TB Determined

     In my senior year of high school I decided that it was time to become an even better person. Obviously, this would be difficult for me since I was already so wonderful, but I was up for the challenge. I was in a course which required me to do some type of community service. Most of the guys in my class opted to volunteer with school children. Helping black kids learn algebra didn’t exactly have much of a zing to it. Anyone could do that. Me? I wanted to volunteer with hospice patients. I was pretty sure at the time that if there was a heaven, volunteering with dying people pretty much means you have a guaranteed spot up there. It would be difficult, sure, but I would have so many stories to tell and people would praise me for my bravery. It would be like Tuesdays with Morrie or Driving Miss Daisy or something like that. I would connect with a patient and they would connect with me, and we would change each other’s lives (that is, of course, until the person died and I moved on to the next life-changing bundle of death). So, without even considering helping school kids, I signed up with Grace Health Care Services. Give me my badge, and I’m off to meet some dying people. Unfortunately, there was training. A lot of training. Training that required me to rub oil on a 65-year-old woman’s veiny hands. Training that also required medical tests. Medical tests that would reveal, or seemingly so, a startling fact about my then current state of health.

     Tuberculosis is not something that the average, modern American has to worry about, or so I thought. During my training to become the most generous person/hospice volunteer, I was required to take a TB test just as a precaution. I actually remember laughing at this because it seemed so ridiculous. Tuberculosis? What am I, a 19^th century British orphan? Apparently, yes. Yes I am.

     The test consisted of a needle in the upper arm, with some type of bubble and we had to get it checked 48 hours after to see if there was a reaction. On Monday, I went to the school nurse so that she could confirm that I didn’t have TB. I explained to her my situation and I held out my arm so that this seemingly qualified nurse could inform me that everything was fine.

          “It looks like you have a bit of a reaction,” she said as she plowed egg salad into her mouth.

          “What?”

          “A reaction. Your arm shouldn’t have that red spot,” she replied.

         I was shocked. I wasn’t supposed to have TB. I was supposed to be the most generous, caring person in my class. Why was this happening? Was the school nurse really informing me that I had a potentially deadly, yet ironically antiquated, disease? And why was she so nonchalant? Shouldn’t she be surprised? Upper middle class white Americans didn’t get TB that often, right?

          “So now what?”

        “Uh, maybe go to your doctor and get more tests.” She seemed more interested in her egg salad

        “Um, ok. Anything else I should know?”

        “Nope.”

         I left the nurse’s office with a pit in my stomach.

      At times like these, thoughts usually tend to drift in the obvious directions. Who would come to my funeral? Obviously my family, but which of my friends would come? Would they cry? Would the school build a memorial for me? It shouldn’t be too over-the-top, but something to remember me by. I imagined the plaque beneath the bust of my head, “Chris Williams 1992-2009, He bravely set out to help others, but passed on before he had the chance.”

      It was then that I realized that, in an ironic twist, in going to help the dying I would wind up dead from a disease that no one thought about since the Great Depression. All these thoughts raced through my head as I walked into the caf from the nurse’s office. I sat down at the lunch table and broke the news to my friends. I put on a brave face and even suggested how funny it was, in an ironic way. They agreed and then moved on to talking about something else. Hey, wait a minute. That was not the reaction I was expecting. They were supposed to tell me how brave I was and how everything would be fine and how it was probably a mistake or something. But no, no one seemed to care. Did they even know what TB was? Was anyone even listening when I spoke? Obviously, they would not be coming to my funeral.

       For anyone out there who is awaiting results from any type of medical test, I highly recommend perusing the Internet for information about your possible disease. Not only did it make me feel less hopeful about treatment, it made me sure that I did indeed have TB. The symptoms were all there. Fatigue? I couldn’t remember a time when I wasn’t tired. Weight loss? I had lost about 30 pounds in the previous 6 months. Pallor? Not sure what that is, let’s look it up. “Deficiency of color, especially in the face.” My God, I had TB. Apparently, only one American had died of TB the previous year. This year, it would be me. 

      So, this is how it would end. With a disease usually reserved for 19^th century orphaned chimney sweeps. Well, at least I wouldn’t go out in that fire that I had previously imagined. It would be a slow painful death, but it would give my friends plenty of time to feel bad for me. They would be sorry that they weren’t nicer to me. Once I’m dead, they’ll feel like shit. That was really the only consolation I took out of this situation. I also made my way over to the Make a Wish foundation website and made a mental wish list, surely with this crippling disease I would be entitled to any wish I desired.

      I went to my doctor to get another test. He put on a brave face. “Tuberculosis? That nurse at that school didn’t know what she was talking about. The chances are highly unlikely that-”

      As my doctor spouted statistics about how he was 99.9% sure I didn’t have tuberculosis, I decided I wanted “New Slang” by The Shins to play at my funeral. It would be 48 hours until I knew for sure what I already knew in my heart. That I had TB.

      For the next two days I went through the motions, pretending that everything was normal. I would take pleasure in all the simple things life had to offer before I began my rigorous debilitating treatment (prescription antibiotics). I laughed more loudly at my friends’ jokes, I paid attention in class, I held the door open for a handicapped person; clearly, I was living life to the fullest. If only I had time to travel to Europe.

        The drive back to the doctor’s office was the last time life would be normal. The news would be tragic, but I was ready. I solemnly opened the door to the doctor’s office and announced my presence in a way that told the receptionist, “it’s ok, I’m ready for what’s to come.” As the doctor emerged, I slowly rolled up my sleeve to reveal the puffy, red spot on my arm. I closed my eyes and bit my lip as he grasped my arm and pulled it closer to his face.

     He looked at it closely, and said, “You’re fine.”

     “Scuse me?”

      “You just had a minor skin reaction to the needle. You don’t have tuberculosis.”

      “So the nurse...?”

      “She was wrong. Honestly, it’s one of the most basic things they teach you in medical school, I can’t believe she read it as a positive.”

         I tried to laugh but I couldn’t help feeling disappointed. I didn’t have tuberculosis and this news was even worse than if I did have it. Now, I was just back to being boring Chris Williams, the most generous person ever. If I were generous AND dying I would’ve locked in my spot for a wish from the Make a Wish foundation. I already had my wish list made. How the hell was I supposed to meet Gina from Sesame Street without tuberculosis? I went through all this and the only thing I had to show for it was a bunch of needle marks on my arms! I couldn’t make my friends be nicer to me and I couldn’t generate pity from strangers. This sucked.

         So, what did I learn from this experience? Although Nurse Young should under no circumstance be working as a nurse, I thank her for this experience. Awaiting news from a scary medical test can be exciting and invigorating. I had never felt more alive than the time when I thought I was dying. Maybe one day, I’ll get a real deadly disease. I can’t wait.