9. The Human Equivalent of a Stress Ball
The Human Equivalent of a Stress Ball
Josie
“So, you’ve never had a reaction like this before?” the doctor asks, lifting my arm by the wrist and shaking it.
“Take a picture; it’ll last longer,” I mutter through swollen lips.
Given the way Dr. Charlie’s eyes light up, he must not realize I’m joking. I’m pretty sure if it didn’t violate a million HIPAA laws, he would have already taken a video.
And I get it.
The way my arm—now filled with a layer of fluid—jiggles long after he stops shaking it is an awesome sight. Not awesome in the popular usage of the word but the biblical sense.
Awesome like a plague of locusts.
Not exactly eager to become a viral video or, worse, a meme that might have a longer shelf life, I hold up a swollen hand. “Kidding. No flash photography, please.”
Dr. Charlie’s face falls, and he gives my arm another small shake, like he can’t help himself.
Truly, my body’s reaction to poison oak is one of the most disgusting, and therefore fascinating, things I’ve seen.
You’d think an ER doctor would have examined much worse, but Dr. Charlie has spent far longer than necessary with me.
I should consider charging him for admission at this point.
When I asked if this reaction was typical, he gave me an emphatic and way too excited no. Good to know I’m a complete freak of nature.
“To answer your question, I’ve never had a run-in with poison oak before,” I tell him.
My words are understandable but mu?ed, what with the swelling in my lips, tongue, and throat. It’s gone down significantly since they gave me a shot of corticosteroids a few hours ago. But I still look completely freakish.
My throat closing up was actually frightening. The strange tingling sensation in my hands and mouth that I noticed on the drive turned into massive swelling. To the point where I was struggling to breathe and starting to panic by the time I pulled up in front of the ER.
Should I still have been operating a motor vehicle? Probably not. But swollen beggars can’t be choosers, and thankfully, the hospital was only about fifteen minutes away.
Wyatt was so concerned—probably that Jacob would blame him for my untimely demise—that he yanked his crutches from the back and hobbled inside the hospital shouting before I could even get out of the car.
And then he passed out on the floor.
The two of us make quite a pair.
I don’t know who parked Wyatt’s car. I don’t know where Wyatt went after we were separated in triage or what’s wrong with him.
I only know that it’s been a few hours, and I’m able to breathe normally again.
The swelling in my lips is starting to go down, at least according to the selfies I took before and after the steroids kicked in.
I currently look more like someone who’s had a normal amount of lip filler versus one of those plastic-surgery-gone-wrong people. Or a monster in a horror flick.
Now, if only the fluid in my arms and legs would dissipate.
I wonder where Wyatt is now. How he is now.
If his fever is some kind of virus or somehow related to his injury.
The worry I feel is a lot gentler than it was before—the kind you have for a friend or someone you actually like.
Probably a remnant of his fever-sweet moments with me in the car.
When he was in his Dwight concussion era.
“I’ve heard of reactions like this, but I’ve never seen anything close,” Dr. Charlie says. I think it’s about the fourth time he’s said something similar. “You have no allergies to any other foods? Nothing?”
“Nope. Not to pets or peanut butter or even poison ivy.”
My mom had me run through a series of allergy tests after one of my classmates had a severe reaction to the eggs in another student’s birthday cupcakes. I think we were all traumatized seeing an ambulance driving Matthew away from the school.
The rest of the year, birthdays were celebrated without food.
But I guess the doctor glossed right over the poison oak allergy test. Or maybe it’s a new allergy? I’ve heard of them developing or worsening over time.
“Is there anyone you need to call?” Dr. Charlie asks. He’s no longer touching me, but I swear, he’s looking at my arm like he’s tempted to shake it again. “Anyone who can drive you home?”
I decide not to explain the Wyatt situation. “Um, no. But I should be fine to drive. I’m uncomfortable, but I can move.”
I lift my arms to demonstrate, but that makes the fluid jiggle again.
Dr. Charlie’s expression is almost hungry.
I briefly consider pressing the call button.
