After writing down all of my symptoms and pounding on my leg, I thought about going to the library on campus. I could have probably found a book in the medical reference section somewhere. It wouldn't have taken much effort to identify common symptoms to common diseases. Tomorrow, I told myself. You really should go to the library tomorrow.
I'd mentioned this to Dad and Jane. We were on the back porch, a favorite spot, drinking sangria. That was one of the best things about staying with them over the summer: Dad would make fresh sangria. He worked out of the house, and would always find time to dice apples into tiny almost-triangles, mixing good white wine with other fresh fruit. I knew that when I walked the handful of blocks from the bus stop, coming back from whatever mindless temp job I'd worked that day downtown, that there would be a never ending supply. The glass pitcher was chilled and seemed endless. The two of us would sit on the back porch until Jane would come home and then she, too, drank with us. It would be cool in the shade.
I told them about how I'd hesitated. I wrote it down. I knew something was wrong and I knew I should check into it, but I kept putting off even the short, simple trip up The Spine to the library. Imagine if I'd ignored my symptoms any longer.
"Why was I so afraid to admit the obvious? Why was I so afraid to go to the doctor?"
"Human nature," Dad says. He spreads butter on a thin round slice of still-warm baguette. "Most people do not want to face the fact that they are not perfect. It is built into the human psyche. Or maybe just the American psyche. We'd much much rather suffer through x, y, and z before acknowledging something is wrong."
Jane laughs.
"Sounds like a guy thing to me."
I chew on a wine-soaked section of orange.
"Mmm," I say, nodding. I don't know what else to say. This thing that had been in the back of my mind has worked its way to the front. It's the feeling I had after hitting my leg, daring it to bruise. As if I had something to prove to myself, all alone in that tiny concrete room, knowing, absolutely knowing that nothing was wrong with my body simply because I didn't want there to be anything wrong. Why bother going to the doctor when you're so confident of your health?
"Hmm," I say again, closing my eyes, remembering the invincibility of a twenty year-old.
