Sometimes I think about writing memoir. I have notes written. Ideas. Paragraphs. Today, I would call it, “This Frail Body.”

An angiogram on Friday has left me shaken. I’ve experienced far worse medical procedures for sure, as any reader of this blog knows. My reaction is possibly excessive. But it is my reaction and I own it.

Maybe it’s the timing. I’ve had a few good months of very little intervention mostly because this procedure took a long time to get scheduled, not because my problems are over. Maybe it’s a last straw phenomenon. Maybe it’s because the stakes are so high.

I’m on blood thinners, so opening up an artery is a big deal. In preparation for this procedure, I’ve had to administer injections of a drug to “bridge” me off the blood thinner on myself, to my lower abdomen. I did it badly the first time, and I am bruised. An understatement. An area about 8 inches across my soft underbelly is red/black. There are smaller bruises tracing a trail of injection sites. I have to give myself another injection in the next few minutes.

I’m procrastinating.

Rather than become desensitized to the process, I’m becoming increasingly squeamish. I have to do it for a few more days.

Those bruises are now accompanied by several more from Friday’s incursions: blood draws, an IV, and of course the failed attempt to access the radial artery from my wrist and finally the successful access of the femoral site. Oh. And my neck. There was another access site there.

“Access” is an interesting word. The interior world of my lungs and heart have been “accessed,” skin cut, sternum cracked, ribs spread open, pericardium breached, heart and lungs sliced into, pieces removed, pieces added. Four times. These latest injuries are minor by comparison.

They are necessary for this project of continuing to live. “The team” as I’ve come to refer to the medical professionals who help me, is trying to find out if I’m eligible for a “minimally invasive” procedure to fix another failing valve. We haven’t even fully discussed whether I can be opened up again if this turns out not to be an option. The end of the road is within sight, and not in a good way.

“Minimally invasive” is still invasive. And this frail body wants to curl up in a soft bed wrapped in flannel pyjamas and home made quilts. Tea and toast are welcome. So is a little soft music. Maybe a little Blue Rodeo, maybe “Five Days in July.” I want to have a few favourite books on my bedside, read about crows, about other women’s struggles and insights. I want their bookish company.

Maybe someone else in a vulnerable place will want to read about my vulnerability. Maybe they will find solace and sustenance in my bookish company. Maybe I only need to write it for myself. Maybe that is a good enough reason. Maybe it is a task I could tackle soon. But first, more time under the quilts, in the pyjamas. Maybe I’d like the sound of knitting needles working. I’ll turn up the heat a bit and look out the window at the winter rains and in a day or so, feel good enough to make some soup.

(With deep thanks to my daughter and her partner for giving me this exact kind of refuge.)