Page 30 of We Can Stay
“Are you okay?” She cocks her head, studying me.
“Fine.” I work up a smile. “Just feeling kind of nervous about the most recent blood tests. I haven’t gotten the results yet.”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine. What are those tests for?”
My mind goes blank. It takes all my effort to get the wheels turning again, and once they doNot pericarditisis the only response rolling around in my head.
“Uh... inflammation markers. Making sure the meds are still working.”
A door to the exam areas opens. “Hannah?”
I almost sigh in relief. Saved in the nick of time.
Hannah picks up her bag. “Text me when you’re out? Let me know how it goes?”
I unstick my tongue from the roof of my mouth. “Of course.”
There’s little time to sit in my guilt, because my own nurse comes to call me back. For a few minutes, I’m lost in the distractions of weight and blood-pressure taking, and by the time I’m seated again and waiting for the doctor, I have a new perspective.
It’s very possible that the pericarditis is on its way out. Which means, soon, it won’t be affecting me anymore. And if it’s no longer affecting me, I don’t need to tell Hannah about it.
And why worry her anyway? She already has enough on her plate.
So, will it really be that bad if I tell her a white lie, like how this appointment is to have some new swelling in my fingers checked? Or will I be doing her and our friendship a disservice?
And—bonus—since the swelling doesn’t actually exist, I can tell Hannah it was temporary. There won’t be anything new about me for her to notice and nothing for her to mention to our friends.
It’s an intricate web I’ve woven; I’m aware of that. And yes, it makes me feel like shit.
But what else am I supposed to do?
There’s a knock on the door, and Dr. Barnes comes in.
“Hey, Flick.” She smiles warmly. “How are you? How’s the yarn-dyeing business going?”
“Great, thanks.” I sit straighter, trying to ignore the way my heart rate is picking up.
Dr. Barnes takes a seat on the rolling stool. “So. Your inflammation markers are still raised. How is the pain? Is it still at the same level?”
“Yes,” I bite out, hating that has to be my answer.
She nods sympathetically. “Okay, so with the two of these circumstances combined, it’s a sign that the colchicine hasn’t done the job that we hoped it would. I’d like to try steroids.”
I suck in a sharp breath. Damn it.
This is what I’ve been afraid of but was trying not to think too much about. Anytime I’ve taken steroids, I’ve had terrible reactions. The brain fog. The mood swings. The way I can’t remember which orders I’ve filled or what colors I was working with.
“O-kay. Um.” I choose my words carefully. “I’d like to put off trying steroids for now. They’ve always given me anxiety and depression, and it’s hard to remember things when I’m on them.”
And how can I live my life with those sorts of symptoms? It’s a catch-22. When I’m that depressed, I can’t motivate myself to do the things that manage my joint pain, like exercise. And my work inevitably ends up taking a hit as well.
And how am I supposed to keep paying for my expensive insurance when I can’t fulfill my yarn orders? The insurance that I need to afford health care in the first place!
It’s not fair. Things are just starting to take off for me. My Twitch and YouTube followings are growing, and I have booths at three yarn conferences over the next two months. Everythingis exploding, and this is the worst possible time for this to happen.
Taking a deep breath, I steady myself. “Is there anything else we can try?”
The look on her face isn’t a hopeful one. “The only other options available would be third-line treatments, like azathioprine.”
