I sit in the chair, knee bouncing uncontrollably as the seconds stretch too long. My bottom lip is already sore from where I’ve been worrying it between my teeth.
“What’s taking so long?” I mutter, staring at the closed door as though I can will it open.
Mercs chuckles softly and rests his hand over my knee, stilling the motion. His touch is warm and grounding. “It’s going to be fine,” he says quietly. “And even if it’s not fine, we deal with it… together.”
I nod, but my throat feels tight.
The door finally opens and Dr. Wakefield steps in, tall and composed, carrying a folder that suddenly looks far too significant. He moves to his desk and sits, setting the file down with careful deliberation.
“Good afternoon. How’s your day been?”
The words get stuck somewhere between my lungs and my mouth.
Mercs answers for me, “Nervous,” he says calmly. “We’re ready to hear what you’ve got.”
Dr. Wakefield offers a reassuring smile, then opens the folder. While the papers shuffle, the sound seems too loud in the quiet room.
“Okay,” he begins. “We do have your results. As suspected, you’re experiencing hypopituitarism, which is also known as pituitary insufficiency.”
The term hangs in the air, heavy and unfamiliar.
“Your pituitary gland isn’t producing adequate levels of certain hormones,” he continues. “That imbalance is causing the symptoms you’ve described.”
I swallow. “Is this something I had before?”
He shakes his head gently. “No, this developed as a result of the anoxic brain injury you suffered. It’s not entirely rare after trauma like that, but it isn’t common either.”
The reminder hits harder than the diagnosis.
Mercs’ fingers tighten around mine.
“So what does this mean?” I ask. “What happens now?”
Dr. Wakefield folds his hands together on the desk, leaning forward slightly. “If left untreated, symptoms can worsen.Muscle weakness, issues regulating body temperature, blood pressure irregularities, dry skin, and changes in weight.” He pauses.
My stomach tightens. “What else?” I press.
His expression softens, but he doesn’t look away. “Irregular menstrual cycles. Potential loss of body hair. Difficulty producing breast milk if you were to have a baby.”
My chest constricts.
“And…” he adds carefully. “There is a possibility of infertility.”
The word lands like a stone dropped into deep water.
I lean back in the chair, my eyes closing as I try to steady my breathing. Babies have always been part of my future. It was never a question. It was just… assumed.
Mercs’ hand tightens around mine, anchoring me.
“You said if untreated,” he says evenly. “So there is a treatment?”
The doctor nods. “Yes, hormone replacement therapy. There will be daily injections, similar to insulin administration, though these will be hormone-based.”
“Injections,” I repeat faintly. “And the infertility?” I ask, forcing the question through the lump in my throat.
He exhales slowly. “We won’t know until you begin trying to conceive. Some women respond very well to treatment. Others may require additional intervention. It varies.”
I nod, blinking back the sting in my eyes.
