Page 57 of We Can Do
He nods, just once, economical with his movements. “Somewhat. It’s possible that she has postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome. It sometimes manifests when a person has CFS.”
Relief washes through me. At least this doctor believes in chronic fatigue syndrome. Too many don’t, dismissing it as laziness or attention-seeking or all in your head. We’ve all been there, sitting across from medical professionals who look at us like we’re making it up.
“So what is that?” I ask. “The, uh, the condition you just mentioned?”
“Postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome,” he repeats patiently. “It involves an increase in heart rate when the person stands. This can lead to dizziness, lightheadedness. Palpitations.”
“And fainting,” Maya finishes, always quick to connect the dots.
“Yes. However, I don’t want to rule other conditions out. She’s safe to go home today, but I’d like to have her back in a few days for more tests.”
“I can bring her,” Flick says immediately, already pulling out her phone, probably to clear her schedule.
“Until then,” the doctor continues, “she’ll need to take it easy. Not get up unless she needs to. Is there anyone who can stay with her?”
“Yes,” we chorus, our voices overlapping like a practiced choir.
The doctor’s eyes crinkle at the corners as he looks around our semicircle. A soft chuckle escapes him. “She’s lucky to have friends like you.”
Tears prick at my eyes, hot and sudden. “Luck” is such an inadequate word for what we have. This group, these women—we’re each other’s lifelines. My family loves me, supports me from their distance, but they can’t understand what it’s like to live in a body that betrays you randomly, unpredictably. Only these women truly get it.
“We’ll get her discharged shortly,” the doctor says. “Hang tight for a bit.”
“Thank you,” I manage as he walks away, his shoes squeaking their retreat down the hallway.
We stand there for a moment, four women bound by shared experience and fierce love, just looking at each other. The adrenaline is starting to fade, leaving that shaky, hollow feeling in its wake.
“I’ll call the clinic,” Flick says, already scrolling through her contacts. “Let them know what’s going on.”
I nod, watching her step away to make the call. Devin’s coworkers at the physiotherapy clinic must be climbing the walls with worry.
Exhaustion hits me like a physical weight. I sink into one of those terrible chairs, my body suddenly remembering the all-nighter I pulled finishing that article. The adrenaline crash isn’t helping. I check my phone—the screen shows three things that make my stomach drop: a meeting with Elaine in an hour, my urology appointment after that, and the time ticking away mercilessly.
There’s technically time to race home, grab the world’s quickest shower, and make it to Elaine’s office. But my body feels leaden, rooted to this uncomfortable chair.
I don’t want to go to any of it. The scheduled obligations of my day feel absurd in the face of what just happened. This is what chronic illness does—it strips away illusions, forces you to confront the brutal uncertainty of everything. Most days Ican push it down, pretend I’m just like everyone else. But then something like this happens—because it always does, eventually—and reality crashes in.
Health is a house of cards. Life is a tightrope walk without a net.
The thought makes me want to grab hold of everything that matters, clutch it close, never let go.
That list is painfully short.
My friends—these warriors who understand without explanation.
My family—far away but always in my heart.
Noah.
His name sends warmth spreading through my chest like spilled honey. I need to call him. Need his voice in my ear, that steady presence that somehow makes everything feel more manageable. After what just happened with Devin, after this stark reminder of how quickly everything can change, hearing him feels essential.
“I need to get to an appointment,” I tell my friends, though leaving feels like tearing off a piece of myself. “Is there anything I can do before I go?”
They wave me off with promises and reassurances. Flick will wait for Devin, get her home safely. They’ll set up a care schedule in the group text. Everything’s handled. Go.
After a round of hugs—the kind that last a beat too long, that say everything words can’t—I head for the parking lot. I drain the last of my coffee as I walk, the caffeine a poor substitute for actual sleep.
The all-nighter weighs on me now, but it was worth it. That article about the toxic cancel culture in the food world, the piece that might help repair Noah’s reputation—it’s finally done. Today I can start shopping it around to outlets. The thought gives me a small spark of energy.
