The corners of her plum lips lift and she lowers the chart to her side. “Do you know what happened?”
I pause, sorting through the fog, trying to trace my memory back to the last thing I can remember.
“I passed out, I think.”
She nods, pulling a pen from the collar of her scrubs and clicking the light on. She shines it into one eye, then the other, the intense beam causing my stomach to swirl.
“Your mom mentioned you have Rheumatoid Arthritis,” she says.
I rub the side of my nose with my knuckles, only to realize my little gold septum hoop is gone. My hand drops back to the blanket.
“Yeah. Stage three,” I murmur. “But my doctor said with the new treatment plan, it looks like I might be heading back toward stage two.”
“I have your records here,” she gestures to the clipboard again, flipping through a few pages. “Your Methotrexate and Sulfasalazine dosage got increased in…”
“January. And I started physical therapy too.” My throat hurts with each word, but I press on. “I’m supposed to get surgery in a couple weeks.”
Pressing her glasses up the bridge of her beautifully broad nose, she asks, “Have you ever heard of pleurisy?”
I frown. It sounds familiar, probably something I read in a biology textbook. But whether it’s from passing out or just not paying enough attention in class, I can’t remember what it means. I shake my head.
“Pleurisy is inflammation of a lining in the chest,” Dr. Hughes explains. “Same idea as what happens in your knees or fingers. When it gets inflamed, fluid builds up, which is why you were struggling to breathe, and subsequently, lost consciousness. The chest tube’s there to drain it.”
My frown deepens. Frustration starts bubbling in my chest, which is a problem given that there’s ahole in it.I get what she’s saying. I just don’t understandwhy.
“But I was doing better,” I insist. “I was hurting less. I could move more. My morning stiffness wasn’t even that bad anymore.”
She nods. “That can happen. Some of the treatmentwashelping. But DMARDs can increase the risk of pleurisy. I thinkwhen your doctor upped the dose, your joints improved, but your chest started reacting.”
The monitor between us starts beeping faster.
“So what now?” I ask frustratedly. “I take the meds and get fluid in my chest, or I don’t, and my knees fuse?”
Dr. Hughes flashes me a sympathetic look. “There are other options,” she answers. “Plenty of them. First, we’ll take you off the DMARDs, if that’s what you want. There are newer biological treatments we can try. I’ll make sure you have everything you need to make whatever decision feels right to you. But right now, the most important thing is rest. Okay?”
Tears sting at the corners of my eyes, and a couple of them fall before I have a chance to blink them away. Not that it matters. I’m lying alone in a hospital bed with a tube in my chest, after doingeverythingright. I stopped practicing. I went to PT. I took the meds. I didall of it.
And still, here I am.
I don’t know if there’s ever going to be an end to this. I don’t know if I even care about “options.” Right now, I’m just tired. Too tired to pretend I have hope.
“Okay,” I whisper.
Dr. Hughes asks if I want her to stay for a bit. She seems like a good doctor, but right now, I can’t take another minute of being someone’s patient.
I just want my mom.
I want my bed.
I want Peyton.
Only a minute or so after Dr. Hughes leaves, my mom walks into the room, balancing a teal tray with what looks like a piece of cardboard draped in half-melted cheese. Her emerald eyes land on mine, and her whole face lights up.
“Hi, baby,” she coos.
The second she calls mebaby, I fall apart like one. She climbs into the bed beside me without a word, and for twenty minutes, she just holds me while I sob. Which only makes me more irritated, because the more I cry, the more my chest hurts.
When the tears finally dry, and the sad excuse of a slice of pizza has disappeared into my stomach, I come to a realization.
