Page 60 of We Can Do
Hot tears prick at my eyes, threatening to spill over. I blink rapidly, forcing them back through sheer will. I will not cry in this meeting. I’m an adult, a professional. I’ve been doing this job for years.
So why do I feel like a child who’s just been called to the principal’s office?
“This is your one strike.” Elaine closes her laptop with a decisive click. “From now on, you need to discuss with me any prior relationships or connections you have to the establishments you review.”
My tongue feels swollen, heavy, useless. “I... I will.”
“Good.” She clears her throat again—a sharp, dismissive sound that tells me this conversation is over.
I push myself up from the chair on unsteady legs, my hands trembling as I gather my bag. The shame is crushing, the worst I’ve felt in my entire career. Part of me wants to blame Elaine, to rage against her harsh judgment, but I know the truth. This ismy fault. I should have been more careful, more mindful, more professional.
My footsteps echo woodenly as I leave her office and make my way down the hallway. The fluorescent lights seem too bright, making everything look overexposed and surreal. Other employees pass by, but their faces blur together. The elevator takes forever to arrive, and when it finally does, the ride down feels like descending into a pit.
The street outside offers no relief. I want nothing more than to go home, to crawl under my covers and hide from the world. But there’s no time for that luxury. My urology appointment is in thirty minutes, and I can’t miss it. Not after waiting weeks for this slot.
The drive to the urologist’s office becomes an exercise in talking myself out of a complete spiral. My hands grip the steering wheel as I navigate the familiar streets, giving myself a mental pep talk that sounds increasingly desperate.
It’s okay that Elaine is disappointed. One mistake doesn’t define me. I won’t be at the paper forever anyway. Soon—hopefully very soon—I’ll have that full-time editing position. When I have a job I actually want, really want, I’ll be focused enough to avoid these rookie errors. If I’d been able to leave food reviewing behind earlier, maybe none of this would have happened.
The self-justification helps, a little. By the time I find a parking spot at the medical building and check in at the urologist’s office, I’ve managed to push the morning’s humiliation to a back corner of my mind.
The waiting room is typical—beige walls, uncomfortable chairs, months-old magazines that no one really reads. Usually, one of my friends would be here with me. It’s an unspoken pact among our group of five: whenever possible, we show up for each other’s appointments. The buddy system for chronicillness, offering support when the medical establishment so often fails to provide it.
But I forgot to mention today’s appointment to anyone, and after what happened to Devin this morning, I wasn’t about to pull focus from her situation.
Speaking of which...
I settle into one of the waiting room chairs and pull out my phone, typing out a quick text to Flick.
How is she doing?
While waiting for a response, I try to open my email, but the words swim meaninglessly on the screen. I can’t focus on anything. Devin’s health scare this morning, Elaine’s brutal scolding, the appointment I’m about to have—it all swirls together in my head like a nauseating carousel.
My phone buzzes with Flick’s reply, and I open it immediately:
Good. We’re at her place and she’s hydrating. How are you?
Such a simple question. One I’m not sure how to answer honestly.
Before I can formulate a response, the exam room door opens and a nurse in lavender scrubs calls my name. I grab my purse and follow her back, grateful for the interruption.
The routine is familiar—weight, blood pressure, temperature, the same questions about medications and symptoms I answer every time. Once she leaves me in the exam room, some of the morning’s tension finally starts to drain from my shoulders. I’ve been waiting weeks for this appointment, desperate for answers about why my flares have been lastinglonger, occurring more frequently. If there’s any bright spot in this disaster of a day, it’s getting answers.
Doctor Oakley arrives within minutes—a small miracle in itself—and I straighten in my seat on the exam table.
“Hi, Alexis.” He settles into his rolling chair. “Good to see you.”
“You, too.” I shift to the edge of the exam table, already uncomfortable from sitting, my mind automatically calculating how long it’s been since I last used the bathroom.
He clasps his hands over one knee, leaning back slightly. “So you’ve been experiencing longer flares, right?”
“Yes.” I nod emphatically. “And they’re happening more often, too. Sometimes I’m not even sure where the flares end and start. It’s like they bleed into each other.”
“Gotcha. That can happen as time goes by and the disease changes.”
“But could it be a fluke, too, right?” Hope creeps into my voice despite my efforts to sound neutral.
He hesitates, his brow furrowing slightly. “What do you mean by a fluke?”
