“Sounds like an offer I can’t refuse. Lead the way.”
Dad stands at the kitchen counter, picking blueberries off the fruit platter he set out. “Oh, Shelley, I forgot to tell you. The crew is coming to remove the sycamore out back next Tuesday. We had another arborist come out to look, but it can’t be saved. Too bad, really. I’ll miss looking out there and seeing that thing. Remember how you kids used to climb it? You spent hours in that tree.” He continues chewing as though he hasn’t just casually dropped a bomb on me.
My heart clenches, and I blink a few times in a failing effort to keep my eyes dry. It would be silly to cry over a tree, but it feels like I’m getting bad news about an old friend. I swallow down the unwelcome bubble of sadness and nod. “That’s terrible. I love that tree.”
“Well, then you better go out back and say your goodbyes, because I’m afraid it won’t be here the next time you come home.”
“I’ll make sure to get out there before I leave. And Dad? Can I borrow your car? I made plans to meet Jo Wilson at Cozy Kitchen in a little while.”
“Sure, kiddo. Maybe I can convince Jordan to throw a few darts with me in the basement while you’re gone.”
“I’d like that,” Jordan tells my dad before turning to me. “Have fun with your friend.”
“I will. We have a lot to talk about.” I wonder if he remembers Jo’s name from my voice memo. The way he nods and quickly takes a sip of orange juice rather than respond makes me think he probably does.
An hour later, I arrive at the restaurant to see Jo has already saved us a table. She waves me over and stands to give me a quick hug when I reach her.
“Shelley! How are you?” She’s cut her hair since the last time I saw her. It’s grazing her shoulders in a long bob.
“Hi, Jo. It’s been a while.”
“Way too long. What brought you back to Idaho?”
We take our seats across from each other as I explain, “Mike’s in the majors now, I don’t know if you heard. He had a game at the new stadium last night.”
“Oh, that’s amazing. Pass along my congratulations, will you?”
“Sure.” Not wanting to spend too much time talking about my brother, I turn the conversation to her. “Are you still running?”
“When I can find the time,” she says in the affirmative, and we spend a few minutes catching up as we both order the hot chocolate with whipped cream and get a mega muffin to split, just like the old days. It isn’t long before our server delivers our treats. Jo tells me about the Turkey Trot she ran on Thanksgiving alongside a few of our mutual acquaintances. I nibble at my half of the muffin slowly before I take a breath and brave asking the questions I really came to speak to her about.
“I saw your published article, speaking of congratulations being in order. I’m so excited about your work. I was hoping you might be able to offer some insight into my own…situation.” I glance down at the jeans currently doing their best to hide the traitor otherwise known as my vulva. “As it turns out, I’m one of the women you were talking about. I’ve seen a few doctors, and I’m trying some new meds. But do you have any general advice?”
Jo sets down the spoon she was using to scoop her whipped cream and reaches a hand across the table while she looks at me. “First, let me say you’re doing the right thing by talking about it. A lot of women struggle to find the courage to take that step, so kudos. It can be hard to say out loud.”
“No kidding.”
She goes on, “I’m sure the pros you’ve already seen have given you the best advice there is, which is to see if you can find pleasure in other aspects of the experience and take your mind off the idea of the climax being the end game.”
I sigh and nod. “Yeah, that seems to be everyone’s go-to answer.”
“That’s because it’s true. But I know it can be frustrating,” she admits.
“I’m also still on the same meds I’ve been taking since sophomore year. It’s a stimulant for ADHD. I can send you a photo of the label if it helps.”
“I’m not a medical doctor, so I don’t know that I’d be much help there.”
I wave her concern away with my hand. “I actually just had an appointment with my psychiatrist, and we’re going to lower the dose, then try something else if it doesn’t work. I was also offered an estrogen cream at the gynecologist, which I do think is helping. And we talked a little bit about a shot. Do you know anything about that? It seems really expensive, and I’m not sure I’m ready to go the needles up the hoo-ha route.”
Jo lets out a small laugh. “I can understand that. To be honest, I haven’t seen enough research yet to be able to form an opinion about the shots.”
“That’s the same thing my doctor said.” All these choices still have me confused.
“No matter which route you choose, don’t be afraid to speak up for yourself. As far as any of your doctors are concerned, it’s their literal job to help bodies function the way they should and make sure the right medication reaches the people who need it. That’s what you pay them for.”
She’s right. I know that, but it’s still mortifying and frustrating. And it’s hard to prioritize something that seems astrivial as getting myself more turned on. It’s not like I’m going to spontaneously combust if I can’t come, even if sometimes it feels like I might.
“Yeah, that’s true,” I concede, then I sigh again. “Other than adjusting my meds, I still don’t know what else I can do. I shouldn’t have bothered you with this. I’m sorry. It’s just been so hard. And I’m kind of seeing someone now, so I’m worried it could become a bigger problem.”
