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“How are you doing now?” Patel asks.

I lift a hand and rotate it side to side. “So-so. Maybe having a mild flare-up. The past two days, I don’t want to eat and keep running to the bathroom for one reason or another.”

“Any changes in your diet? Life? Work?”

“You can say that. I just moved. And got married.”

She smiles. “Well, congratulations. Stress can aggravate cases, especially those like yours. Have you had any fevers? Or have you been febrile at all?”

I scrunch my face as I recall the few times I did bother to take my temperature. “No. Temperature’s been normal.”

“That is good. No need to put you on an antibiotic then. I don’t want to use them unless absolutely necessary. But keep an eye on your temperature.”

Dr. Patel stands and we continue our conversation as she conducts her exam. When we’re done, she sits back down at the computer and begins entering in her notes. “Why don’t we see if we can get you into the trial for this new medication?” She hands me a fact sheet with the name. I’ve heard of it. “You fit all the criteria including that you haven’t improved on two prior medications.”

“I’m down.” Anything to help me get this disease under control, so I can start my slow climb toward independence. Although, given my responsibilities of helping to care for Mason, it’d be great to get this disease under control as soon as possible.

“All right, and if your symptoms don’t get better in a couple of days, I want you to get a CT scan. The front staff will give you the orders. If you think you are going to go, just call the office for them to get the insurance approval first.”

We finish up and the doctor exits the office. She gives me a refill for some anti-nausea medication and puts refills into the mail-order pharmacy the insurance makes us use. I sit up and take off the hospital gown, my hands skating over my heavily scarred abdomen. I huff, my muscles tensing. The moment Lucas sees the raised, puckered skin, he’s going to ask questions. Lots of questions. And he’s a smart man, so it won’t take him long to connect the dots. I’ll do my best to give him the least information possible.

I’m not the right long-term wife for him. I know how he takes on responsibility. There aren’t many fourteen-year-olds that find work so they can help their mother put food on the table and keep a roof over their heads. I admire him for it, but I don’t want to be one of those responsibilities. I don’t want him to see me as the sick girl he needs to take care of, nor do I want him worrying when he should be concentrating on work. Lord only knows the danger he’s in when on a mission. And I know if he finds out about my Crohn’s, he’ll worry, the same way he did when I got thrown from a horse at fifteen or when I broke my arm at a soccer game. I swear he was at my house every waking second he wasn’t working or at school, looking for ways he could help.

I shake my head recalling the detailed notes he’d taken in class, including recording the lectures in case he missed writing something down. I don’t want to be a burden to him. In fact, I need the opposite: to contribute for a change. But it’s more than his worrying. Even if by some complete fluke, we end up as a couple before this “marriage” is over, I’d never put him in a position where Mason would have to be his only child. The risks to my health are too great to even consider carrying a child to term.

Wait, what? I’ve barely laid eyes on the man since we signed our vows, and my brain jumps straight to kids? I can’t think about this right now. Or ever. I grab my shirt and slip it over my head. The moment I stand, my stomach cramps, so I curl over and grimace until the pain passes. If I am accepted to start this new medication, maybe my life will finally begin to change. Wouldn’t it be something to get these symptoms under control? A glimmer of hope sneaks its way into the gloom of the moment.

While I might not physically be feeling the best, there’s a new spring to my step as I leave the office and head toward my car. After pulling onto the road, I flip the radio on and roll down the windows.

Everything seems to be changing, for the better. And for once I’m not preoccupied by my disease or drowning in pessimism. Outside the windshield, the world is brighter. The sun warmer. The ocean bluer.

The ocean. It’s always been a place where I felt free.

My fingers tap to the beat of the music on the radio. With no real need to race home, I head toward Sandbridge. Too bad my surfboard, with its beautiful yellow hibiscus designs on a tangerine background, is back in Lucas’s garage. Doesn’t matter though, because sitting on the sand and soaking up the warmth will do fine. Just being by the water is enough.

After parking, I hop out and make my way toward the water. Well, maybe not having my board does matter because those waves look amazing. Kicking off my tangerine Chucks, my toes dig into the soft grains.

To my right is a canopy tent surrounded by young children. Most likely surfing lessons. I shift direction, curiosity getting the best of me. The big yellow banner attached to the front of the folding table confirms I was right. It’s a surf school for “Gold Star” families, whatever they are.

“Where have I heard that term before?” A quick search on my phone brings up results and my heart lurches. A Gold Star family is one that has lost a member in service to our nation. They’re the loved ones left behind when a service member makes the ultimate sacrifice and gives their life.

These are the children of service members who have died.

“Can I help you?”

My head jerks up from my phone to find an older man, his gray hair long enough that it covers his ears, waving at me from behind the table. After tucking my phone back into my jean shorts, I wave back. “No, sorry. I was just taking a walk and your banner caught my eye.”

“Were you interested in signing your child up?”

My eyes widen and it takes my brain a couple of seconds to make sense of his question. “Uh, no. I don’t have children.”

“Oh. Do you surf?”

“Love it. But nowhere near being a pro or anything.” Love it is an understatement, but I don’t have a better word for how I feel about surfing.

The man laughs. “We could always use volunteers if you are interested. My name is Brian, by the way.”

He extends the offer like it’s no big deal, but to me, it’s everything. Volunteering would give me a sense of contributing, of giving back. Make me feel like I am needed instead of being a burden. “Riley. And yes, I’d love to volunteer.”

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