I am not afraid of death. Maybe, it's because I've seen the flash of its' face a handful of times, but somehow I've come to view it as a simple truth of existence. You live, and you die. So, of course, living by this philosophy that death is as simple as life...I've adapted the same template when dealing with medical issues that "could be" life-threatening.
My visits to the doctor, despite giving my bowel an irritable stroke, have become somewhat normal. When it springs up, that I may or may not have an issue, here, there, anywhere in my body, I take the news like a cool shot of tequila – with ease (for the public eye of course) -– holding back the urge to squish my face into an abominable pit of disgust, and then cry, because, why on earth am I doing this to myself? (In case you're wondering. Yes, I hate all alcohol that isn't beer, champagne or wine – the soft stuff. Sue me. But that's beside the point.)
My doctor casually springs it up on me – slightly inebriated by the before-class antics – that I may have something in me that could a) potentially erupt or b) stay dormant and erupt sporadically or c) never erupt. I smile, thank her for letting me know so nicely (you always gotta be polite) and leave, assuring her that I will get all the scans she recommended.
As the "ever obedient" patient that I am, I dutifully called all the medical centres, scheduled my appointments, and on the day, showed up in a timely fashion, 15 minutes late (record-timing).
This time, I had an MRI scheduled – it was my first and I was alone. I felt more apprehensive than usual...This big scary machine was going to send radio-active waves through my body to uncover the truths of the may-be diseases within me. What. The. Fuck.(Are they going to find? I thought to myself.)
That's when I Was Dancing In The Lesbian Bar by Jonathan Richman started playing. I can't remember what song's radio I was streaming on Spotify, but I will forever be grateful because when the base drops and Richman starts singing, "I was dancing in a lesbian bar ah-oo, ah-oo" I immediately began tapping my feet and smiling. The further along the song went – with the intensifying progression of guitar strumming and punchy drum patterns – the more frantic my movements became – clapping my hand on my thigh followed by a quick finger snap and back to the tapping of my feet.
Suddenly the prospect of an MRI didn't seem so daunting. I was alone, but Richman's company was more than enough.
* For my Writing About Popular Music class, I was tasked with writing a personal essay about a piece of music that impacted my life. This is the beginning of a rough draft that never made it.
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