Chapter Nine
Ilona
The waiting room smells like disinfectant; it makes my nose wrinkle.
I sit in one of those generic beige chairs that populate every medical office in America, my knee bouncing with nervous energy I can’t seem to control.
The magazines on the glass table beside me are months old— issues of Better Homes & Gardens and Health that someone probably selected to project optimism and wellness. I don’t touch them.
My hands are clammy despite the aggressive air conditioning that makes me wish I’d brought a sweater. The fluorescent lights overhead cast everything in harsh, clinical tones that make my skin look gray and tired. Fitting, since that’s exactly how I feel.
Yesterday was a marathon of tests— blood draws that left my arm purple and tender, ultrasounds with cold gel and uncomfortable pressure, hormone panels that required fasting until I felt dizzy.
Each procedure carried its own small humiliation, its own reminder that my body has become something foreign and untrustworthy.
The worst part was the MRI. Forty-five minutes trapped in a metal tube while machinery thundered around me like artillery fire. I closed my eyes and tried to pretend I was somewhere else, but there’s no escaping the sound of your own body being dissected by technology.
What if it’s something serious?
The thought circles my brain like a vulture, refusing to land but never flying away.
What if it’s cancer?
What if it’s nothing and I’m just dramatic?
What if I waited too long?
I’ve been pushing these symptoms aside for months, telling myself they’d resolve on their own. Women deal with pain, my mother always said. It’s part of being female. But this goes beyond normal female experience— this feels like warfare conducted inside my own flesh.
“Ilona Shiradze?”
The nurse’s voice is soft, kind, nothing like the sharp efficiency I expected. She’s older, maybe sixty, with graying hair pulled back in a neat bun and scrubs decorated with tiny flowers. Her smile is genuine as she approaches.
“Dr. Khan is ready to see you now.”
My heart pounds as I stand, legs unsteady beneath me. The hallway stretches longer than it should, each step echoing off polished linoleum. Past exam rooms with closed doors, past medical equipment I can’t identify, toward answers I’m not sure I want to hear.
Dr. Khan’s consultation room is warmer than the waiting area— wood furniture instead of plastic, soft lighting instead of fluorescent harshness, actual artwork on the walls instead of motivational posters about wellness.
He’s younger than I expected, maybe early forties, with kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses and the sort of calm demeanor that probably cost him years of practice.
“Please, sit.” He gestures to a comfortable chair across from his desk, then settles into his own with my file spread before him. “I know waiting for results can be stressful, so I’ll get straight to the point.”
My mouth goes dry.
Here it comes.
“Ilona, your results indicate that you have endometriosis.”
I stare at him. Endometriosis. I’ve heard it before, of course— whispered conversations between women, medical articles I’ve skimmed and forgotten. But hearing it applied to my body, my future, my life, makes everything else fade to static.
“It’s a chronic condition where tissue similar to the lining of your uterus grows in other areas of your pelvis,” Dr. Khan continues, his voice steady and professional. “This explains the pain you’ve been experiencing, the irregular cycles, the discomfort during intercourse.”
I hear the words, but they feel like they’re coming from underwater. Chronic. That means forever. That means this pain isn’t temporary, isn’t something I can push through and overcome with determination.
“Is it…?” I clear my throat, try again. “Is it treatable?”
“Absolutely. We have several options— hormonal therapy to slow the progression, pain management strategies, surgical intervention if necessary. Many women with endometriosis live full, normal lives.”
Normal.
What’s normal about taking medication forever? What’s normal about surgeries and treatments and managing a condition that turns your own body against you?
“What about…?” The question sticks in my throat like glass. “What about having children?”
Dr. Khan’s expression softens, and I know before he speaks that this is the part he dreads discussing.
“Endometriosis can impact fertility, yes. The scar tissue can interfere with ovulation and implantation. But it’s important to understand that difficult doesn’t mean impossible. Many women with endometriosis conceive naturally, and there are assisted reproductive technologies if needed.”
Difficult.
Assisted technologies.
The clinical language can’t soften the brutal truth underneath— my dream of easy pregnancy, of carrying my future husband’s child without medical intervention, of the natural progression I’ve imagined since childhood, is probably gone.
“I need to emphasize that every case is different,” he continues gently. “Your condition appears to be moderate, which means early intervention can be very effective. You’re young, you’re otherwise healthy. There’s every reason for optimism.”
I nod because that’s what you do when your doctor offers hope. But inside, I’m drowning. The future I’ve carried in my head since I was a little girl playing with dolls— marriage, pregnancy, babies, the whole beautiful sequence— feels like it’s disintegrating.
