Chapter 37
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Zoe
Week six of feeling like I’m stuck in a bad soap opera. I cry over almost everything, and I’m tired all the time. Lily thinks it’s the stress of my new life. I, on the other hand, am starting to think it could be something more complicated and maybe life-threatening. Confession time: I might’ve googled my symptoms and come up with many, many different diseases that leave me with maybe a few months to live.
Because I don’t have time to deal with my big imagination, I decided to make an appointment, and while I’m at it, I also scheduled my annual exam. See? I’m being efficient.
I step through the sliding doors of the doctor’s office, and a blast of frigid air conditioning hits me like an Arctic wind. My head feels heavy, stuffed with cotton, and throbbing faintly behind my eyes. Just a routine checkup, I tell myself as I approach the front desk.
“Hi, I’m here to see Dr. Lodge,” I say to the receptionist, forcing a polite smile. “Zoe Harper. I have a ten-thirty appointment.”
The receptionist types rapidly, her long and very beautiful acrylic nails clacking against the keyboard. I should ask her where she gets them done. Maybe on my way out, I don’t want to make this awkward.
“Ah, yes, here you are. Please have a seat, and the nurse will call you back shortly.”
I settle into one of the hard plastic chairs, crossing my arms over my stomach. Among everything else, I also have nausea—which is nothing new. Having IBS is unpredictable and inconvenient; my symptoms can go from nothing to abdominal pain, nausea, and even vomiting if I’m not eating right or my stomach decides to just be an asshole for the day—or the month.
Though the nausea doesn’t worry me as much. My theory is that while I was in Fiji, I indulged in too many treats. It’s a good thing I know how to treat these symptoms with home remedies, but still, the nausea isn’t going away.
I probably need an emergency prescription like I did the time Tom and I went to Italy and I indulged in many different kinds of pasta, sauces, and desserts. My mouth still waters at the thought of that double scoop Stracciatella I had before heading to the airport.
Maybe I need something stronger because sometimes, even smells make me want to puke.
As I wait, I glance around the room, taking in the sterile décor and the faint hum of the air conditioning. This building might hold the answer to what could be a scary future, but for now, I just need to get through this appointment.
Minutes tick by with agonizing slowness. I flip through a magazine without registering a single word or image. If only I knew exactly what was wrong with me, I could go back to focusing on work and my future.
“Zoe Harper?” A nurse in lilac and flowery scrubs appears in the doorway, clipboard in hand.
I follow the nurse down the brightly lit hallway, the antiseptic smell burning my nostrils. They weigh me—I’ve lost some weight—and ask me to pee in a cup. After I’m done, the nurse leads me into an exam room and gestures for me to sit on the paper-covered table. She asks about my current medications, symptoms, and if there have been any other changes since my last visit six months ago. She asks when my last period was, and I respond, “Not sure, but probably four weeks ago?”
She nods, looking unconvinced, and makes up a date for my last period. I nod because it sounds good.
“Dr. Lodge will be with you in just a moment,” she says with a reassuring smile before closing the door behind her.
I sit, swinging my legs and trying to ignore the knot of anxiety in my stomach. The room is almost blindingly white, from the gleaming tile floor to the glossy cabinets filled with medical supplies. A colorful anatomical chart on the wall catches my eye, and I find myself staring at the complex tangle of organs, trying to locate the source of my discomfort—if only I had done better in health class.
A soft knock at the door jolts me out of my thoughts. Dr. Lodge enters, her dark hair pulled back in a neat bun, a warm smile on her face.
“Good morning, Zoe,” she says, glancing down at my chart. “So, tell me what brings you here.”
I shrug, suddenly feeling foolish. “Other than my physical? I haven’t been feeling well lately. Nausea, fatigue, some dizziness. And the crying . . . I mean, it’s not like I’m sad, but I cry over everything. Even for a cute kitty video posted on social media.”
“Do you think the fatigue and nausea could be part of an IBS flare up?” she asks.
I press my lips together and shrug. “Some symptoms make sense, others not so much . . .” like the crying, I want to remind her, but maybe it doesn’t matter right now.
Dr. Lodge nods, making a note. “Any fever or vomiting?”
“No, nothing like that. Just . . . off.”
“I see.” She sets aside the chart and reaches for her stethoscope. “Well, let’s take a look and see what’s going on. ”
As Dr. Lodge goes through the familiar motions of the exam—listening to my heart and lungs, pressing gently on my abdomen—I try to relax, reminding myself that this is all routine. But I can’t shake the feeling that something is different this time. Something has changed.
Dr. Lodge finishes her exam and steps back, a thoughtful expression on her face. “How was your last period?”
I don’t even remember the exact date, and she wants to know how it was. “Umm, I’m not sure. Bloody?”
“Tender, swollen, or sore breasts and darkening of the areolas?”
I cover my boobs. “No . . . at least I don’t think so.” But just this morning, I was thinking that maybe I need to get my bra size checked again because they’re a little tight and the material is rough on my nipples.
She nods. “Let me go and check on some of the tests the nurse is running. We’ll have a technician come and draw your blood in the meantime.”
“You think it’s bad, don’t you?” I ask, feeling a wave of fear and surprise. “WebMD said it could be a thyroid disorder. There’s diabetes, or . . . cancer.”
The doctor shakes her head. “No, I have a couple of theories, but we definitely need to run some tests.”
She leaves, and a new nurse comes in to draw blood. I try to make small talk to distract myself, but my mind keeps racing with possibilities. The nurse is quick and efficient, and soon I’m alone again, waiting .
Dr. Lodge returns, her expression calm and professional. She takes a seat and looks me in the eye. “Okay, Zoe. We’ll need to wait for the blood tests to confirm, but based on your symptoms and the urine test, I’m pretty sure you’re pregnant.”
My jaw drops. “Pregnant?”
“Yes,” she says gently. “It would explain the nausea, fatigue, dizziness, and emotional fluctuations.”
I blink, my mind reeling. Pregnant. I hadn’t even considered that possibility. Suddenly, all those treats in Fiji take on a whole new meaning. It wasn’t the food but the things Max and I did . . . Fuck, is this true?
Am I having Max McCallister’s baby?