Agliophobia (or was it iatrophobia? nesocomephobia perhaps?)

One word comes to mind whenever I imagine myself dying: swift.

Abrupt. Sudden. Brisk. Fast. Hasty. Precipitous. Prompt. Quick.

Like Celine, I am not afraid of death, I am afraid of that fraction of a second when you can feel the pain. The borderline between dying and living. The turning point. The space in-between.

When I got hit by a car six years ago, I didn’t feel any pain during the crash. A sudden force hit my back, my consciousness blurred, and everything escaped me. I felt nothing.

When I stood up afterwards, my knees were wobbling and my body was trembling. It was an effort to stand on the pavement and it did took a while before I realized what happened. Once I did, my back started to throb, the cuts swelled, and my legs quivered. There were no fractured bones – just gashes and a few bruises. (And some developed trauma for crossing crowded roads.)

What struck me was the pain – there was none – during the impact.

I was waiting in the lobby of Capitol Medical Center when this incident crossed my mind. It was at the same time too that the doctor that was to check my condition left a few hours ago. I have another option: go to another hospital.

The idea was sensible enough; after all, the pain I’m experiencing showed no signs of stopping and I had this lingering idea of having it removed through operation. Then there I was, clueless, drinking Italian blend cappuccino in a plastic coffee cup, waiting for a path.

For the first time in my life I didn’t know what to do.

I have no one to give medical advice, no one to wait with in the hospital lobby, no one to weigh the options and help me come to a decision. I need a third person (or in this case, a second person) who would tell me what to do.

I'm scared of hospitals. I'm scared of doctors. I'm scared of getting sick. I'm scared of pain.