Page 61 of We Can Do
“The longer, more constant flares might be temporary.”
“Ah. Well.” His lips twist in that way doctors have when they’re about to deliver news you don’t want to hear. “More often than not, no, that’s not the case. Unless we’re able to identify a reason the flares have become more consistent and then treat from the source. You’re a food writer, right?”
“Yes,” I say slowly, not liking where this is heading.
“Have you gone on an elimination diet recently?”
“I—I did a few years ago. I tried eliminating everything. I was just eating rice for weeks. Nothing helped. I don’t have any food triggers.”
“Food triggers can change over time. Considering your recent uptick in flares, it’s quite possible that you’ve developed a sensitivity that you didn’t have a few years ago.”
My shoulders slump forward. “Oh.”
An elimination diet. Now. The implications crash over me in waves. How can I possibly review restaurants when I can’t eat half the menu? How can I do my job when I’m limited to rice and carefully selected proteins?
The answer is simple and devastating: I can’t. If I tell Elaine I need to go on an elimination diet, she’ll probably fire me on the spot. Strike two, game over.
“That’ll be hard for me to do right now.” I hate how my voice shakes, betraying the emotion I’m trying to suppress. “Is there a change we can make in medications? Something new I can try?”
“As of right now, no. You’re on the most effective medication for this condition. If it’s not doing the job, we need to consider other treatments. If you can’t do the elimination diet right now, I suggest doing it as soon as you can. Hopefully that will allow us to identify the triggers.”
“And if we can’t identify the triggers?”
“Then we do another cystoscopy to see how inflamed your bladder is. Some options from there are Botox or bladder installation.”
Bladder installation. The words hang in the air like a threat. I’ve researched it, of course. A catheter threaded through my urethra into my bladder, medication injected directly into the organ. Not just once, but regularly. Possibly for the rest of my life.
“Do you have any questions?” Doctor Oakley asks. His tone is kind, professional, but I feel tears threatening again.
“No,” I manage to croak out. “Thank you.”
He nods, standing with the same practiced ease. “Let me know if you have any further questions, all right? Take care.”
“You, too,” I murmur to his retreating back.
It’s a repeat performance of my exit from Elaine’s office. I can’t get out of the medical building fast enough, my legs carrying me to my car on autopilot. But this time, once I’m safely enclosed in my vehicle, there’s no holding back the tears.
They come in waves—hot, silent tears that stream down my face as I sit in the parking lot. The self-pity is overwhelming, and I hate myself for feeling it, which only makes me cry harder. It’s a vicious cycle of emotion and self-recrimination.
The truth is inescapable. I can’t start an elimination diet until I have a new job. But what if Noah’s publishing house doesn’t hire me? I’ll have to search for another editing position, and those opportunities are scarce, competitive, often requiring connections I don’t have.
Meanwhile, I have to live with this pain. Accept the unpredictable flares that ambush me at the worst moments. Endure the uncomfortable sitting that makes every meeting agony. Rotate the hot and cold packs twice a day like some kind of medical ritual. And worst of all—the inability to have normal sex.
That last thought is the real gut punch. Noah has been nothing but understanding about my limitations in the bedroom, but I hate it. Hate that I can’t give him what he deserves, what any man would expect from a relationship. I hate it for myself too. I want to experience physical intimacy the way most people can, freely and without consequence. Instead, I’m navigating this minefield of pain every single day.
My phone beeps from inside my purse, interrupting my pity party. I wipe my face with a tissue from the glove compartment and pull out the phone. Noah’s name on the screen makes my heart do that familiar flip, and I open his text immediately.
How did the doctor’s appointment go?
I nibble my bottom lip, considering how to respond. There’s no point in lying or sugar-coating it. He deserves honesty.
It was rough. Just like this whole day so far.
His response comes quickly.
I’m so sorry. I wanted to ask you to dinner tonight, but we can raincheck.
My fingers fly across the screen.
