Oh, was it finally my turn to talk? How kind of her. “Pretty ok, I guess?” I ventured, unsure exactly what criteria I was supposed to be using to evaluate that. “I tend to get nauseous right afterI take it, but other than that I feel…normal?” Not like I was carrying a deadly passenger, which in turn just feltwrong.
“Normal is good,” she returned with a smile. “And nausea is very common and is generally not a reason to change treatment if it’s manageable. I can write you a prescription for Zofran if the nausea gets to the point of being disruptive.” She paused, considering. “In fact, let me write that now. It doesn’t hurt to have on hand.”
The rest of the appointment was a blur. She talked at me endlessly, going on about side effects, dose frequency, viral load monitoring, and therapy.
Therapy?
Therapy.
Should’ve seen that coming, but I honestly hadn’t expected my, you know, physical doctor to give much thought to my mental health. Which, in retrospect, was probably silly, but in my defense, I really still wasn’t firing on all cylinders.
Anyway, we left the doctor’s office with two new prescriptions in my hand and Jamison chattering in my ear about finding me a therapist and a support group. Which, I mean, they weren’tbadideas, but I was exhausted just thinking about them, let alone trying to do them.
To be completely honest, I was exhausted trying to exist at this point. I felt like I was slogging through wet concrete every day. My googling had informed me that depression and shock were totally normal in my situation, which did exactly nothing to make me feel better about living it.
I was a mess, and the messier I got, the more determined to be helpful Jamison seemed to get.
“So I can call the group therapy coordinator for you,” Jamison was saying as we shut the car doors, “and get your intake there started. Researching therapists your insurance covers will be -”
Suddenly it was all too much. I couldn’t take how…bright he was. It burned me, and besides that, I felt like I was a cloud of gloom that was just going to obscure his light if he hung around me too long. “I think we should take a break,” I interrupted him abruptly.
There was a long moment of silence as we stared at each other, both obviously shocked at what had come out of my mouth; him, because obviously he hadn’t been part of my internal monologue, and me, because despite my internal monologue I hadn’t expected to say that out loud.
“What?” he finally said, eyes wide.
I swallowed. “I…I think we should take a break,” I said again, injecting a note of resolution into my voice that I didn’t actually feel. “This is just…too much.”
“Too much for you, or too much for me?”
I considered that. “Honestly, both? I’m overwhelmed -”
“- which is why I’m doing my best to help you accomplish -” he began, but I went on, talking over him.
“- and you’ve done nothing but take care of me for the past week, and Iknowyour work is suffering. And that’s not to mention everything else about your life, which you’ve also put on hold.”
His eyes widened. “Hen, I’m more than happy to -”
“But you shouldn’thaveto!” I burst out, startling him into jerking back. “I’m an adult, and I can - should - care for myself. And…” Should I say it? The words were pressing against my lips, fighting to come out, but I knew if I said them, this would get a hundred times worse.
They burst out anyway: “And I feel smothered. I need some time alone. Without you.”
Jamison drew in a sharp breath. “Hen…”
“I know that’s not your intention,” I attempted to soften the blow. “I know you’re trying to help. And you’vebeena help. But I just…I need to be alone.”
“Hen, I don’t think that’s a good choice to make,” he said, obviously attempting to steady the wobble in his voice to no avail.
I firmed my lips. “But it’smychoice. And I should get to make it, not you.” That scored a direct hit, and he seemed to draw into himself. Suddenly claustrophobic, I reached for the door handle. “I’m gonna take a walk or something. You go on; I’ll call an Uber.”
“Hen…”
I was scrambling out of the car before he could finish whatever he’d been about to say. “I just need some time,” I told him as I stood. “I’ll call you.”
“Hen, don’t go. I can -”
I didn’t slam the car door. I was careful to close it gently. I didn’t want him to think I was angry, because I wasn’t. Heartsore. Exhausted. Overwhelmed. All of those, but I wasn’t angry. At least not at him.
21
