Chapter 10
brOOKE
Other than work, I stayed in bed for the next week after Cade’s phone call. Was I right that we needed to keep the past in the past? My heart thumped in confusion.
I canceled my Thursday date with Brock, telling him I was sick. I guess I was, in a way. He brought by some kind of fancy soup and my weekly roses.
Brock told me his sister wanted to reach out to set up an appointment for wedding dress shopping, but I put him off for now.
I knew most women in my position wouldn’t be able to wait to have that Say-Yes moment in the perfect white dress, but in my current state of mind, I couldn’t motivate myself to want to go.
Rather than being an exciting experience, the idea of wedding dress shopping made me think of itchy fabrics against my skin and my joints locking up from trying on dress after dress.
I was definitely in a funk.
I even told Whit I wasn’t up for any movie marathons, and by the third attempt, she stopped asking.
These emotional slumps had gotten more common for me over the last couple years. I knew logically, I had a pretty good life—good job, great best friend, safe home to live in. But no matter how much I told myself that, sometimes only the negative thoughts made their way in.
My RA was often at the forefront of my mind during these times. I was sick—and it was a kind of sick that wouldn’t be going away. That was heavy news for me to receive at the tender age of 19.
It wasn’t a death sentence—it wasn’t incurable cancer.
But it still sucked.
And it still changed so many things from me, from my daily routine, to my plans for the future, to how I viewed my body. I mourned my lost athleticism—what I wouldn’t give to even have an ounce of the daily energy I had in high school.
The flare days were the hardest. With proper medication, I usually only had them once or twice a month, but on those days, I felt like my legs were made of stone. The simple act of getting out of bed or taking a shower could zap my energy for the entire day—seriously.
On flare days, my joints felt aflame, my wrists and feet would swell, and sometimes it felt like I was being stabbed with a thousand tiny ice picks. My joints would get so inflamed that I couldn’t even find the relief of the “pop” they’d usually make.
I was more exhausted than when I had the flu, yet outwardly I seemed fine, without any traditional “sickness” symptoms to the untrained eye. It was unbelievably frustrating.
The silver lining was that now that I had worked at the same hospital for over a year, I qualified for FMLA, and my sick days due to flares couldn’t lead to my job termination.
Still, these are the kinds of things I had to think about as a chronically ill person—probably not exactly an average 23 year-old’s biggest worries.
I also worried for what was in store for me in the future. I could barely handle more than my day-to-day routine, and I was only 23.
Would it get worse? Would I have to quit nursing, a job that I loved? Would I eventually lose my independence? Would I age prematurely?
I was a nurse—I knew RA could lead to heart, lung, even eye problems.
My future was full of scary unknowns.
It was enough to send even the strongest mind into a spiral.
And once the spiral started, even more negative thoughts filtered in.
I barely talked to my mom.
I didn’t talk to my dad at all.
The world around me felt dark, and unhappy. Shootings on the news, crime rate statistics, foreign nations at war.
And now I’d lost Cade. Again.
Cut him out of my life for fear he’d once again disappear on me. I didn’t think my heart could recover from that hopelessly bereft feeling a second time.
My only source of comfort was Maple. She sensed my pain, and she stayed faithfully curled up by my side or at my feet.
She’d fetch me a box of tissues, a plastic bottle of water, or my medicine.
I lost count of the hours I spent crying into her soft coppery fur, mumbling to her about my confusion and heartache.
She was the lighthouse in my storm of emotions.
I tried for days to sort through my feelings. I’d felt electricity with Cade, but wasn’t that scary in its own way? And hadn’t he taken off on me once already?
Brock was steady. Safe. He was a doctor—if anyone could take care of me, surely it was him?
But would I ever let him?
Did I even trust him to take care of me?
I anxiously twirled my too-big ring around my finger. I still needed to get it resized. Just another thing on my never-ending to-do list.
After a week of my moping, Whit stopped me in the hall.
“Enough. Talk to me.” Her tone was firm, but not harsh.
She stared into my eyes, which I knew from my quick glances in the bathroom mirror had purple bags beneath them from lack of sleep.
I had no idea when I’d last brushed my hair.
I had a blanket cape wrapped around my arms, creating a cocoon of protection.
I don’t know when I’d last eaten a proper meal, subsiding instead on spoons of peanut butter, carrot sticks, and crackers with cheese.
