They will say there is nothing wrong. That is what they always say. They will run with the facts that comfort them in their analysis, those they can touch, see and measure. They will avoid their own discomfort by staying far from the grey zones, where numbers do not stick.

I will sit in another waiting room with a clipboard. The one-way communication will be terse, cropped commands. Take a seat. Fill this out.

There will be sheets of neat columns with small check boxes. Nowhere on the forms will there be space or curiosity for what circumstances brought me to this place.

There is always more interest in my family’s medical history, a burden somehow placed upon me. Lined up are tests for things that my genetic pool may have shared with me like a gift of origin - or a curse.  With scheduled precision another birthday passes and another legacy of tests ordered based on nothing more than calendar dates laid over the medical dogma of the day.  It makes as much sense to me as presuming that having my grandmother’s silver tea set will guarantee I’ll serve the elixir of convention. I despise the tests; I don’t like tea.  

This is where they go wrong. For all their order and structure, they’ve missed a critical piece of the story. Theirs is an error of omission.

It is not my genetic make-up alone that is putting my body at risk, but the beliefs and coping patterns I’ve inherited that trigger them. It’s the way anger courses through my bloodstream behind a mask of complacency or how gulped disappointment destroys all appetite for nourishment. It’s the way I’ve learnt to relinquish my power deferring to others, politely stepping aside, mutely smiling and uncounted.  It’s the layers and layers of unspoken truths, contradictions to the status quo, the sucking it up and denying my own voice. These are the toxic malignancies that will surface down the road, shocking everyone but me.

Even if the tests signal an alarm, the chances of it being heeded are slim. Caretakers, in spite of their title, do not know how to receive care.

It’s the learned tolerance, acceptance of things least palatable without complaint that leaves the body ignorant of its mistake and eventually its demise. The lump they’ll discover is a biological attempt to fill the hole where the soul’s energy is seeping. Drained, the body’s immune system will have allowed malignant cells to form a blockage without challenge.

So rather than just asking what toxic substances -  cigarette smoke, alcohol, fatty foods, aluminum laced antiperspirants, preservatives, contaminants, radioactive exposure, and on and on -  ask me about the toxic coping skills I’ve perfected.

Don’t waste time on just my genetics; they’ll only point to what could be. Look also at my inherited belief systems and coping skill sets; they’ll point to what will be.