“I’d like to start you on hormone therapy to help manage the pain and slow progression. We’ll monitor your response and adjust as needed. In the meantime, I want you to know that this diagnosis doesn’t define you or limit what you can achieve.”
He hands me pamphlets, prescriptions, follow-up appointment cards. Information to help me navigate this new reality. I take everything with hands that feel disconnected from my body, still struggling to process that this conversation is actually happening.
“Do you have any other questions right now?”
I shake my head, not trusting my voice. Questions will come later, probably hundreds of them. Right now, I just need to escape before I fall apart completely.
“Thank you,” I manage.
Dr. Khan stands when I do, his expression compassionate but professional.
“Ilona, I know this feels overwhelming right now. That’s completely normal. But you’re not facing this alone, and this doesn’t change who you are.”
Except it does. Everything’s changed. I just don’t know how to explain that to someone who deals with these conversations every day.
The walk to the parking lot passes in a fog.
My feet carry me through automatic doors, across asphalt that shimmers with heat, to my car sitting under the relentless July sun.
The metal handle burns my palm when I open the door, but the pain barely registers against the numbness spreading through my chest.
I slide into the driver’s seat and close the door, sealing myself into privacy. That’s when it hits.
The sob comes from somewhere deep, wrenching through my chest like it’s being torn from my bones. Then another. And another. Until I’m gasping, doubled over, tears streaming down my face as everything I’ve been holding back for weeks pours out.
Endometriosis.
The word echoes in my head, heavy with implications I’m only beginning to understand. This isn’t something I’ll recover from. This is something I’ll carry forever, managing and medicating and accommodating until it becomes a part of my identity.
The woman who can’t have children easily.
The woman whose body betrayed her.
The woman who’s broken in ways that can’t be fixed.
I think about all the times I’ve imagined holding my own baby, feeling life growing inside me, sharing that miracle with someone I love. The nursery I’ve designed in my head, the names I’ve considered, the future I’ve built around motherhood. None of it feels possible anymore.
What if I’m unlovable now?
What if this makes me less than whole?
The tears come harder, ugly and desperate. I cry for the diagnosis, for the pain I’ve endured, for the pain still to come. I cry for the children I might never carry, the pregnancy I might never experience, the simple future that’s been complicated beyond recognition.
I cry for feeling broken and damaged and reduced to a medical condition I never wanted to understand.
When the storm finally passes, I sit in the silence of my car, emotionally drained and physically exhausted. The air conditioning runs automatically, but I’m still hot, still shaking, still trying to process what my life looks like now.
Home feels like the last place I want to be. The apartment filled with reminders of a relationship that imploded just as my health started falling apart. The silence that will give me too much time to think, to spiral, to imagine worst-case scenarios.
I need… something. Distraction. Connection. Something that makes me feel human instead of broken.
And suddenly, I know what that something is.
TMG.
The masked guy. The memory of his voice echoes through my exhaustion: Pain doesn’t need witnesses to be real.
He understood something about me that Stanley never grasped. He offered comfort without trying to fix anything, acceptance without demanding explanations. For thirty minutes, I felt like myself instead of a collection of symptoms and problems.
I need that again. I need to remember what it feels like to be desired instead of diagnosed, to be mysterious instead of medical.
Before I can second-guess myself, I dial the number I memorized after my first visit.
“Scarlet Fox.” Jack’s voice is warm, professional.
“Hi,” I say, trying to sound casual instead of desperate. “Do you still do masked nights?”
“Every Friday night. That’s tonight, actually.” A pause. “Will we be seeing you again?”
My heart skips at the timing. Friday night. Tonight. Like the universe is offering me exactly what I need when I need it most.
“Yes,” I hear myself saying. “I’ll be there.”
I end the call and sit in the parking lot for another few minutes, trying to reconcile the woman who just received a life-changing diagnosis with the woman who’s planning to return to an anonymous encounter club. But somehow, it makes perfect sense.
I’m not looking for sex. I’m not looking for romance or complications or anything beyond this moment. I’m looking to feel human again, to remember that I’m more than my medical chart, to exist in a space where endometriosis doesn’t define me.
And maybe— though I shouldn’t hope this— he’ll be there. The stranger who saw something worth touching in a woman who’s been feeling untouchable.
I start the engine and pull out of the parking lot, driving toward home with something that feels dangerously like hope building in my chest. Tonight, I won’t be Ilona Shiradze, the woman who just got diagnosed with endometriosis. Tonight, I’ll be whoever I choose to be behind a lace mask.
And for now, that’s all I need.