It's the middle of the night. Wind buffets my tent. Rain pelts the fly. I zip back the flaps to look out. The moon is peeking through my neighbor's twisting palms. A gust blasts in a spray of rain. I scootch back into my bag. It is dry and warm, but my thoughts are howling like the wind.I don't know what was I expecting from Dr. Wei-Chi. If you go to a barber, you expect a haircut. If you go to masseuse, you expect a message. So what would you expect if you go to a surgeon?
Dr Wei-Chi is a very cordial and tidy woman with beautiful transparent skin, shiny grey-streaked hair and clinical dark eyes. She taps with self-evident finality on on the display. "This picture shows a stenosis. A root of the sciatic nerve is getting pinched and inflamed."
I stare at the image. I have no idea what's she's seeing. I nod because I now realize that from this point on my fate will be steered by the judgement of this woman who I do not really trust. Maybe it's because she exudes a physician's infallibility. Maybe it's because she is so polite. Maybe it's because I'm older than she is. Back when I had infallible parents, I wasn't so suspicious. I was full of trust and willing surrender. I was theirs to poke, puncture and slice. Being brave meant submitting without complaint or least sign of fear. But now, it's a quandry. I've come to seek her advice. I'm here to fix my leg. I feel the stirrings of anxiety.
"What's that mean?" I ask.
"First, we'll shoot a bit of cortisone right there," she says squinting down the length of her pen which is placed precisely in an undifferentiated grey smear in the center of the image. "If that doesn't work, we get a bit more aggressive and scrape out some bone."
"In my spine?"
"Yes. But we don't want to rush into that. Do we?" she says with a chuckle. "Let's start with the epidural."
I see that she has very white, very straight teeth and crinkles about the eyes. I think about her day and how, every day before work, she must fuss in the mirror with eyes and hair and that she will probably stop at the grocery on the way home and endure her teenagers complaints about her sauteed chicken.
"Do you do that here?"
"No," she says. "This is an outpatient surgery. We use a Fluoroscope to place the needle. We don't want to miss." She stands. "The nurse will help you schedule the procedure."
Lilalee is delighted. "At last you'll be hiking again. Aren't you relieved?"
"Yes," I say. "I am very excited. I can't wait." This is pure fabrication. I have been online and know that Dr. Wei-Chi plans to stick a 4-inch needle through my spinal column. I am extremely uneasy at the prospect. The very thought cause my heart to pound unevenly. There is no point is upsetting Lilalee. "It's very routine. She says I'll be hiking in 6 weeks after the procedure."
Later that afternoon,I begin to think about all the money I spent on camping gear that I may never use. I get this wild hair. "I'm gonna camp in the back yard tonight. Do you mind?"
"Really?" says Lilalee. "They say we're gonna have a storm."
"It's cool. It'll be fun."
Now I'm lying here amongst all this tumult while Lilalee is sound asleep with Max curled up on a corner of the bed. I could just go inside and slide under the covers next to them. Just then a cold gust blows under the fly through the rear netting. A branch of the neighbor's tree crashes a few feet way. Probably the Jacaranda. I pull up my bag around my chin and stare into the darkness of my small shelter. Eventually this storm will blow out, but how much damage will it do? Time will tell.