My nightstand was littered with plastic water bottles.
I sighed, forcing myself to talk. “I don’t know what’s going on.
I’m just . . . I’m tired of faking it, Whit.
Putting on this facade of being this put-together, happy person.
” I met her eyes again, and I saw her silent encouragement to go on.
“I go to work, and I’m cheerful nurse Brooke.
I go out with Brock, and I’m dutiful girlfriend Brooke.
Everywhere I go, I’m happy. Except I’m just . . . not.”
She stared at me a moment. “Do you want to talk to someone? Get some perspective?”
I looked up at my friend in surprise. She was the ultimate introvert, and independent almost to a fault. So Whit suggesting talking it out—with a professional? I must look worse than I thought.
“A therapist?” I asked, my hesitation bleeding through. “Do I really seem that messed up?”
“A licensed counselor, at least. Look . . . I’m here for you, babe. Always. I’ve got your back. You need to fuck someone up? We ride at dawn. You need a body buried? I’ll grab a shovel. But I don’t think this is my level. And it isn’t about being ‘messed up.’”
I gave her a disbelieving look.
“Think about it this way,” she continued.
“You get a paper cut, I’ll grab you a Band-aid.
But if you break your arm? I’m taking you to the hospital.
To the professionals. The same applies here.
I think you need—and deserve—more here. More than I can give you.
You haven’t really been yourself for months, and now you’ve practically been a hermit since you got back from Vermont.
I think going back really dredged up some shit for you.
The Cade stuff, sure, but it seems like more than that, too.
Maybe unresolved childhood issues. And I think you need to talk to somebody who can really help. There’s no shame in that.”
I embraced her in a firm hug. I was damn lucky to have a friend like Whit, someone to cut through the bullshit and find a way to get me what I needed.
“Do you have someone in mind?” I asked her.
She met my eyes, hers shining with fierce determination. “I’ll find someone for you. I’ll get on it right away. I love you, Brooke.”
“Love you too, Whit.”
The counselor had an office in the building adjacent to our hospital. Bless Whit for realizing that driving to an unfamiliar location might be daunting enough to give me an excuse not to follow through.
I sat nervously in the waiting room, picking up and putting down several glossy magazines, glancing at pages but not really seeing the content. On my left I noted two doors that presumably led to offices.
The light above one door went off, and out walked a middle-aged woman with light red hair streaked in gray, cut in a medium length.
Her hair had a random waviness to it, like she didn’t try to tame it into any certain style.
She had a pair of glasses on one of those beaded chains around her neck.
With the smile crinkles around her eyes, she somehow reminded me of a librarian from a fairy tale, gentle but wise.
The man leaving her office had his head down, and we didn’t make eye contact. I’d never been to counseling, but anonymity kind of felt like the name of the game.
“Brooke?” The woman smiled up at me. She had clear gray-green eyes. She was probably around 50—she could’ve easily been a mom of one of my friends growing up. She gave off that middle-age-Mom energy, too. “Come on back.”
I entered the office space, which had low lighting and drew me in like a soothing retreat. She had folders and papers stacked on her desk, cluttered but not overwhelmingly so. The whole space had a very lived-in feeling. It felt more like walking into someone’s living room than an office space.
“Where should I sit?” I asked, noticing several different seating options.
“Wherever you’re comfortable,” she indicated with a hand.
I took a seat in the center of the surprisingly comfortable plush couch. A clock ticked on the wall above us. Along the walls were numerous bookshelves filled to the brim with books.
“So Brooke,” she began, “What brings you in today?”
“Doctor . . .” I froze. Had I really just forgotten this woman's name? That’s an embarrassing start, I chastised myself. Can you fail therapy? If so, I’m well on my way.
She smiled understandingly. “It’s actually Mrs., or Ms. if you prefer. Moore. But you can call me Cheryl.”
“Cheryl,” I tested the name out, relieved she wasn’t tallying my missteps.
“I’m here—well, my roommate suggested it, actually.
I’ve been—depressed, I guess? Can’t get out of bed, not interested in socializing, food all tastes the same—all the classic symptoms.” I tried to keep my tone matter-of-fact, like I would as a nurse with a patient.
Again the understanding smile. “We don’t need to do official labels and diagnoses here,” she replied. “We’re just here to talk.”