Page 31 of We Can Stay
I tense. “I tried that years ago. The side effects were also... I wasn’t myself. I was nauseous all the time, and...” I trail off, feeling like it’s pointless to go on.
No matter what I try, no matter what I do—this treatment, that treatment, no treatment at all—this condition will steal the life I had planned for myself. Every. Single. Time.
“I understand,” Dr. Barnes says. “And I know it’s hard to hear, but with chronic conditions, sometimes we have to make adjustments that we didn’t plan on. If you don’t take the treatments, the pericarditis could turn chronic itself and possibly require surgery.”
I chew on the inside of my cheek. Yes, I know all of this. I’ve researched this condition until my thumbs were sore from swiping. I understand how serious it can become. And it’s not that I’m against treatment.
I’m just angry. So angry that I want to cry. So angry that I want to throw my chair across the room. So angry that I want everyone to listen, to understand—while at the same time, I want them all to go away so I can put my head in the sand without judgment.
A long silence stretches on, while my doctor patiently watches me. I know she’s probably thinking about all the other patients she has to get to, though—patients who are eager to be treated, who aren’t going to push back against her recommendations like I am.
“I’ll take the steroid prescription,” I say.
Why does the statement feel like such a nail in the coffin? I can stop taking the steroids any time I want.
And then what?
Take the azathioprine, so I can be nauseous all day long?
Dr. Barnes nods. “Same pharmacy?”
“Yeah,” I answer with a dry mouth. “Thank you.”
My body feels numb as I walk out of the office and get into my car. I wish I had my best friend to talk to. Hannah would understand. She’d listen to me and let me vent my frustrations over everything. Then I have to remind myself that I’m lying to her and she doesn’t even know. Now I feel worse for an entirely different reason.
At the pharmacy, I’m on autopilot. I grab my prescription, walk to the snack aisle for a thirty-two-ounce can of Arnold Palmer and the biggest bag of barbecue chips they have—Family Size—then get back into my car to be that sad person eating their comfort junk food in a drugstore parking lot.
I sigh and lean my head on the steering wheel. Hannah comes to mind again. I need to text her like I said I would, but my mind is so overloaded, what would I even say?
Instead, when I pick up my phone, I end up on YouTube, watching a video of someone teaching double and triple crochet stitches. Seeing the crochet hooks moving calms my brain, and for the first time all afternoon, the tension in my shoulders relaxes.
And yet, things still aren’t right. Nothing is right when, at any moment, a flare or a bad reaction to medicine could undermine everything I’ve been working toward. I’m walking on this high wire, holding my breath with every step, trying to race to the other side before I fall.
Tears fill my eyes, and I blink them away. No. I won’t be the sad person eating junk food and crying in the parking lot. Despite my troubles, I do have some pride.
But the crochet videos, usually my biggest comfort, aren’t helping like they usually do. The more I think, the more tension comes back.
I could call Hannah and tell her the truth. Or I could call my grandma. But even though I’m closer to her than my parents, she also doesn’t know about the pericarditis.
It’s me. I’m the only one who knows. Well, me and my doctor.
And that suddenly makes me feel the loneliest I ever have.
Letting out a long breath, I pick my phone back up. There’s only one person I want to talk to right now.
It doesn’t make a lot of sense. We barely know each other, and there’s no way I’ll tell him about the pericarditis. So, it’s not like I’m calling him to spill everything.
I want his presence, though. His comfort. Just to see him, even.
The phone only rings once. “Hello?” Sebastian answers, his voice a soothing balm.
“Hey.” I hate how my own voice cracks. “Sorry I didn’t respond to your text earlier. Would you...would you like to come over to my place for dinner tonight?”
“I’d love to,” he says, and I swear I hear his smile.
“Awesome.” Already, I feel a little better.
Tonight, I won’t be someone struggling with chronic illness. I won’t be a woman racing against the clock, always trying to live out my full potential before my last day. I’ll just be a girl who likes a guy.
