I can’t see the needles jabbing the side of my neck, my periphery shielded by a crinkly paper sheet. “A little ouch now,” the doctor says. I try but fail to appreciate his show of empathy for the pain he’s inflicting in his attempt to alleviate my pain. Despite the pill to ease the anxiety that worsens with every procedure, every promise to fix me, my thumb taps each consecutive fingertip on my left hand again, again, redirecting my brain’s focus to pieces of me that aren't hurting. “Are you okay?” voices echo. I never know how to answer that.
Heather Sweeney is an essayist working on a memoir about life as a military spouse, divorce, and self-discovery. Twitter: @WriterSweeney.