Several days later, I headed into downtown Denver to my dreaded doctor's appointment. My mom came along with me, and for the whole car ride, did her best to calm me down. My palms were sweaty, my heart was racing, and I was doing everything in my power to breathe in deeply to prevent my airways from closing up. Mom reassured me that we'd only find out good news that day. I wasn't sick. I wouldn't undergo any unpleasant procedures. And, I wouldn't have to talk to very many doctors that day. It would be a very quick and easy check-up appointment, so there was nothing for me to be afraid of.
This frustrated me, because I was telling myself the same exact things. I knew, logically, that everything would be alright! I knew my anxiety issues were illogical. Yet, no matter what I did, my anxiety only worsened as we got nearer and nearer to the hospital.
As I expected, I was physically very healthy. I had nothing to be concerned about there. But, my mental health was a different story. My doctors agreed that getting on medication was the right thing to do, and a first step in getting me back on my feet. Apparently, nearly everyone who was on Trikafta was on some sort of antidepressant. Many of them were just as overwhelmed by the effects that medication had on them as I was. On top of that, at least some of my mental health issues could be blamed on genetics. So, it wasn't a premature or unreasonable decision to get on an antidepressant, considering the circumstances.
After I was done talking to the psychiatrists, a nurse came in with all the necessary equipment to draw some blood. It wasn't a requirement, but I wanted to make sure my liver was handling things alright just to get some peace of mind. Unfortunately, my body had other plans. Every single vein in my hands and arms shrank at just the sight of the butterfly needles in a plastic baggie. I was shocked by just how quickly my fight-or-flight response kicked in, as a response to a childhood phobia I thought I'd conquered years before. Because of my body's intense physical reaction to something as trivial as a blood draw, which I'd done countless times before without issue, no blood was drawn that day. The nurse stuck me with three different needles, and dug around with them for several minutes at a time with no luck.
I kept apologizing to the nurse as if the anxiety was my fault. However, she and I both knew it wasn't. One can't voluntarily force their veins to shrink. That's just not possible. The nurse assured me my body's physical reaction to the needles was not my fault. It wasn't something I could control. It was just an instinct, and was yet another piece of evidence that my mental health struggles were more physical than anything.
After torturing me with needles, the nurse asked if I'd be willing to get other tests done, like a bone density scan and MRI scan of my lungs. I almost agreed, until I asked the nurse what the bone density scan was, and she told me it was like an MRI scan, but just in a smaller box. Basically, to get the bone density scan done, I'd be trapped in what was essentially a tanning bed for several minutes. I immediately declined. One of the few phobias I had left was that of tight, enclosed spaces. The failed blood draw had spiked my anxiety enough already. The last thing I needed to do was agreed to be trapped in a box for several minutes without sedative medication.
Since the bone density scan and the MRI scan weren't necessary, I was finally allowed to leave the hospital. I needed to get my blood drawn within a month or two, but the doctors said we'd cross that bridge when we got there. For now, all I had to worry about was getting on anti-anxiety medication, and staying healthy.
