Page 70 of Beyond Oblivion

Camille tucked her hair behind her ear with a sigh. “I’m already so far behind on everything.”

“Well, tag me in, Chamomile. I’ll step up.”

“You don’t even know everything I do behind the desk,” she said as she did one last scan of her face and hair in the mirror.

“I’ll knock out what I know. Make me a list of what I don’t.”

She wasn’t impressed. “Make a list and then train you? That doesn’t really lighten the mental load.”

“Do we need to hire you an assistant?”

“No,” she said, making a face. “Training them just puts me more behind, and they never do everything you pay them to do, anyway, all while insinuating you don’t pay them enough. And then when it doesn’t work out, it’s drama until they find someone else to complain about.”

“Yeah, let’s not do that.” I sighed, feeling defeated. “I’m trying here, baby.”

“I know,” she said softly, picking at her fingers. “I know you are.” She paused. “What do you think the doctor’s going to say?”

I wrapped my arms around her, pulling her close. “I don’t know. And there’s no point in guessing. Let’s just get through the morning and try to stay busy.”

“Busy? Oh, that won’t be a problem,” she muttered, turning back to the mirror.

After a few more minutes, Camille emerged from the bathroom, a cloud of floral lotion trailing behind. She caught my gaze as she grabbed her keys from the bowl near the door, offering me a smile so half-hearted it practically asked for a refund. I tried to think of the perfect words to soothe her but came up empty. Over the years, my pep talks began to feel like copy and paste.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur, at the same time each minute stretching like taffy, heavy with anticipation and dread. I tried to bury myself in work, sanitizing, ordering supplies, and rescheduling my afternoon, but the nagging thought of the appointment gnawed at the edges of my focus.

When noon finally rolled around, we drove in silence, the only sound the low hum of the radio—which we both ignored. I turned into the parking lot of Dr. Ley’s office, my stomach tightening as we approached the entrance. Camille squeezed my hand when I parked and cut the engine, and I kissed her fingers, wishing I could do more than offer silent support. The possible bad news swirled in my head, but the details refused to form, leaving me stuck with a sick, empty feeling.

Inside, the waiting room was the usual mix of people glued to their phones or flipping through outdated magazines. Camille was restless in her seat, her fingers tapping rhythmically on her thigh. I reached over and covered her hand with mine, not that I was a wellspring of calm, but to remind her she wasn’t alone.

When her name was called, Camille stood up and walked toward the doorway, pausing to glance back at me for reassurance. I followed her down the hall, our footsteps echoing off the sterile tiles and walls poorly disguised with outdated homey decor that tried too hard to be comforting.

“Just breathe,” I murmured as we approached the consultation room.

Once seated, the doctor’s presence across his large mahogany desk felt like anything but a casual chat about levels and blood counts. Dr. Ley was a kind man, faded red hair and beard, both needing a trim. But sitting across from us, his face wore a seriousness that made my heart race. He nodded to us with a polite smile, but it was a whisper in comparison to the thick file on his desk surrounded by stacks of more paper.

“Mr. and Mrs. Maddox,” he said, gesturing to the chairs. “Thank you both for coming in.”

“Just Trent and Cami are fine,” Camille said.

“I’ve received the last of the imaging and lab results since our last appointment, and now that I have everything, I wanted to go over your diagnosis with you. And, don’t worry, it’s nothing we can’t handle, okay?”

Camille’s uncharacteristically warm grip tightened around my hand, as if hope was battling fear inside her, making her temperature rise.

“Your thyroid function results strongly indicate Graves’ Disease.”

“What the fuck is that?” I blurted out.

“Trent,” Camille warned.

Dr. Ley, unfazed by my outburst, continued reading from the report. “Your TSH levels are consistently low, and your Free T3 and T4 levels are elevated, along with Anti-TPO antibodies. The presence of thyroid antibodies and an ultrasound showing an enlarged thyroid confirm the diagnosis. Additionally, your other symptoms—chronic pelvic pain, irregular cycles, heavy bleeding—along with the MRI results, suggest Adenomyosis.”

I rubbed my face, trying to process the onslaught of medical jargon, but before I could ask the dozens of questions swirling in my head, Camille squeezed my fingers harder, signaling me to hold off.

“Just give him a minute,” she whispered, her voice steady, though I could hear the nerves behind it.

Dr. Ley offered a small grin. “Graves’ Disease and Adenomyosis are just fancy ways to diagnose what you’ve already experienced. The good news is diagnosis leads to better courses of treatment.”

Camille seemed to relax, but my shoulders still felt like they were hovering around my ears.

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