Page 50 of The Single Dad Grump Next Door

Chapter Seventeen: Alina

The waiting room of the orthopedic clinic smells faintly of antiseptic, industrial carpet, and the watery coffee spitting out of the Keurig in the corner.

It’s been about two weeks since my MRI results came in. We’re well into the summer now, and July is beating down hot and heavy on the coast of Cape Cod. There’s been no sign of Gabe and Wren since Fourth of July weekend, which has been both a relief and a conundrum.

A relief, because I haven’t been worrying about running into him and having to think too hard about our friendly walk down the beach together that one starlit evening. A conundrum because I’ve found myself wondering where he is, when he’ll be back, and what I’ll say to him when he returns.

Basically, all of my waking thoughts have been consumed by Gabe, and I’m embarrassed to admit that he’s also featured in many of my dreams.

At least it’s been a decent distraction from the main source of stress in my life.

Right now, however, that familiar anxiety is impossible to avoid.

I’m sitting on the edge of a stiff chair, tapping my foot impatiently even though I know it comes across as rude. My fingers twitch against my thigh, a nervous habit I’ve never been able to shake. Across from me, a mother entertains her fidgety toddler with a set of colorful stacking cups, her soothing voice a contradictory backdrop to the roiling storm cloud in my mind. My thoughts churn with worst-case scenarios, even though I’ve tried to keep them at bay for days.

I already know that the MRI results were inconclusive. I already know that it’s technically good news. I know that I don’t need surgery, and that nothing is torn. The ligaments and muscles are strained and inflamed, but not in need of immediate medical attention.

And I know that this appointment isn’t going to bring unexpected doom upon me. It’s just a check-in, and all I can really expect to receive at this point are final recommendations for treatment at home.

So, basically, it’s not the end of the world.

I just wish someone would tell that to my frayed nerves.

When the nurse calls out my name, I follow her down a brightly lit hallway to the examination room. My heart pounds as I settle into the chair, hands resting awkwardly in my lap. Dr. Hansen enters moments later, his kind smile doing little to ease my anxiety.

He glances down at the clipboard in his hands and then tosses it aside, coming to sit across from me on the wheeled stool like we’re old friends. “How are you feeling today, Alina?”

“Nervous,” I admit. “I’m having a difficult time convincing myself that you’re not about to give me the worst possible news.”

He nods, a warm smile on his face. “Understandable. I can definitely promise you that you don’t have anything to worryabout, though. But let’s take another look at your hands and wrists first, okay?”

As he gently presses and manipulates my wrists and fingers, I’m hyperaware of every tiny twinge and ache. It’s hard to separate actual pain from the paranoia in my head, and even though I think I might be recovering slightly, I’m also worried that I’m just getting used to it.

Dr. Hansen hums thoughtfully, then pushes his stool away again and rests his hands on his knees.

“Well, the good news is that I can confidently say that there’s nothing structurally wrong with your hands. No joint deterioration, no ligament damage. What you’re dealing with is inflammation caused by overuse—classic tendinitis. That’s my official diagnosis, Alina.”

Relief floods through me, though it’s tempered by stubborn worry.

“So… I’ll be able to play again without any pain?”

“Yes, absolutely. But, like your manager suggested, you need to give your hands time to heal. I’d recommend resting completely for at least another month, then gradually easing back into practice with proper warm-ups and plenty of breaks. If you follow a strict recovery plan, you should be ready to rejoin the orchestra in the fall.”

I exhale, the tension in my chest loosening.

I’m okay. Everything will be okay. I’m going to be fine.

“Thank you.” Even though I mean it, my voice comes out all shaky.

Dr. Hansen frowns slightly. “You’re welcome, Alina. But I was also wondering…”

When he trails off, my anxiety spikes again. “What?”

“Well, I’m just an orthopedic specialist, not a psychiatrist, but I’m wondering if you’d consider seeking treatment for your stress levels?”

I blink at him. “What do you mean?”

He shrugs. “I can only imagine that your job is extremely stressful, and I don’t mean to offend when I say this, but I can tell that you’re experiencing quite a lot of anxiety right now. Stress can be detrimental to our health in a myriad of ways. It’s not just a mental thing. When we’re stressed out, our body can go into survival mode, which causes it to neglect other aspects of its normal maintenance duties. Basically, when you’re stressed, your body suffers almost as much as your mind.”

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