I saw it on your face, that day my foot twitched in front of you. I saw the fear; I felt it, too.
And now my feet are plagued with tingling sensations. How is my vision, you want to know. My glasses mask the fact that it's getting worse. It's a tough question to answer.
"Why?" I ask you. "What has tingling feet and vision problems?" But I already know the answer. You tell me, anyway. But we know how to fix that now, you tell me, we will fix that if it's that.
It's not that, I say.
And though surely it's not that,
the fear is on my face, and I'm sure it's on yours, too.
But blood clots look different when they're bruises, and that looks different when it's something else.
So tonight I will get eight solid hours of sleep, and tomorrow I will eat three square meals and remember to get my heart pumping for a while, and doctors will interpret the ancient language of my body as it tries to tell me what it needs. And it will be something else,
because it can't be that.
But I can't shake the look on your face that day. And I cannot deny the fear we live in.
I want to go home.