Page 78 of We Can Stay
My stomach drops. “Where’s Dr. Barnes?”
“She’s out sick today. Hopefully back in a few days.” Dr. Jackson settles onto the rolling stool, tablet in hand. “I’ll be handling her patients in the meantime.”
Shit. This is exactly what I didn’t want. Dr. Barnes knows me, knows my history, knows how I respond to different treatments. She listens when I tell her what doesn’t work. This stranger? She’s probably already decided what she thinks is best before even looking at my chart.
My breathing speeds up, and I force myself to inhale slowly through my nose. Maybe I’m jumping to conclusions. Just because she’s not my regular doctor doesn’t mean she won’t listen.
“So.” She swipes through screens on her tablet. “You’re halfway through the steroid course. How are you feeling?”
“The arthritis symptoms haven’t really changed.” My voice sounds small in the sterile room.
She nods without looking up. “That can happen. You’re only at the midpoint. Your inflammation markers are still elevated, unfortunately.”
The words hit like a physical blow. “So the steroids aren’t working?”
Part of me feels relief—I never wanted to take them anyway. But mostly I feel the crushing weight of disappointment. All these side effects, all this suffering, for nothing.
“Too early to say definitively. I want you to complete the full course.” She taps something on her screen. “I’m also prescribing an NSAID for when you begin tapering off.”
I straighten so fast the paper crinkles loudly beneath me. “NSAIDs don’t work for me.”
Her fingers pause on the tablet. When she looks up, there’s something in her expression—not quite annoyance, but close. The look of someone whose routine has been disrupted. My worst fear made real: a doctor who sees me as an inconvenience rather than a person.
“Can you explain what you mean by ‘don’t work’?”
The clinical detachment in her voice makes me want to scream. Instead, I list the symptoms like I’m reading a grocery list. “They destroy my stomach. I can’t eat, so I lose weight and have no energy. The nausea is constant, even if I force food down.”
“Are there medications to counteract those side effects?” Sebastian suddenly asks, his presence startling me. I’d almost forgotten he was here, I was so focused on this new doctor who clearly doesn’t care about my concerns.
“I don’t want more medications.” I turn to him, heat rising in my face. “I already take handfuls of pills every day.”
His forehead creases with confusion. “But if something could help with the side effects, wouldn’t that be worth trying?”
“Every medication has its own side effects.” My voice rises despite my efforts to stay calm. “So then you need another pill to manage those, and another to manage the problems from that one. It never ends.”
“But what if they work? What if you don’t have any side effects?”
Is he serious?
The urge to laugh battles with the need to cry. “Do the animals you treat take five different medications without any problems?”
“The side effects are worth it,” he says slowly, like he’s explaining something to a child.
Worth it according to whom? The animals who have no choice? Who can’t tell him when the cure is worse than the disease?
That’s exactly how I feel right now—like an animal everyone thinks they know better than. Everyone wants to muzzle me, force pills down my throat, make me a good patient who does what she’s told without question.
I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste copper. I want to run from this room, from this conversation, from everyone who thinks they know what’s best for my body better than I do.
Dr. Jackson clears her throat delicately. “If the NSAIDs cause unmanageable symptoms, call the office. We can get you in same-day and reassess.”
The weight on my shoulders doubles. I came here hoping for good news, for some sign that this nightmare might be ending. Instead, everything’s getting worse.
“There’s really no other option?” My voice comes out weak, defeated.
“Not at this time.”
Damn it. Of course not.
