Denial didn’t save my life

but it helped me get through the events that did

Exactly three years ago today, I was sent to the A&E of the largest hospital in Glasgow. I was sent there by my eye doctor, who gently refused to tell me what he suspected, remaining upbeat and positive as he nonetheless sent me away with a thick, sealed envelope that I was to give to the admissions staff. I had no way of knowing what was wrong, but I did know this: I had suffered from a headache for weeks; I had trouble hearing in my right ear; now, I was experiencing waves of dizziness that came out of nowhere and left me weak and disoriented as they washed away. I had also discovered that my blood pressure was too high — and not just a little bit too high, but so much so that a medical community that had been entirely complacent as I interacted with it for the past eleven months suddenly sprang into action.

That day, I went from struggling to get appointments, and then being dismissed out of hand at them, to having five appointments in a row, ones in which I was listened to closely as the health practitioners involved maintained carefully neutral expressions and determinedly calm and cheerful voices. Meanwhile, I was left to wonder what was going on as they exchanged concerned glances — ones I wasn’t meant to notice — and arranged for more and more tests.