BUUZZZZZZ.
A massage gun. I let out a huff of laughter. She moves the device to her left shoulder, her face relaxing as the motion eases her muscles.
“Try me,” I say.
Charlie raises her eyebrows in warning. “Eosinophilic fasciitis,” she says with the practiced pronunciation of someone who has had to explain this many times before.
“Gesundheit,” I respond, hoping a small stupid joke will lighten the mood. She gives me a pity laugh. I process this new information along with everything else I know about Charlie. “What does that mean?”
Charlie removes the massage gun from her shoulder and begins to explain. “The fascia is the layer between the skin and the muscle. My immune system attacks it like it’s an infection.”
I nod my head, following along, realizing this has to be the reason she quit running. This is why Oliver said she wanted a low-stress job.
“When it flares up,” she continues, “it’s like I have a sunburn on the inside of my skin. If I keep ignoring it, it can lead to my limbs not working altogether.” Her expression is blank as she delivers this explanation.
I wince at the thought of it. “Ouch.”
She resumes her massage gun and works on her right shoulder as she walks over to the couch. When she sits next to me, her sweet, fruity aroma surrounds me. I long to comfort her. My fingertips itch to caress her skin, to alleviate whatever stress she is feeling.
She pauses the massage gun. “You know that ache? That pain that comes after a great workout?”
“Mmm.” I nod and my hand reflexively reaches for my bicep, sore from yesterday’s lifting session.
“There’s nothing like it,” she says wistfully. “Or I thought there wasn’t. That soreness you wear like a badge of honor. The sign that your muscles are growing; you can feel them getting stronger.”
I wait for her to continue; I can tell she has more to say. In my line of work, listening is an asset, but Charlie isn’t a witness I’m trying to extract information from. She’s someone who deserves my patience and attention.
She lays the massage gun in her lap and sighs. “I had that burn, all the time. All over. Even when I hadn’t been particularly pushing it in the weight room. I thought it was a sign I was doing my job. I was pushing myself but in the wrong direction.”
The pain in her voice, the disappointment, is clear. “You couldn’t have known,” I remind her.
“That’s what scares me the most,” she snaps, and then she softens her tone. “That I didn’t know what was going on in my own body. That it betrayed me so completely. No one knew. The first three doctors assured me the ‘fainting,’ as they called it, wouldn’t happen again. I was a perfectly healthy athlete. But it wasn’t fainting. I was fully conscious, aware that my limbs had given out on me.”
I give into my instincts, ignoring the part of my brain telling me to refrain, that I should be professional. That I should keep my distance. Because Charlie is hurting in more than one way. I reach for her hand and she welcomes mine, interlacing our fingers. I give her a reassuring squeeze.You’re not alone.
“When they did more tests and more scans and finally learned that muscle pain was actually my body having an allergic reaction to itself, I stopped working out. Stopped eating anything inflammatory. Started one medicine, then another. The first morning when I woke up and the pain was gone was the morning I saw one of my former teammates win the gold in the steeplechase. I got my health back.” She says this as if it was the worst outcome. As if fighting for her health wasn’t the ultimate goal.
I realize why and finish her thought. “But it cost you your dream.”
I won’t say it aloud because this moment is about Charlie, but I picture myself in her shoes. If I had been forced to take a medical discharge from the navy before I was ready to separate. If I had been told to walk away, to give up on what I’d worked for. The frustration, the weight of the what-ifs must be infuriating.
“Yeah,” she says, and I give her hand another squeeze. I want to pull her to me, to wrap my arms round her. I promised myself after Copenhagen that I would keep my distance. Now I’m dangerously close to breaking my own rules.
Because I cannot and should not say what is on my mind, I switch back to practicalities.
“What does your doctor say?” I prop my free elbow on the side of the couch, getting comfortable. Still not removing my hand from hers.
“I have an appointment with who I hope will be my new rheumatologist next week. My doctor back home recommended him.”
“Could you do an online consultation with the old one?” I ask before realizing she probably already considered this.
She shakes her head. “This is the protocol we decided on. Once I got out of the last flare and we saw the damage the medicine did, we decided to manage with lifestyle and diet. There is no long-term medicine for this condition. The big-name autoimmune diseases have some, but often people have to switch out after a few years. My trigger for this condition is exercise-based. If I get into a flare, we decided I’d do a short round of steroids to reduce the inflammation and then discuss if it needs more monitoring.”
I’m starting to understand. “You’re hoping you’re better by the appointment next week?”
Charlie’s eyes open wide. “Yes!” She nods her head with emphasis. “I’m desperately hoping this muscle pain is the good kind. Not the bad kind. Because I need to be able to maintain muscle if I want quality of life now and into my golden years. It will just take longer and there will be some setbacks.”
This is heavy. I can’t imagine what the pressure of this must feel like. To have to question every action, every piece of food, to avoid losing her delicate grip on her health. I want to console her, though I’m not sure my preferred method would be appreciated at this moment. I chastise myself for thinking naughty thoughts when Charlie is in pain.
