This morning an acquaintance and I were discussing a medical issue and she suggested, “You should probably go see a geneticist.”
And my brain (being my brain) replied, “No, see, I can’t, because she’s dead.”
And that’s how three years on grief still occasionally kicks you in the teeth.
It turns out there are hundreds, probably thousands, of people who have medical degrees and specialities in genetics who could answer questions about Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome (EDS), Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome (POTS), and Mast Cell Activation Syndrome (MCAS), all of which drift right on the edge of being good explanations for some of the wackier hijinks I’ve gotten into… but none of them are Aunt Ginny.
That specific combination of DNA genes and chromosomes, nature and nurture, experience and reasoning that I identified as Dr. Virginia Proud is not currently available to advise me on matters of heredity. I will have to suffice with some other MD and geneticist who, while not my aunt, can fill in the gaps of my knowledge, and who — I hope — is loved as fiercely and would be missed as long as the geneticist I would prefer.
She’s not really gone. She’s just moved out of network. Some day I pray my insurance will be upgraded, and I’ll see her again.
Don’t feel bad kid, no one knows how much I would love to walk down the beach some evening and get honest answers to some medical questions and solve the worlds problems. I still walk and I am sure she walks with me. We just have to keep remembering she never found fault with anybody, and she felt compassion for everyone.