I Think I'm Dying

2019: 

I walked out of the doctor's office. Frustration and anger flooded my every sense. I stormed past my mom as we walked to the parking lot, and to make sure she knew I was mad, I slammed the door shut. 

“Sweetie, you know how I feel about this,” she tried calming me down.
“WELL, I DON'T CARE!” I desperately shouted back. 

This was the third visit to the doctor's office in hopes of getting a prescription for anxiety medication, and once again, it failed. 

I suffer a rare disease known as general anxiety disorder, and it has infiltrated every possible aspect of my life. My mother is against teenagers being medicated, she argues that the pills make you numb rather than unanxious. She doesn’t realize that that's my goal.   

But what my mother is completely unaware of is how my anxiety has clawed its way into my mind, turning me into a paranoid, hypochondriac schizoid.

The disease would pop out in odd moments throughout my adolescence. In the second grade, when I learned that Thomas Jefferson had died, I had broken down in the middle of class. Or in fifth grade, playing Guitar Hero in my friend's basement, and killing the bass part in “Everybody Wants to Rule the World” until the line “nothing ever lasts forever” appeared on screen,  prompting a semi-quarter-life crisis at the ripe old age of nine. 

But these small outbursts soon led to what can only be described as full-blown episodes of psychosis.

The pressures of school and development of social skills continued to provide ample opportunity for me to freak out. Entering high school my anxiety only increased. Stress levels rose exponentially, and my sanity moved in the opposite direction.

My life now only consists of constant sleep deprivation, blank Google Docs, and a constant attempt to remain social. To battle this set of circumstances, caffeine became a source of reliance and adrenaline. What I didn’t know was that caffeine increases anxiety. The small trickles of mental illness now approached in waves. 

I was sitting at the lunch table with my friends one day, looking out the floor to ceiling windows, enjoying the warm weather, when I felt a pinch in my chest. I chalked it up to stress, but the pain returned a few minutes later. Without hesitating I got out my laptop and typed my one symptom into the Google search bar. From there the Mayo Clinic confirmed my exact fear: I have lung cancer. I began reading other symptoms associated with this life-threatening disease, and one by one they crept into my body. Coughing? I felt a tickle in my throat then and there. Chest pain? Check. Fatigue? Only 24/7. Wheezing? Everytime I have class on the third floor. While it said lung cancer was typically diagnosed at 70, I considered myself an old soul. 

That's when the familiar routine of panic set in. My vision blurred, time slowed, peoples’ voices faded out. I had to see my doctor immediately. Fortunately I hadn’t gotten my yearly flu shot, so I was able to make an appointment using that excuse, thinking I would sneak my cancer self-diagnosis in when I got there. 

A week later, we arrived at my adolescent physician. An immediate feeling of uneasiness and nerves settled in my stomach at the prospect of the news I had for her. Ironic. I entered her dreary office. The plain wooden desk and pair of chairs contradicted the walls, decorated with posters of smiling children, and happy patients. It pissed me off. I sat down for our usual discussion and health update, the perfect time to tell her of my new disease. But she greeted me with a sheet of paper instead. 

“I know that the last few times you were here you requested medication for your anxiety, so before prescribing you medication I thought it would be beneficial to try a therapist or psychiatrist. I’ve printed out a list of personal recommendations.” 

What? 

I didn’t need a shrink telling me I have anxiety – that’s the second thing I was certain of. The first was that I was dying of cancer. I told Dr. Nackenson as much.  

She just slid the paper across her desk. 

After an unsuccessful doctor's visit, the paranoia of my awaited fate began to consume me. Anxiety was at an all-time high, I barely slept, ate, and my lack of focus began showing in my school work. And then, about a week after my doctor's visit, for some strange reason, swallowing began to become difficult for me. 

It must be a unique symptom of lung cancer, I thought. Maybe the disease was spreading to my thyroid?

I had to get this professionally checked out. I went to my E.N.T this time, under the premise of possible strep throat as my in. As the examination of my tonsils began, my fears were finally justified. 

“Your tonsils and lymph nodes are a bit swollen, let's take a culture.” my doctor said. 

It came back negative. My doctor advised me to drink tea and avoid acidic foods as my solution. But the difficulty of swallowing and pain remained for a month. 

I would spend nights laying in my, staring at the ceiling. My final days were approaching, and it was because I had a new type of lung cancer that affected only my throat. 

 I went back for a follow up and to my pleasant surprise the news came back worse. 

“Wow, your lymph nodes and tonsils are incredibly swollen. How long have you been managing this,” asked my doctor? 

 Finally the perfect opportunity to tell me what I knew all along. 

“It’s cancer isn’t it? I know it. Just tell me.”

What I got in return was a blank stare, and then a burst of laughter. My mouth hung open at this lady's ignorance. How fucking dare she laugh at a half-dead sixteen-year-old? 

“Are you sure my swollen tonsils are not a symptom of lung cancer?”

“Yes, Maia.”
“Are you sure though? Don’t you want to run some tests?”
“No, Maia, I assure you.” 

For some reason her assurance dissipated any fear I had for my undiagnosed cancer. She was so sure, so she must be right. 

As it turns out I did need medical attention, but for my overly acidic throat.

 Close enough. 

Two months after my surgery, I remain the same. While I now lack my tonsils, adenoids, and other chunks of my throat, I am unfortunately still cursed to lead a life of unmedicated anxiety. 

I am now attempting my mother’s holistic approach of meditation, more sleep, and less caffeine. And while this routine has reduced my anxiety slightly, it has turned me into a lifeless asshole. But you can’t win at everything.