Manifestation
This is how your pain manifests.
I am 13, standing in front of an x-ray machine and drinking a chalky liquid filled with Barium, a radioactive element. I’m doing this so the doctors can look for problems in my upper digestive tract. When the results come back, my family doctor tells us nothing is wrong with me, despite the pain I feel after nearly every meal.
Next comes a motility test a few months later, which involves putting a catheter the size of a spaghetti noodle up my nose, down my esophagus, and into my stomach while I take small sips of water.
Finally, after years of misdiagnoses, prescriptions that cause more pain, and tests that turn up nothing, I find myself undergoing an endoscopy, in which a massive tube is inserted down my throat, through my esophagus, and into my stomach and duodenum to ensure they are all functioning properly.
I remember lying on the examination bed in the sterile room, which makes me think of the sick bay in Star Trek, The Next Generation, with my mother nearby. Over the doctor’s shoulder is a screen that displays the insides of my digestive tract, what looks to be a wormy, pink mess. The whole time, the doctor smiles and says, “beautiful beautiful” as I gag away before him.
It has to be worth it. This doctor is the top of the mountain, the end of the road. If he can’t figure out what the matter is with me, no one can. And so I try not to react to the strange bedside manner, not to twitch uncomfortably, not to vomit bile on his table.
In the consultation room after the exam, I sit as demurely as a I can, hoping to regain some dignity. “There’s nothing wrong,” he says. “Are you a people pleaser?” and I nod, flooded with shame, disappointed at one more thing I shouldn’t do or be.