I have another ultrasound in order to determine whether the cyst has gotten bigger since my hospital stay in Hawaii. Waiting on the results is excruciating, like standing at the edge of a cliff, teetering between hope and despair.
Dr. Thomas drops into his stool and rolls closer. “Good news, Ms. Greer. The cyst has not grown, so you won’t need surgery anytime soon.”
My shoulders deflate with relief. “Does that mean I don’t have endometriosis?”
“Well.” He stretches out the vowel. And just like that, the balloon of fear is inflated again. “Maybe you do, maybe you don’t.”
A frustrated scream gets stuck in my throat. “What do you mean,maybe?”Aren’t you a fucking doctor?
He explains that a laparoscopic procedure would determine whether I have endometriosis, but that the cyst isn’t big enough to warrant the procedure.
“Make that make sense.”
Bless him, this man is patient. “It’s okay to feel frustrated. I wish I could give you a more concrete answer. For now, if your symptoms get better while you’re on birth control, then it’s possible this is endometriosis.”
My heart aches with longing for my mom. I should have called her.
“What about having kids?” I ask, biting at my thumbnail. “My aunt wasn’t able to have any more after my cousin was born.”
With a sigh, the doctor adjusts his glasses. “There’s always a possibility, but we’ll cross that bridge if and when we need to.”
Annoyance flares, like sparks in my veins. I’m so sick of ambiguous answers.
I leave his office with a refill of my birth control and a zillion more questions.
After a quick trip to the pharmacy, I pop into a café, and while I’m waiting for my coffee, a familiar voice calls from a table behind me. “Millie?”
Turning, I search for the source, and when I find her, my stomach twists painfully. Sam is quite literally the last person I expected to run into. But that’s New York, I suppose. Millions of people, and yet we’re always bound to run into someone we know. Her hair has grown to just above her shoulders, with streaks of strawberry in it now. When she gives me a once-over, I’m instantly reminded of my weight gain. While my body dysmorphia will always be a back-seat driver, I haven’t let her control the radio in a while. Not since Ezra’s been worshippingme. But Sam hasn’t seen me since last November, and her face is etched with genuine shock.
“You look?—”
“Yup, different. I know.”
The barista calls my name, so I turn to pick up my to-go cup from the counter. When I spin again, Sam is still inspecting me.
“You look really pretty.”
With my heart in my throat, I study her face, looking for a lie, but I come up empty. “Oh. Thanks.”
“How are you?”
The café is busy, and when the barista calls another name, I’m forced to step closer. “I’m fine. You?” That may not be the total truth, but I’m not getting into anything deeper than surface level with this woman.
“I’ve been meaning to call you.”
The knot in my stomach tightens. “Oh?”
“Do you have a minute?” She motions at the open chair.
For a heartbeat, I waffle in indecision. She doesn’t deserve my time, but curiosity gets the best of me, and I take a seat across from her, deciding I’ll give her until I finish this coffee to say her piece.
She scans my body again, and I inwardly cringe at the scrutiny.
“You look tan. Have you been traveling?”
“Hawaii.”
“Oh, wow. I’ve always wanted to go there. How was it?”
