The Diagnosis Call
September 15, 2025 — The phone call that gave MRSA a name
Morning
8:18 AM
Woke just before my alarm. Body unsettled, hip uncomfortable, dream still lingering — something about an airport, waiting, being interrogated. I carried a sense of unease into the morning.
9:30 AM
Shower delayed by 40 minutes of cleaning: dishes put away, vacuumed the storage room, hung my bicycle, fed my cat, started laundry. Felt pulled to put things in order.
10:25 AM — The Call
Dr. Fehring: The aspiration shows signs of ongoing infection. They picked up a few colonies of MRSA. It’s likely been there since the washout.
Me: So it’s been infected all along. My body hasn’t been lying to me.
Dr. Fehring: Right. The question is what to do next. The standard treatment is a two-stage revision: remove everything, place an antibiotic spacer, then after several months — if the infection clears — implant a new hip.
Me: That sounds like a big deal.
Dr. Fehring: It is. Especially since the infection may extend into your femur. But it’s the best chance to fully clear MRSA. Suppressing it with long-term antibiotics is an option, but it carries risks and doesn’t cure the infection.
Me: I’ve been begging for over a year to get this fluid tested. When they pulled out 25 milliliters, my hip function improved almost immediately. But I know if infection’s there, it won’t last.
Dr. Fehring: Exactly. The aspiration probably relieved some pressure. But the fluid will likely return. The good news is this isn’t urgent — you’ve been living with a low-grade infection for a long time. We can take some time before deciding next steps.
Me: I appreciate your directness. Let me sit with this. A two-stage surgery might be where this is headed, but I need to weigh it all.
Dr. Fehring: That’s fair. Success rates with MRSA are around 70–80%. It’s not easy, but it’s possible. Think it over, and let me know how you want to proceed.
I scribbled notes, my heart heavy. The words “you have MRSA” landed like a stone. After fourteen months of being told otherwise, my body was finally validated — but in the worst way.
Midday
12:10 PM
Sat at my desk, catching up my journal for the past 48 hours. Cappuccino in hand. Made a small list of tasks: journaling, processing medical visits, and organizing some digital files. Everyday life still hummed, even under the weight of the diagnosis.
1:20 PM
Distracted by my Stream Deck setup. Laundry shifted. Feeling both grounded and unsettled.
Afternoon
3:00–5:45 PM
Worked at the shop. A couple of simple repairs, some warranty work. Tried to patch Kenny’s bike tire but blew the tube — ordered another. Attempted to extend condensate pump tubing at home, but the PVC didn’t fit. Ordinary frustrations of the day stacked on top of extraordinary news.
Body transitions harder — standing up from sitting hit with pain and awareness. Considered taking something for the evening.
Evening
6:45 PM
Dinner: cornbread with leftover chili beans. Took prescribed pain medication. Watched part of a documentary but drifted.
7:50 PM
Gym visit. Hot tub was lukewarm at 100°, but I stayed an hour. Spoke with a veteran about his own struggles with medical care and PTSD. Shared my infection news with him. Found a strange sense of solidarity in that pool of warm water.
10:15 PM
Sat at my desk for focused work. Updated spreadsheets, checked orders, and caught up on overdue notes. Felt present, grounded in the flow, even under the weight of the day.
Night
11:00 PM – 2:00 AM
Long focused session at my desk, processing medical visit notes into my healing timeline database. Listened to my body. Stayed with the weight of the words: I am living with MRSA now.
Closing Reflection
The day started in unease, carried me through validation and devastation, and ended with the quiet acknowledgment of a new reality. September 15th was the day the mystery ended. The fire had a name.
Cross-Link
This entry is part of my series Living With Fire. Each chapter is shared in two ways:
• 📜 Narrative Essay (Substack): polished reflection of [Sept 15] → [Read on Substack]
• 🌐 This RAW Journal is part of the Living With Fire archive → [Browse the Archive]
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