THE DEATH SPIRAL

Okay, the blog is called Aging Gayly. While the aging is ongoing, the “gayly” can be a little spotty. It may have gone AWOL during a recent dark patch. 

 

I had a health scare in August, my body doing something for the first time. I did what any doofus guy who is squeamish and hates going to the doctor does. I ignored it. I hoped it would go away. A weird blip. 

 

The next day, my body did it again. It was more worrisome, not just because the issue hung around. It seemed worse. I did something worse than ignoring it. I Googled. Just a quick search, I told myself. If it got gloomy, I’d stop.

 

In less than three minutes, I’d found gloom. I stopped. I closed the tab and shut my laptop. But I’d already suffered gloom exposure. I couldn’t ignore that in the way I’d ignored my actual condition. 

 

I reminded myself of all the fine print on the info sheets that come with over the counter and prescription drugs and the possible side effects that fast-talking voice actors rattle off at the end of TV and radio commercials for medications. An ointment might be miraculous in removing a skin tag, but that result could be counterbalanced by some other pesky reaction. Rashes. Nausea. Seizures. Paralysis. Death. 

 

Death is always on the list. The grim reaper is one greedy bastard. How does a game of skin tag lead to You’re It? At least with the unsightly bump gone, the body will look decent for open casket viewings.

 

Of course, my worries were beyond fatal skin tags.

 

I called the doctor’s office to book an appointment. Usually, it takes six to eight weeks to get a slot. As it was August, I braced for a longer wait. My doctor was always off on bike or kayak trips in Italy or Greenland. I explained my symptoms to the receptionist and was slated to see Nurse Brian the next morning. 

 

What? So soon?! This seemed to confirm the gloom.

 

Hello, doom. 

 

Seizures. Paralysis. Death.

 

I made it to the doctor’s office. Nurse Brian was calm and professional. But then, his life wasn’t on the line. What was he…twenty-eight? As long as he avoided puffer fish sushi and acrobatic selfies on precarious hiking ledges, he had decades to go before intermittent thoughts of mortality.

 

Who's a big baby?
Yep, me.

Tests were required. Fasting first. I tried to suppress concerns about seizures, paralysis and death by fixating on my longstanding fear of needles. (I just Googled the term for that: trypanophobia. I got light-headed and had to lie on the sofa for five minutes. Seriously.) I walked to clinic the next morning, third person to line up outside before they opened. I needed to get the bloodthirsty stabbing over with. When it was my turn to give my medical info to the receptionist, she told me the requisition wasn’t in the system yet. “It takes 24 to 48 hours.” Not my time. Yet. 

 

I always reach this summit.

I shuffled home, relieved to avert being stabbed but frustrated too. Being a Friday, I’d have to wait the weekend, trying to suppress images of needles in my arm and thoughts of seizures, paralysis and death. I treated myself to a Last Supper of pizza and ice cream. Twice. And between meals, a pickup order of an item called the Little Mountain of Fries. I assured myself that a stomachache had nothing to do with my still-undiagnosed condition.

 

On Sunday evening, I went on a long bike ride to work off my jitters and the Kilimanjaro mound of French fries. I dealt with the lingering flash of Google gloom head-on. As an aging gay man, I’d lived a full life. I’d made it through the years of the AIDS crisis, I’d survived psych ward stays. I thought of people who died much younger. Life happens. So does death. If it was time to die, well okay. I’d pedalled my way through the five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression…acceptance. It was a hollow victory.  

 

Come Monday morning I submitted to the medically sanctioned stabbing. I survived that much, even though phrases like “Your veins are hiding” and “I’m not getting enough blood” are guaranteed fodder for future nightmares. 

 

Naturally, my results were delayed as an ominous message on the medical portal stated my bloodwork had been referred to another lab. That can’t be good! 

 

I may have eaten my way through another French fry mountain. Everest conquered!

 

Whew!

In the end, it was all good. The issue did go away…after ten days. When I finally had a phone appointment with my doctor a month later, he had no concerns. The anomaly I experienced was “fairly common” and “normal.”

 

If only I were.