Page 2 of Meet Me In The Dark
“I swear to God, Madison. Shut up,” I cry.
Dr. Patel, likely eager to escape thisGrey’s Anatomyouttake, clears his throat. “Celeste, I’ll check in on you again before discharge, but your surgery went well. It’s important to take your recovery seriously. No strenuous activity for a while, and ease into any, ah, extracurricular activities at your own pace.”
Madison salutes him. “Thank you for your service, Doc.”
Emmy shoots him an apologetic look. “I promise we’ll behave.”
Dr. Patel doesn’t seem convinced, but he nods politely before walking away, leaving me at the mercy of my so-called friends.
I let my head fall back against the pillow. “You’re both the worst.”
Emmy holds up her hands. “Hey, what did I do?”
“You’re supposed to stop her.”
Madison pats my arm. “You’ll thank me later when you get back in the saddle with confidence.”
“Can we please stop using car and horse analogies?” Emmy sighs.
“Fine, but let’s just agree that when Celeste is feeling up to it, she needs to—”
I slap a weak hand over her mouth. “Not. Another. Word.”
She licks my palm.
I yelp and yank my hand away.
Emmy shakes her head. “You two are children.”
At this rate, I might just slip back into unconsciousness for self-preservation.
My best friends just grilled my surgeon about my sex life while I was unconscious, and they weren’t even wrong about any of it.
It’s been two years since I last had sex.
Not because I didn’t want to, but because every time I tried, it felt like someone was stabbing me from the inside out.
And let’s be honest, that kind of kills the mood.
So, eventually, I just stopped.
Stopped trying. Stopped hoping. Stopped puttingmyself in the position of disappointing someone else, or worse, disappointing myself.
I glance down at my stomach, the dull ache from the incisions pulsing in time with my heartbeat.
Five years. That’s how long I’ve been fighting for a doctor who actually listens and doesn’t dismiss me with, “It’s just bad periods” or “Have you tried birth control?”
Like, yes, Barbara, I’ve tried birth control. I’ve tried heating pads, painkillers, yoga, acupuncture, essential oils, dietary changes, and manifesting good vibes. I’ve tried everything, and I was still treated like a hysterical woman who just needed to “relax.”
It wasn’t until I switched doctors for the fourth time, after an emergency room visit where I wasthis closeto throwing hands at an intern who suggested it was stress-related, that I finally landed in Dr. Patel’s care. He listened. He ran the tests. He confirmed what I already knew deep down: It wasn’t normal. It was never normal.
Now, after years of gaslighting and dismissal, I finally had answers.
The question is, what now?
As much as I want to pretend that the hardest part is behind me, I know better. The surgery might help. It might not. But either way, I still face the same dilemma:
What if the pain comes back?
