No one knows how much time is left.

I don’t feel like I’m aging, but suddenly, I’m no longer young.

My children run and skip, exuberant joy in every movement,

But I saunter, slowly, at a relaxed pace.

Any faster and I get short of breath,

Winded up one flight of stairs with a couple of minutes to catch back up.

Medically, there’s nothing really wrong,

As far as I can tell, but maybe I’m wrong.

Perhaps this is aging,

Maybe I’m just getting old.

As I see noted elsewhere, 1938 is as close to 1980 as 1980 is to 2022.

My brain explodes when I read that,

And I wonder if I should be writing letters for my kids to read when I am no more.

Doctors ignore me.

My story doesn’t fit into a 15 minute window,

And if I take any longer,

“Anxiety” will be their diagnostic weapon,

Spliced into my previously pristine problem list.

My beloved doctors fall by the wayside,

Burnout, retirement, babies.

Closing panels, like drapes in a darkening room.

Ever waiting for new doctors,

Appointments always open 4 months from now.

And it’s never a problem,

Until suddenly it is.

Luckily, I knew a guy,

And he knew me from a prior life.

Enough to remember that I was steady,

And not prone to panic.

And he found the problem

That saved my life.

That was 2 years ago.

I’ve made it through so far,

Grateful to regain my breath and strength,

To recover my sense of self.

But now, I hear the clock that has my name on it,

The time is blurry,

But it’s clearly keeping a beat.

Tick-tock.

Tick-tock.

 
Pramita Kuruvilla, MD, FAAFP, HEC-C (she/her) is an Associate Professor in the Division of Palliative Medicine at the University of California, San Francisco.