The first time that it happened, I was writhing in pain, spent the night bent over my stomach, foetal position, or body turned upside down hoping to make it go away.
As soon as the morning came, I managed to bring myself to the internist's clinic, where the internist asked me to go to the radiologist to take a couple of tests. I still remember the soothing hum of the air conditioner, the subdued lighting, the total silence inside the radiology room, as the radiologist puzzled over what she saw on the computer, asking me over and over to locate the pain.
"I could not see anything wrong with your body," she said.
After a while, she asked, "Are you experiencing some kind of stress?"
When I replied, she refused to believe it. "How could you be so stressed in a job that you've been doing over and over again in the last 15 years?"
So, I told her.
Close to midnight last Thursday, after about three hours of waiting, I sat squatting on the floor maybe more than an hour into the press con when the first pain shot up, a signal from space. I made it a point to take a rest that night; and the following day, working up three or four stories at the same time, I knew that I was operating on a low energy level but still believed that my remaining energy could still last me through the end of those stories when I could finally declare a rest.
Unfortunately, though, just a sight of one message after the end of the third story, shot my cortisol level up to the roof. Something must have burst there somewhere because, although, I managed to crawl myself to finish the fourth story, I was no longer myself afterwards.
The pain is back again.
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