Fear.

I knew my parents were very very afraid. I could tell because they stopped by my room the moment they walked in the door. Before coats were off. Before things put away. They would each poke their heads in my room.  They always had smiles on their faces, but I could see the concern behind their eyes. I could see they were growing tired. They would never tell. They would never verbalize to me the fear they were dealing with. No, they would go on as if things were ‘all going to be okay’. We all wondered if things would ever really be okay again.

That morning my mom received a call from the secretary for the infectious disease doctor. We had an appointment. It was a month away. And so we would wait. We waited for answers. We tried not to let our thoughts get the best of us.

The next few weeks passed at a snail’s pace. The pain in my hands and elbows had now spread through my entire body. Not only did my joints literally hurt, but now my muscles had begun to ache. My thighs ached. My biceps ached. The kind of ache you might have after the workout of a lifetime. But I had barely budged in my bed.

With the pain also came fevers, which were now daily. At first they were mild, 99 degrees or so. But with time I began spiking temps of 101 and 102 degrees. These were debilitating. I could feel what little energy I had seep out of me. My mom would wipe the beads of sweat from my forehead with a cold washcloth. Nothing helped.

The tears came. And they came for a while. They came every day.

But something else came too. Flowers. Flowers began to brighten my room. Flowers of every kind and color. Flowers from friends at church. They were beautiful. Numerous bouquets filling my room. I was filled with surprise and a wave of peace, realizing how people cared.

The end of the month finally came. Both of my parents accompanied me to the infectious disease doctor. I was happy to have them there. They were the glue holding me together. I secretly told myself they would shield me from any news I didn’t want to hear.

I was placed in a sterile exam room. The fluorescent lighting was abrasive to my eyes. I could feel my heart racing. A few silent moments later two young Indian women dressed in white lab coats entered the room. I knew they were residents. Together they began to question me. They began to ask the familiar questions. I was annoyed. I had already told Dr. Thompson’s office all of this. “Don’t you people share records?”, I thought.  I was tired of people asking me questions. “When was someone going to answer my questions? What was wrong with me?”.

We talked extensively about my travels that day. A lot of lab work was ordered, and I was told to come back in a few weeks.

“A few weeks? I can’t wait that long.” This had been the most grueling month of my life.

We had no choice. We took the lab slip and our heavy hearts full of unanswered questions and went home. To wait.