The doctor came in and confirmed what the tech shouldn’t have shared, but did. We didn’t know what “it” was, but he thought “it” needed further investigation. And so, that night when my parents came home from work I had to let them know that “it” was in me, and “it” was coming out. They didn’t even know I’d skipped work.
What followed over the next three years was a blurry series of doctors’ visits, surgeries, treatments, hospitalizations, rehabilitations, rinse, and repeat. I worried about a lot of things. I worried whether I would live. I worried whether anybody would love me enough to take me on as a lifelong liability. I wondered if I would be able to have children. I wondered if I’d be able to play sports or travel.