The Mystery Child
May 31, 2022
I miss last week. I miss April 9 or 11 or May 10. I miss the days before I knew about the ticking time bombs in my lungs, in my calves.
I think of the times I clamored for attention from doctors, so I could find out what was wrong with me. And now I know as much as anyone could possibly want to know. I am in the mix, backstage at the show, seeing from beyond the curtain, bombarded by answers that really lead to more questions. WHY? I want to know but instead I get: here is what is wrong and no, we do not know why. Thirty five years ago, I was a toddler in the back of an ambulance driving from the hospital where I lie now to Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia. They diagnosed me with many things over the course of the next 15 years, but mostly they called me a mystery. And now I hear it again.
I woke up with nurses swarming me, trying to hook my IV up and waiting for blood to come up from the blood bank. We spent most of the day searching for reasons why my hemoglobin would crash so rapidly. We know I have at least two nasty blood clots, stubbornly providing a real and sensational risk to my life. But we don’t know why this is happening, and we don’t know what this means for the future.
For now I am holding on tight and waiting for life to lead me where I am meant to go. Thank you for all your good wishes and prayers.