Oh. My concern lessens. Not that cramps aren’t bad, but at least it’s something she’s survived for years, not a threat of imminent death. “How bad are they?”
She seems surprised by my question, then the pain distracts her. “Not that bad. It’s like a four.”
A four out of ten, yet she can barely walk. If my history with my mom and aunts has shown me anything, a four for them would be an eight for me. “Lie down. Let me make you some tea or something.”
Beneath the pained slant of her brows, she refuses again. “You don’t have to do that. Seriously. This is nothing compared to what I used to go through.”
“You’re in pain. Let me help. What do you need?”
She assesses me, her expression somewhere between bewilderment and suspicion. “Heat. That helps best. I have a heating pad in that drawer.” She points.
“On it.” I find it, unfurl it, then plug it in. She watches me with a look of surprise while I lay it down, letting her roll onto her stomach on top of it. “Is that okay? Enough heat?”
“It’s perfect. Thank you.”
“Do you need heat on your back too?” I ask.
Her look of bewilderment returns. “Are you from this planet?”
“Huh?”
“You never cease to surprise me, that’s all.”
“So, the back or . . . ?”
“Yes. The back too.”
There’s an electric blanket tucked in the dresser in my room. I’m sure this old building gets as drafty in the winter as it has been humid this week. A quick read of the instructions verifies it’s safe for my plan. I fold it over into a strip, hoping to concentrate the heat only on the area she needs.
She watches me the whole time as if waiting for me to sprout a second head. I do what I’ve been trained to do, tucking her in to add pressure, leaving her arms exposed to keep her from overheating. I flip on the little fan sitting on her nightstand. She sighs with relief.
“How’s that?”
“This is amazing,” she says.
“Good. Did you take any meds?”
“Yes. Not that they help much. I have endometriosis.”
Though my scientific knowledge doesn’t extend far into biology, I’ve heard of that. The long word to describe extremely painful uterus shit no one should have to endure. “I’m sorry. I’ve heard that’s terrible.”
“It’s definitely not a vibe.” She chuckles, her brow pinching again. “If you can imagine, this iswaybetter than it was before surgery.”
“You had surgery?”
“Almost four years ago. But that was after a decade of seeing doctors who all said I was ‘just sensitive’ until one agreed to cut me open and found my insides all covered in uterus.”
Only Bri can make jokes about being neglected by the medical system. “Can I do anything else to make it better?”
“I’ll be fine in a minute.”
Here I was worried about hurting her when I told her about seeing David, and she was here hurting already. This is not the time to mention it. Careful not to jostle her, I climb into the bed, lying beside her, sharing the breeze from her fan.
“You’re going to lie here with me?”
“Yeah, why not? I figured I’d distract you from the pain. Unless you want me to leave.”
“No, stay. It’s just that I’ve never known a man who is so fine with talking about cramps.”
