I remember standing under harsh fluorescent lights in the little room behind the nurses station. I was in the yoga pants and t-shirt I wore for bed. I might not have had my glasses on. I was crying because I was worried. Henry had a fever, a low grade one, but a fever nonetheless. His heart rate was "normal for a baby his age," but high for him. And he wasn't right. I didn't know what was wrong, but I knew something was wrong and nobody really seemed all that concerned. A few days later he turned blue in my arms and was rushed back to the CICU. The next day he hovered on the edge of dying. That time he didn't. I knew something wasn't right, but I didn't have the evidence I needed and I couldn't convince the fellow standing in front of me as I blinked in those artificially bright lights that "normal for his age" didn't work for my boy.
I worry sometimes that something is wrong with me and I won't be able to get somebody to hear me in time. And part of that is that I simply worry sometimes that something is wrong with me. Brian talks about waiting for the other shoe to drop, but mostly I trust that I'm okay, will be okay. Sometimes, though, something little sets me off and I start to get anxious and and it builds and builds, because knowing that something isn't right isn't always enough. And watching my girls, I remember just how much me being okay matters.
It's been a long week of vague symptoms and feeling off and an doctor who couldn't see me, but I feel comfortable right now with a fairly mundane diagnosis of a stomach problem exacerbated by a virus (and far more anxiety than was probably warranted). My doctor ran some blood tests, and I'll check in if things persist or get worse. I'll try to breathe and to trust again that I'm okay.