My appointment with the specialist doctor is at 9 a.m.
It’s currently 4 a.m.
I know that to get better, I need to see this doctor.
But I’m afraid.
I’ve never had surgery before. I don’t even know if I need surgery. But I’m scared of it.
I think about all the Drake women’s basketball players I wrote about who had knee injuries or other issues who had surgery.
To me, their condition was news — facts people should know about their favorite team.
I didn’t think about the pain.
I didn’t consider they might be afraid.
Maybe they weren’t.
Those Drake women’s basketball players I covered back in the mid- to late-1990s were tougher than I’ll ever be.
I remember one player, she got cut. She declined a pain killer because that meant shouldn’t go back into the game.
Me? I would have asked for maximum pain relief, my blankie, and my stuffed Pink Panther.
Someone I love was trying to help me yesterday.
This is her way. She takes charge. She leads.
She started to list all the changes I needed to make to get better.
Listen to my doctors.
She hit an especially tender spot. She asked if I thought I could walk to my classes at Drake even without my present knee problems.
Her question was legitimate. All my grad school work so far has been online because of the pandemic.
This fall, we’re back to buildings and classrooms.
Can I walk a few blocks to my classes even without a knee injury?
The answer is no.
But I would have found a way. I would have paid for a parking sticker for the lots closest to the building I took my classes in.
If I couldn’t make it, I would use an assistive device — a crutch, a walker, whatever.
I was going to make it.
But her question comes with an unintentional punch.
It reminds me how much I hate myself — my physical body, how repulsed I am by the sight of me.
I know I am disgustingly fat by both medical and aesthetic standards. I know every extra pound shortens my lifespan.
I worry about it all the time.
The latest knee injury terrifies me on a scale I struggle to describe.
I worry that it can’t be fixed or will be easily reinjured. Thus, getting to class will become impossible and I won’t finish graduate school, won’t become a teacher and end up with a pile of student loans and no job to pay them with. I’ll be living down at the YMCA housing or in a hospice.
How’s that for maudlin thinking?
This is what goes on in a brain stricken with depression and anxiety.
That’s why I abruptly ended the call with my loved one.
I was rude.
But I had therapy soon. And I was hurting, both physically and emotionally.
I didn’t want to fight.
I just wanted someone to tell me everything was going to be OK.