Page 100 of Breaking News

“Do you promise?” Meghan asked, giving me the side-eye.

“Yes,” I said, rolling my eyes with a little grin. “Everyone else is always taking care of me. You. Graham. Makes me feel like I can’t handle my own life without back-up.”

Meghan raised an eyebrow. “First of all, Graham’s going to be a senior citizen in, what, fifteen years? So the roles will reverse and you’ll be taking care of him in no time.”

I glared at her, and then we both smiled.

“And second, so what if you need a little help right now? Weren’t you there for me when my mom died and you literally had to force me to take a shower and go outside?”

I nodded.

“See? Everyone goes through seasons in life when they need a little more support.”

“What if it’s not just a ‘season’ for me? What if they never fix me?”

“Then we love you through it. I’m not going anywhere. And I’m pretty sure Graham would say the same thing. Wouldn’t he?”

I didn’t say anything at first. Just stared down at my nails, picking at the corner of one with my thumb. I kept thinking about the way Graham looked at me at the airport, like he was ready to fucking lose it. “I probably stress him out,” I said, moving my hair away from my eyes.

Meghan took a minute to think before responding. “Only because he cares about you so much,” she said. “And everything’s sort of imploding around you guys right now. It’s not your fault.”

“I mean, it’s at leasthalfmy fault.”

She tilted her head to the side, agreeing. “Maybe. Do you think you guys will stick it out through this?”

“I don’t know.” I stared at the dandelion painting on the wall, my eyes tracing the gold, glittery brushstrokes. “I hope we do. I really, really like this one, Meg.”

“If you guys stay together,” she said, touching my knee while staring into my eyes like she was about to say something truly meaningful, “you’re going to be someone’s step-grandma.”

I shook my head and swatted her hand away just as the wooden door opened. A nurse in pink scrubs and a clipboard stepped out. “Jillian?”

“That’s you, GILF,” Meghan whispered under her breath. I narrowed my eyes at her, tempted to smack her arm again, but the joke tugged a smile out of me anyway. I grabbed my purse and followed the nurse down the little hallway.

The further we walked, the quieter everything felt. No more water fountain, no more Meghan beside me filling the silence with her Meghan-ness.

The nurse took my vitals, asked a few routine questions, and left me in a small, softly lit exam room with a paper-covered table and one chair in the corner. I assumed I’d be in for another long wait, but I barely had time to check in with Olivia at work before a knock sounded at the door.

The second Dr. Stroud entered the room and greeted me with her warm, gap-toothed smile, I immediately felt at ease. She looked to be in her fifties, with silver hoops in her ears, kind eyes, and smooth, brown skin. Even her voice was soothing as she greeted me. “Hello, Jillian. I’m Dr. Stroud.”

“Hi,” I said, accepting her outreached hand. Her fingers were soft, but her handshake was firm.

She wasn’t holding anything. Not a clipboard, not a tablet. But she sat on the rolling stool in front of me and crossed oneleg over the other, folding her hands on her knees. “Now, I know you’ve probably explained your symptoms over and over to multiple people before me, but I want to hear your story firsthand. Describe to me what you’ve been experiencing, and for how long.”

I took a deep breath, and I told her.

I told her about the dull aches that started years ago, and how I brushed them off at the time. About how it intensified over time, and how stress seemed to worsen the pain even more.

I described how stiff my legs were in the mornings. I mentioned the way sometimes my shoulders hurt just when they were pressed a certain way, laughing at how backrubs were actually torturous for me. I told her all about the fatigue and the brain fog that were probably unrelated—but maybe they weren’t?

And not for a single second did I feel stupid or like a rambling hypochondriac. Because she listened, nodding as I talked. Her face scrunched up with a sympathetic frown when I told her about breaking down on live TV.

Once I finally unloaded everything on her, she sat up straighter in her chair and cleared her throat. “So here's where we are. I’m not going to slap a diagnosis on you today, because I want to make sure we rule out everything else first.”

I nodded.

“You sound a lot like my fibromyalgia patients. But one thing to know about fibromyalgia is that it’s a diagnosis of exclusion. I want you to get answers and I want you to get relief, because I know that’s why you’re here. But we’re going to get to the bottom of it and make sure we’re on the right track. You’re going to get real sick of seeing me.”

We laughed together. “No, I promise I won’t,” I insisted. “I already feel better just hearing that you’re going to try to help me.”

---