I roll over, find his warm body next to mine there in the dark, wrap myself gently around him.
"Thank you for making me get those tests. I'm glad that I know. I didn't want to get them, but it is better to know that it is there."
My professor fits his body into the places of my body exactly where they really do fit best and holds me tightly.
"Of course. You just now have more information."
"Everything is so different now than it was twenty years ago. My head is still sorting it all out."
There's been a migraine that took up residence right behind my left eye, dancing in sharp high heels down the side of my face, banging on drums and flashing disco lights in rainbow colors at all hours of all days despite my continued shouting to please SHUT THE FUCK UP since that late weekend in September when I traveled to Denver to hug all those imaginary people fiercely and sing a little too loudly with Amanda Palmer.
I'd like to blame Amanda Palmer for this fucking headache because everyone seems to want to blame Amanda Palmer for lots of things that are not at all her fault these days, but it turns out this migraine belongs only to me.
My neurologist who kicks ass among neurologists (I mean that, she does, and if you happen to be in Salt Lake City I can not recommend her more highly) saw me last Thursday and was immediately concerned and sent me right over to the hospital for not one, but two, MRIs. A regular one and a vascular one.
Only I almost did not go. To the hospital. For the MRIs.
They're REALLY EXPENSIVE, as I think anyone who might have navigated the hallways of our health care system recently might just know. I actually have insurance, but when it comes to something like TWO MRI's, including a vascular MRI, the costs on my end suddenly are wiping out my savings account. Which, well, that's why you have a savings account, I know. For moments like this. But then what happens if there's another moment like this because they find something in the scans?! What then?
The thing is, what if you don't get the scan?
I said to my professor that I felt like I was a walking time bomb. Or that I was playing roulette in Vegas and the house held all the best odds. Not a victim, no not at all. Just that I wasn't going to find an answer to what was going on with my silly head without actually getting the tests and I really needed to know. I couldn't do what is best for me, take care of me, without all the information. My own crystal ball wasn't giving me a good view of what was going on inside that discotheque in my head.
Which is why last Friday I went and had two MRIs.
My neurologist called me last night.
I have another blood clot. Right smack in the center of my brain.
I actually was not really surprised by this news, honestly. I have been down this yellow-brick road before, and while I don't exactly want another trip to OZ, or another audience with the wizard, it just wasn't that shocking to hear. I feel like my brain, well, it clots. For whatever reason, that's what it does.
I can't be put on blood thinners, which would be the typical protocol, because I'm one of those patients where blood thinners would actually kill me instead of fixing the problem. Of course I am. We all knew that was the answer.
There is a plan. My neurologist has a very good plan. It isn't the end. It's just the beginning of another part of my journey.
I woke up today. I hugged and kissed my professor. I walked and played with my dogs. I shared laughs and smiles with my good friends at the coffee garden. I ate organic arugula and beets. I danced naked. I donned warm fuzzy clothes and breathed fresh air and drank clean fresh water. I brewed some more kombucha. I hugged my mother and told my sisters that they're my favorites and I love them. I squeezed a farmer. I spread some love to total strangers.
I woke up today and I lived.
It was a great day.