Whoosh, Whoosh, Whoosh...

I'm afraid. 

There. Said it. Been hacking away at this essay for weeks, into corners and down rabbit holes just because I didn't want to say it.

But, I'm afraid.

I have been experiencing some bad signs and symptoms for a while. Blurred vision. Dizziness and fainting. Numbness and tingles and loss of control of my left hand. A blinding headache behind my right temple that never goes away. A sort of thickening in my speech. And that damned sound. "Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh." I hear my heart beating all the time. I'm listening to it right now. Playing music doesn't help, because the sound is coming from inside, you see? You can't cover it up, because it's already up under the covers. 

And I'm afraid.

I work with people who have lived through TIA and stroke, and brain injury and all kinds of ugly stuff, and my story shares too many things with theirs for me to pretend not to notice the resemblance.

Those people are heroes. They refuse to let their illness defeat them. I have fought beside them, sometimes to the death. I know what it takes to be one of them.

Still, I'm afraid.

I know too much, and not nearly enough. Last week, I saw the doctor, and she ordered tests and images and exams and whatever other voodoo they use to try to head this stuff off before things get dramatic.

I have a CT scan of my brain scheduled for the morning. Carotid ultra-sounds. Retina scans. God knows what else. And I'm grateful for the doctor. And those tests. And the chance for some answers. 

Shit. I'm afraid.

I'm afraid of things I can imagine, but don't dare to name. Goblins and boogermen chase me around the room. What if I lose this? What if I need that? What will happen to me if I can't do this? What will I do If I they tell me I must do that?

This is the part where I'm supposed to take a sharp turn, share a touching anecdote, reveal a surprising insight. I just don't have any of those on hand. Not tonight.

Tonight, I feel like a frightened, lonely, old man with few options and even fewer words to wrap around him in the dark.

And so I sit. I sit with my fear as it whooshes through my head. I see it. I acknowledge it. Soon, I will carry it to bed with me, and in the morning, I will wake up with it in my ears, and we will walk together, my fear and me. We will go to the hospital and it will tell me stories, and I will take them for what they are - no more, no less. 

If I could ask for one virtue to get me through what's left of my life, I would ask for courage. I want the courage to keep standing, no matter how heavy a burden my fear becomes.

I hope they never say, "Poor old Bob. I guess his fears finally got the best of him." 

So, yeah. I'm afraid.

You just whoosh away, you son of a bitch. I'm scared as hell of you. But I'm on my feet. Waiting for your best shot.