But I’m not sure what I’d say to a nurse who came— Help, I’m afraid the doctor might kidnap me and lock me in his basement so he can study me like some kind of experiment ?
Nope. I’ll just get through this, find Wyatt, and get us out of here.
“Let me check one more thing,” the doctor mutters distractedly, lifting my arm by the wrist.
Maybe I should have pushed the call button.
Dr. Charlie jiggles me again. I can almost hear his interior monologue, which I imagine like a narrator from one of those National Geographic shows. In my mind the narrator is also British, though Dr. Charlie has a light Southern lilt.
Fascinating! my inner doctor monologue opines. Despite the steroids, the patient retains so much subcutaneous fluid she appears to be filled with Jell-O. When fingertips press into the dermis, for a few seconds the indentation will remain and—
“Would you mind not poking me?” I ask. I’ve finally met my limit of prodding. Jiggling. Being stared at like a freak of nature.
Though physical touch is my love language in theory, actual touch is also...complicated. Because I don’t always feel comfortable being touched. Especially not by people I barely know, doctors included. But this also hurts , what with my skin stretched and taut to accommodate all the fluid.
Dr. Charlie drops his hand but doesn’t move away.
“I’m starting to feel like the human equivalent of a stress ball,” I tell him. Not that I owe him an explanation.
His eyes light up. “Yes! That’s exactly the description I was looking for.”
Maybe my made-up monologue for him wasn’t so far off.
I do agree it’s strangely satisfying to watch my skin slowly get its shape back where Dr. Charlie has been poking me. But his fascination seems a little over the top. Maybe unprofessional is the vibe here.
Dr. Charlie still hovers by my paper-covered bed. I stand up, but the doctor has me hemmed in. There’s no chance of running either, because even the bottoms of my feet are swollen.
“So, am I free to go?” I ask. “I’ll just pick up the prescription and drink lots of water.”
“And stay out of the bushes and away from poison oak,” Dr. Charlie adds, shaking his finger and smiling, like this is an actual joke and not a new life rule I’ll never forget.
He told me earlier that future reactions could be more severe, and I don’t want to find out how much extra fluid it would take for me to burst like an overfull water balloon.
“No worries. I have no plans to go anywhere near nature for a long time.” I wave my hand, flinching at how tight my skin feels.
Each of my fingers is like a small, overstuffed sausage.
I’m not sure I could even hold a pen at this point.
Can I even hold the steering wheel to drive? I guess we’ll see.
First order of business will be finding Wyatt.
He appears in the doorway like some kind of specter I’ve summoned with my thoughts.
A specter who looks decidedly less feverish, crutches under his arms and leaning against the doorframe.
I’m relieved but also distinctly uncomfortable as Wyatt’s gaze falls on me.
And then on Dr. Charlie, who is still standing closer than I’d like.
The heat in Wyatt’s eyes could incinerate whole villages.
Or, at the least, incinerate doctors with a bad bedside manner.
“Are you ready to go?” Wyatt’s voice slices through the moment like a scalpel.
I want to be irritated by his intrusion.
He could be interrupting a real love connection, hospital-style.
For all he knows, Dr. Charlie caught feelings while examining my throat with the tongue depressor my students use for crafts.
Uvulas are an underrated feature, and maybe mine is dead sexy.
Dr. Charlie took one look, and he was a goner.
But that’s not the case, and I’m beyond grateful for the interruption.
Wyatt crosses the small room to stand beside me. Even injured and leaning on crutches, he exudes a pure masculinity that practically cloaks the room in a testosterone fog. It’s a fog I’d happily get lost in right now.
Especially paired with his dark, threatening stare, aimed at Dr. Charlie, who edges toward the door. “I’ll send a nurse back with your prescription,” the doctor says. And with one last longing glance at my swollen arms, he’s gone.
I expect Wyatt to step back now that the doctor is gone, but he doesn’t.
“What’s your diagnosis? Or...prognosis?” I ask Wyatt.
