Toast

Lately, pain has eaten my words.

Pain makes everything louder and blurrier. Doctor has kind, tired eyes. “…and that’s why we’re raising the dosage.” I nod. I don’t know what we’re increasing. I smile like someone who understands things while my thighs sweat through the tissue paper on the exam table. Imaging machine says THUNK. I count the thunks and then the percussive beats: 1 triplet, 2 triplet, 3 triplet, 4. Shake it off, but don’t move. Never move. I swallow. “Please stay still,” a voice orders from behind the glass. The machine chirps a different percussive rhythm: 1-2-3-4-1-2-3-4-1-2-3-4. THUNK. I think it’s looking for lumbar spine damage. Or nerve inflammation. Or ghosts. 8:42 a.m. Filling out the same form I filled out last Tuesday. Name. Date of birth. On a scale of 1 to 10, how bad is your pain? Circle 4, scratch it out, circle 8. Scribble depends. That’s honest. Smells like latex, hand sanitizer, and burnt toast. I’m not hungry but Jesus if I don’t want some toast. Wake up in pain, running late. Stuck in traffic. I call the front desk. “We can hold your appointment for 15 minutes.” Heart- pal-pi-ta-tions. Made it! Medical tech says my blood pressure is high. “Are you nervous today?” Yeah, let’s say I’m nervous today. Massage table. His voice is warm like fresh bread. Hands glide under my scapula and knead my shoulder blades. “Take a deep breath.” I don’t know how to do that. “You’re holding grief in your glutes.” There’s a whole eulogy packed in my piriformis. Neurologist wears impeccable eyeliner and a hot pink power suit. “Do you have any questions?” What’s the meaning of life? She doesn’t laugh, but she types that into the chart. MRI tube inhales me like a lonely lung. Didn’t I already do this? It sings DO NOT MOVE, but I think my toes dance just a little. “Please stay still or this will take even longer,” commands the voice. Invoice in the mail. Migraine meds aren't covered? PT says, “Your left side is overcompensating.” For what? “Everything.” I do the clamshell exercise until my hips cry. “That’s good.” Is it? We don’t talk much after that. Neurologist? No, wait. Ultrasound Tech. “Roll up your shirt.” Cold lube smears across my abdomen, pregnant with static. She clicks on an image. Does everything look normal? “What’s normal?” she replies. Asshole. Check the patient portal for results. Different massage therapist, with crystals sewn in her bra. She works my lower back, chanting affirmations. “You are safe. You are healing. You are not the diagnosis.” I watch myself drool in the space between the face cradle. Oh God, did she see? I think it’s Jules’ birthday today. Send a text. Another fee at the front desk. Is that six this week? Five? No six. Spine doctor is too cheerful, bragging about golf. I hate golf, but laugh anyway. I move at the wrong time, gripping the table as injection #3 goes into my forehead. Hole-in-one? He giggles. “Stay still or you’ll feel it in your toes.” Pain is a mystery, so I name each toe like a rosary. I don’t remember driving here. I swallow two painkillers like communion. Open the window. Breathe. Back into a parking space. Back twinges. Check the time. 8:42 a.m. Again. Always. Pay the greedy parking meter. Pay the greedy insurance company. Another intake form. Name. Date of birth. What will happen if I lie? I circle 1 for pain. I write, I sleep great. Nurse is not fooled. No one gets out this easy. “Describe the sensation.” It’s like steel wool dancing a calypso on my spine. Neurologist nods. “That’s…very specific.” She doesn’t blink. Tests reflexes on my right knee. Left leg dances. I don’t blink. “Have you ever been dry needled?” PT asks. Huh? Jumper cable zaps light up my calf and I smell toast again as I float above the table, detached, polite, half-proved. She wiggles the needles and gasps. “Do you always bleed this much?” Fuck! A patient giggles from the other side of the curtain. Waiting room TV blares about cholesterol. Man next to me asks if I’ve ever heard of leaky gut. I leak all the time. Everywhere. He nods. No one laughs anymore. Someone declares my name in the distance. I shake my head, dazed. I stand. Shit! Okay, okay. I sit. This chair is too low. I left my body somewhere near the parking meter. Be right back. MADISON?! Louder this time. I try to answer but it comes out as static because my tongue is a sock and EEG sensors crown my scalp. “Take some deep breaths, baby.” I’m not a baby. I’m in my kitchen. Reborn. It smells like toast. Actual toast. Bread is holy. Multigrain, proved in fire. Steam curls upward like incense. “You’re toast!” No, MY toast! Wheat and heat crunch with triumph. Pain flares in my foot but I am eating toast without a prescription. And that’s not nothing. Head throbs. THUNK. This is just pain. Not punishment. Not failure. You probably are not going to die from this, I say to no one. The toast is real and I made it. Myself.