How many text messages were sent on the planet today? The nurse dressed in blue in the elevator is sending a message to someone. She seems upset. She is holding a Tupperware dish filled with rice. I look at my cell phone and see that the CHUM called me. Hey shit. While taking my voicemails, I hear the hematologist’s voice telling me that I am late for my appointment. Two things cross my mind: a hematologist leaving you a voicemail is never a good sign, unless you’re married to her. And also: my results are surely disappointing. How many hematologists have called their patients on the planet today? As I enter his office, I sense a slight disappointment in his voice. I want to say, “Sorry, ma’am,” but I stop myself. She explains to me that my intravenous platelet treatment did not have the expected effect. She notes my results one after the other. They are decreasing from week to week. My blood turns against me. He thinks he’ll help me by destroying my platelets. I went from two hundred and sixty-four to one hundred and seven. She said: “Nothing alarming, but if the trend continues, you will have to do three sessions of dexamethasone. » Four days of high doses of cortisone with a two-week break enter each session. I grit my teeth as I think about what’s coming: high blood sugar, blurred vision and violent hiccups. She notices the worry on my face: “It’s in the New England Journal of Medicine. » Then she feels my neck to make sure there are no cancerous bumps. While listening to my lungs with her stethoscope, she points out that I am cooing. Eh ? “I hear a lot of secretions in your lungs… if you have a lung infection, the cortisone will not be effective. » My mouth is dry. I place my fingers near my ribcage. Something is moving inside, it’s a little bird. He pecks one of my bones in my ribs. Wings beat against my gut. I put forward a hypothesis by changing the subject: “The problem with my platelets… it’s cancer, right? » She shakes her head quickly, pushing her little round glasses up her nose: “Not at all. » Then adds: “If it reassures you, you have enough platelets to undergo brain surgery. » Oh, nice.
*
After my appointment, I have to spend part of the day in the hospital. As chance would have it, I have a fibroscan to pass at two thirty. It’s ten o’clock and I have a lot of time to kill. I wander like a mangy dog up and down the floors. I think of a phrase from Lichtenberg: “A knife without a blade with only the handle missing.” » All my life, my immune system has been this handle without a blade. A small wooden stick that we fashioned for big projects, but abandoned along the way. In the cafeteria, I see lots of good things to eat, but I have to fast for my exam. The display near the cash register is filled with ketchup, mustard, cookies and vegan candies. My attention is focused on wooden utensils. I steal a knife, taking care not to meet the cashier’s eyes. How many people have stolen knives on the planet today? One million four hundred thousand.
*
I’m lying on an operating table, wearing a hospital gown. The technician stares at her small screen while pressing quite hard on my rib where my liver is housed. His device taps my bones to measure the hardness of my organ. The bird struggles, I feel the beating of its wings intensify, and nothing more. I clear my throat, “Is the exam almost over?” » She said, “In a few minutes…why?” » I close my eyes, saddened: “Because I’m afraid you hurt my bird. »
*
My parents invite me to dinner. They made butter chicken with broccoli. A great silence hangs over the dining room. My mother is worried about my health. I see it clearly. I told him: “Everything will work out. » She nods thoughtfully. I am the king of liars. The indestructible patient suffering from all the rarest diseases. The monkey in the tree that we point to: “Wasn’t this species extinct for centuries? » Not yet, be patient my friends. Outside, my father is excited to show me something. He takes me to his gazebo and points out a bird’s nest above my head. The dwelling is bushy and impressive. A gray bird with an orange belly looks at us wisely. I place the wooden knife on the ground, near the nest. Surprised, my father asks me what I am doing. I said: “In case a bird is born without a blade. »