“I’m a little closer to death every day,” he deadpans. “How about you? You look”—he scans me quickly, frowning as he does—“better?”
“Thanks.” I laugh and shake my head. “I told Dr. Charlie I look like a human stress ball.” Wyatt’s frown deepens, so I quickly continue. “But really—what did the doctor say? Unlike me, you do actually look better.”
“Would you believe an ear infection?”
I stare at him. I’m relieved it doesn’t have to do with his injury and isn’t something contagious. But...really? “An ear infection? What are you—five?”
He ignores this.
“They gave me some ibuprofen and a prescription. I’m as good as new. Now, let’s get out of here.”
“Can I talk to your doctor first? Or your physical therapist? Both, preferably. Do they work out of this hospital?”
“No” is all he gives me.
A nurse pokes her head in the door, sees Wyatt, and walks right in. She’s pretty and young and smiling up at him. I’m not sure she even sees me.
“You ran off without your discharge papers,” she says, a note of playful scolding in her voice. I can almost hear how much she wants to add, And without my number.
I reach around Wyatt to snatch the papers from her hand. “Thank you.”
Startled, she glances at me. Then does a double take, her jaw popping open before she snaps it closed.
Right—because I look like someone injected me with gelatin.
“Do you need anything else?” I ask, meeting her gaze head-on until she starts to back away. With one last glance at Wyatt, who’s watching me, she slinks back through the doorway.
“What was that ?” he asks, an amused expression on his face.
“I was just trying to scare her off before you called the cops on her for trespassing,” I tell him, and his eyes narrow. “Since you seem to be in the habit of doing that to women who come near you.”
I start to scan Wyatt’s discharge papers, and he tries to snatch them from me. “Hey! Let me do my job.”
“It’s not your job.”
“It is since I agreed to let Jacob hire me as your...” I search for the right word. Nurse sounds somehow like an innuendo. Babysitter would just be rude, though not so far off. “As your wrangler. Officially.”
Wyatt manages—even with crutches—to corner me between the hospital bed and the wall. His fever may be down, but I feel the heat of his body pressing against me like a brand. I yank the papers behind my back as he reaches for them.
“Josie,” he growls. “You know you’re breaking privacy laws right now. Give me my papers.”
I try to sidestep and he sticks one crutch out, blocking me, swaying a little as he readjusts his weight.
“Your agent has authorized me to help with your recovery,” I tell him, shifting the other way. But he steps even closer, until I’m arching backward over the hospital bed as he leans forward.
All this movement is reminding me of my current condition. My feet throb, and it hurts to hold my arm behind my back. Bending with my skin so tight and my body so filled with fluid is not ideal. Even my hand aches from clutching the paper.
But I am not about to give in.
“Josie,” Wyatt says again, a note of warning in his voice. His gray eyes narrow, the pupils darkening as he leans closer. “Give me the papers.”
“No.” It takes all my effort not to say, Make me .
But I’m not twelve, playing keep-away.
I’m an adult woman. Trying to help a very stubborn adult man.
We both just happen to be acting like children.
Dropping one crutch, Wyatt leans on the other and reaches around me with his other arm. We’re so close it’s almost like we’re embracing in an uncomfortable contortionist’s hug. Wyatt’s hand brushes mine, and he pries the paper from my sausage fingers.
“Oh,” a voice calls from the doorway. From around Wyatt’s shoulder I see Dr. Charlie, papers in hand, gaze sweeping over us, eyes narrowed in disapproval.
His presence in the room sends a shockwave of embarrassment through me because what are we doing? Wyatt and I never behave like this. With all the touching and the...wait—are we flirting?
Wyatt takes advantage of my momentary paralysis and grabs his papers. Then he takes mine from Dr. Charlie. I’ll say this— when he’s not feverish, Wyatt sure knows how to get around on his crutches.
Dr. Charlie hesitates in the doorway. “Would you mind if I check on the swelling one last time?”
Before I can politely decline, Wyatt maneuvers in front of me again and uses his crutch and his stormy glare as a blockade. “Yes,” he says. “We do mind.”