“Hmm, tough crowd,” Nurse Holly muses, finally throwing in the towel on the lame jokes.
“It’s nothing personal,” I reassure her. “She’s… tough.”
Remi has always been aloof with strangers. She really only likes Lily and me.In that order.
The nurse is just about done checking all of Remi’s vitals and asking me the required medical history questions when she runs her light scope across my daughter’s eyes.
“Oh, wow.” Nurse Holly looks from her to me, and I know she’s taking in the bright blue of my irises. “Her eyes are—beautiful!” She leans in to get a closer look, and my jaw tightens, as it does anytime someonenotices.
“Green and?—”
“Brown,” I finish for her.
“They almost look black…” Nurse Holly muses, still marveling at Remi’s eyes. “I’ve never seen anything like it!”
“It’s a rare form of heterochromia,” I explain without trying to draw more attention to it.A beautiful little flaw.One half of each eye is a deep emerald green, the other half a dark brown, almost black, fractured clean down the middle. The colors are so dark that the differences are distinguishable only in direct light.
“Gorgeous,” the nurse says, remembering herself and straightening up. “Such a pretty girl!”She bops Remi lightly on the nose, and the glint of violence in my daughter’s eye is alittle too familiar.
“Open up.” Nurse Holly presses a popsicle stick down on Remi’s tongue, her fingertips unwittingly entering the danger zone. Remembering our last dentist appointment, I jump out of my seat, edging my way into Remi’s field of vision. Over Nurse Holly’s shoulder, I shoot my daughter a look promising retribution should she bite down on Nurse Holly’s finger.
The dark edges of Remi’s eyes sparkle when they meet mine, but the nurse withdraws her fingers without incident, and I let out a breath of relief before slowly sinking back into my seat.
“No attacks since the last injection?” she asks, picking up her laptop to type out a few notes.
“No. Her asthma has remained well-controlled.”
“That’s great news!”
It is. But the fact remains that Remi’s asthma attacks got so bad that now she has to get monthly injections to keep them under control. And to a four-year-old,that’s not so great.
The door opens, and Doctor Haven appears. “Hi Remi!” she says as she strolls in, a bright smile on her face, holding out her hand for a high five. My daughter eyes it with suspicion, distrustful of the doctor who’s repeatedly held her down and stabbed her with needles over the past few months.
Inching away from Doctor Haven, Remi slides off her chair, climbing into my lap. I wrap my arms protectively around her. She hates shots.
Seeing she’s been left hanging, Doctor Haven quickly whips her hand away. “Ope! Too slow!”
She turns her attention back to me. “I’m pleased to see the monthly injections are keeping Remi’s asthma symptoms at bay.”
I nod in agreement.
“She’s set to receive this month’s injection today, but before we do, I wanted to discuss with you a new treatment that’s recently become available.”
I sit up in my seat because anything’s got to be better thanshotsevery month. They also don’t always work, and we’re still frequent flyers in the ER.
Doctor Haven nods, resting her clipboard on her lap. “There’s a new drug on the market; recently FDA approved, the medical trials are incredibly promising with a much higher rate of prevention than her current medication. It does still require an injection, but yearly rather than monthly.”
The words hang in the air because, as amazing as it sounds, it sounds too good to be true. And the tightness around Doctor Haven’s eyes gives me pause.
“That sounds… incredible.”
“It is,” Doctor Haven says. “The attacks should be much more manageable, and there is much less risk should she choose to play sports.”
A fragile flicker of hope dares to light in my chest. Afraid to let it grow, I ask the question I know is about to bring the dream crashing down. “How much?”
Doctor Haven frowns. “It is expensive,” she warns. “Very expensive.” Remi’s doctor is already well-aware that we are cash-only patients with no health insurance to help offset the cost of the medications. Picking her clipboard back up, she reads off the number. “Let’s see, out-of-pocket, you’re looking at $10,700 per injection.”
Almost eleven grand? Fuck me.
