Page 117 of Love, Just In

‘Of course. Thank you.’

Her gaze then clouds over with a look that’s classic in our industry. ‘I have an idea,’ she says, tapping her chin. ‘But I don’t want you to feel pressured about it. What would you think of—’

My phone chimes from my lap, sending my stomach into freefall. I snatch up the handset, recognising the number.

‘I’m so sorry, but this is the doctor calling, and I have to take it,’ I say in a rush.

‘Of course.’ Natasha gets up and steps out of her own office as I press the phone to my ear, my entire life flashing before my eyes.

My voice locks in my throat. ‘Josie Larsen speaking.’

‘Hi, Josie; it’s Doctor Ellison. I’ve got your ultrasound results—it’s just a cyst. Nothing to be concerned about.’

My entire body splits open. ‘Are you serious?’ It takes everything I have not to collapse onto the floor.

‘Very,’ she says in a warm voice. ‘Butthe test did show that you have what we call fibrocystic breasts.Which means you have a high number of cysts, and your breast tissue is quite dense. None of that has anything to do with cancer, but it can make screening for cancer trickier because it’s harder to see what’s going on in there. So, I am going to recommend that you get an ultrasound every year—purely as a precaution. And I want you to know, Josie, this also means we are likely to find more lumps like these, and each one will need to be screened just to be safe. With that in mind, I think we should make that appointment we talked about for your health anxiety. I know you’ve been suffering in the lead-up to this test. So, I’d really like for us to be better prepared for the next one. Sound OK?’

I wipe my eyes and nod. ‘Yes, please. One hundred per cent. I don’t want to live like this anymore.’

‘Great. If you hold now, I’ll transfer you to the receptionist to make an appointment.’

‘Thank you, Doctor Ellison. Thank you so much.’

‘Are we good to go?’

‘Rolling,’ Gus grunts behind my shoulder.Wonders never cease.

I smile at the kind-faced psychiatrist who came highly recommended by my contact at the John Hunter Hospital. ‘Thank you for your time, Professor. I’d like to begin with a simple question: what is health anxiety?’

Professor Singh gives me a soft smile. ‘Well, almost all of us worry about our health at times, which isperfectly natural. But when we begin to worryconstantlythat we are unwell and begin interpreting our changing bodily sensations as dangerous, then we start to have a problem. If we develop a preoccupation with the belief that we have—or will have—a serious illness, and that gets in the way of our ability to enjoy life,thatis health anxiety.’

The spot-on description of me makes my cheeks heat, but Professor Singh’s gentle tone keeps me grounded. The interview continues for nearly an hour, and by the time I get up and shake his hand tightly, I not only have reams of material to use, but I understand for the first time that I’m not a screw-up. I have a condition that’s diagnosable and treatable.

Gus and I head outside to record my piece to camera, my mouth drying up at this point of no return. But I’m so tired of the fake smiles and the pretend laughs and acting like I’m OK when I’m not.

Words I once said to Zac linger in my head.It’s just as brave to say you’re not OK.

I inhale a deep breath and stare down the barrel of the camera. ‘A few weeks ago, I suffered a panic attack on live television while I was presenting the news. I was interviewing an actor about the passing of an Australian icon when I began to shake and sweat. My heart was racing, my vision narrowed, and I lost track of where I was. While the terrifying experience made me the subject of a viral video and led me to question my ability to do my job, it also had a life-changing impact on myunderstanding of mental health. It made me realise that anxiety can affect anyone, anywhere—even when you’re doing something you love. And I’m sharing this with you because I believe that tellingmystory will help me do a better job of telling yours.’ In the corner of my eye, I catch grumpy Gus’s mouth slant up, even though I keep my gaze fixed on the camera. ‘Josie Larsen, NRN News.’

Foamy waves spill over the glistening sand of Nobbys Beach in the peach light of early evening. I spot Zac sitting on the short brick wall overlooking the vista, his hair twisting up in the gentle wind. It’s the first time we’ve seen each other since the ultrasound, and I stand back for a moment, collecting myself, before I move to sit beside him.

‘Hey, Shirley Temple,’ I say, giving his soft curls a light pat.

‘Sunbeam.’ He smiles and presses his full lips to my cheek, and my eyes close at the torture. ‘I’m so happy for you,’ he says. ‘I didn’t think it would be the best idea to say this before the test, butI knewit would be fine. I just knew it.’

‘You had a lucky guess,’ I tease through a wry smile before we turn our gazes to the glimmering strip of blue bridging the sand and the horizon.

‘Thank you so much for being there for it all,’ I say for the hundredth time.

‘Of course. And I saw the news story last night about your anxiety. It was absolutely fucking amazing. I’m so proud of you, Josie.’

I smile into his gleaming eyes. ‘Thank you. All of our affiliate news channels around the world have picked it up, and some even want to interview me. I only agreed to do it because I didn’t want to say no to Natasha, to be honest. But after working on the story and talking to Professor Singh, all I really want out of this is for people like me to feel less alone.’

His eyes soften. ‘Well, you’ve definitely done that—even for me. You know, ever since the accident, if I come across an article about a car crash, the first thing I do is scan it to see if anyone died. It’s like I’ve become obsessed with motor vehicle mortality. The same way I’ve seen you look at those articles about cancer deaths.’ He leans forward, pinning me in his gaze. ‘And you’re a reporter—you know that people only tend to post online when something bad or unusual happens. You’re reading about a tiny percentage of people and are being tricked into believing it’s the standard. You’re also probably ignoring most of the positive things you read. It’s called confirmation bias.’

‘I know,’ I murmur, still wishing that Zac and I had been there more for each other over the past two years. ‘I’m actually seeing Doctor Ellison about it tomorrow before I go.’

Something shifts in his eyes before he forces a tight-lipped smile. ‘That’s great. Hopefully, she can hook youup with a doc in Sydney who can continue helping you with it.’

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