“Huh.” Ally looks skeptical. “You just stopped liking coffee?”
“Actually, I have a tremor.”
TWENTY-ONE
DREW
I hadn’t planned to tell Ally about the tremor, but the words tumbled out anyway. It’s the first time I’ve said it out loud.
Ally frowns. “No, you don’t. I’m pretty sure I’d have noticed if you had a tremor.”
I could kiss her for saying that. I mean, I could kiss her anytime, but the urge is particularly strong right now.
“It doesn’t happen often, and it’s never severe or anything,” I explain. “Just sometimes if I haven’t slept well, or before a big operation. Never during the surgery. But I figured caffeine probably wasn’t helping, so I gave up coffee.”
Ally’s still frowning. “But that kind of thing’s normal, isn’t it? Back when I played tennis, I’d sometimes feel shaky before a big match, especially if I hadn’t slept properly. And sometimes I’d get sweaty, even before I started to play. It’s a stress response.”
“But I’m not stressed,” I say reflexively. I set the tennis bag on the floor and sit at the kitchen table.
Ally sits opposite me and raises an eyebrow. “Because neurosurgery is never stressful?”
I open my mouth to deny it again, then realize I don’t want to. Because of all the possible causes of this fucking tremor, a stress response is the one that’s least likely to be career ending.
I got the results of last month’s lab tests, and everything’s pristine. I don’t have hyperthyroidism or vitamin B12 deficiency. My kidneys and liver are functioning well. So after that, what’s left? There are a couple other hormonal causes of tremor that internists get excited about, but no one ever actually has them.
So what’s left is an essential tremor, which could still end my career if it gets any worse. And after that comes a very depressing list of neurological problems. Parkinson’s. Multiple sclerosis. Brain tumor. ALS. And a bunch of other bad things, most of which don’t have great treatment options.
I think that deep down, I’ve always known this. I haven’t wanted to admit I’m stressed, but I also haven’t wanted to consider the possibility that there’s another cause of this tremor.
“You really think it could be a stress response?” I ask Ally cautiously.
She looks surprised. “You’re asking me?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I’m not a doctor, Drew, but that’s what it sounds like to me. Like I said, I’ve never noticed it, so it can’t be that bad. When did it start?”
“Maybe a year ago.”
She nods thoughtfully. “And do you think it’s gotten worse, or stayed the same? Or gotten better?”
“Not worse,” I say quickly. I’ve been hanging on to that too, because something bad, like a brain tumor, would have gotten worse.
“Well, that’s good, right?” Ally asks. “Because if it was something other than a stress response, it would probably have gotten worse. Right?”
God. I could kiss her again. I don’t know what it says about me, that my mind is going there during a conversation about my fucking tremor.
But Ally’s skin is still a little flushed from the tennis and the walk in the sun. Her stretchy blue top isn’t skin tight, but I can see the outline of her bra straps and the curves of her breasts.
“Yeah, something else would probably have gotten worse,” I agree.
“Have you seen a doctor about it?” Ally asks.
I hesitate, and Ally answers her own question. “You haven’t, have you?”
“Not exactly. I went for a check-up, though, and he didn’t notice anything wrong. Except my blood pressure was borderline high.”
Ally’s brow furrows. “You were serious about that?”
