’m going to take care of my health and I’m not going to be afraid. Or maybe I’ll be afraid, but I’ll do it anyway.