Page 105 of My Best Years

“Do you think this could be connected to your hand? The trembling that I noticed at Captain Ray’s?”

“I don’t know,” I sigh. “This is why I went to see a doctor in the first place. Aside from the sporadic pain and tremors, thereare days when I just feel weak. Where my limbs feel stiff and faint.”

I swallow down the lump in my throat before continuing.

“Something just doesn’t feel right, Birdie.”

When she narrows her eyes, I can see the wheels spinning in her mind.

“And the doctor told you these symptoms are all related to stress and anxiety? He ran no tests?”

“He only did blood work. Once all my labs came back normal, he dismissed it as stress. He told me to come back if my symptoms didn’t start to improve.”

Her nostrils flare at my response.

“No,” she grits out. “You’re not going back to that lazy excuse for a doctor. You need to see someone who is going to take you seriously. I don’t have the training of a medical doctor, but I can tell you that your symptoms don’t align with someone who is suffering from anxiety.”

Silence fills the space between us as my eyes flick between hers.

“What do you think it is?”

Her breath hitches at my question.

“I…” she stammers. “I don’t know, Callum. Like I said, I’m not a medical doctor.”

I can tell by the look on her face that she’s not being candid with me. She has an idea of what it could be, but she doesn’t want to tell me.

She doesn’t want to scare me.

“But you’ve cared for thousands of patients,” I retort. “You have to have some sort of inkling of what it could be.”

The ticking of the ceiling fan is the only sound in the room as she anxiously chews on the inside of her cheek.

“Cal…I think you should see a doctor first. I don’t want you worrying yourself sick over nothing–”

“Birdie,” I interject. “I have seen a doctor. Please, just tell me what you’re thinking.Please. I’d rather hear it from you than go out of my mind, self-diagnosing myself with some rare disease.”

Hesitation fills her features.

“Are… Are you sure, Cal?” Her voice is barely a whisper.

“Yes.”

“You have to understand that I could be completely wrong,” she halts. “But as a nurse, it’s my responsibility to sometimes look for the worst-case scenario. When I’m with a patient, I have to explore every route to make sure I’m not missing anything. It’s just the way my brain has been trained to work.”

She’s rambling now, speaking a mile a minute. She does this whenever she gets nervous.

“Birdie,” I exhale. “Please just tell me.”

Her nostrils cave in as she sucks in a deep breath and blows it out.

“It could be neurological.”

The words spill from her mouth like roaring rapids, so fast that I barely understand her.

Neurological.

A tight ball forms in my throat as I try to process that one word.

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