Chapter 10
“I’ll be back in a few minutes with your discharge paperwork.” The young, friendly nurse exits the room, and I throw my head back against the sterile hospital pillow behind me. Closing my eyes, I focus on my breathing, trying like hell not to break down in tears. Again.
This morning I had a fainting spell, this time falling and hitting my head on the coffee table at Tamara’s apartment.
These fainting spells are the worst part of all my health issues.
Luckily, she was home when it happened and was able to drive me to the hospital.
I begged her to wait in the waiting room, which is where she is now, because I’ve yet to tell anyone what’s been going on.
For the last year, I’ve been trying to figure out what the hell is wrong with me.
Sometimes when I’m doing nothing, like watching Netflix or sitting outside reading, I’ll go to stand and my heart feels like it’s about to beat out of the chest. There are times I get dizzy enough I’ll lose my vision, like today.
Since moving to Green Bay, I’ve been able to gauge when they’re about to happen, but I wasn’t quick enough this morning so it was the first time Tamara witnessed the worst of what I’ve been going through.
But unlike every other time this has happened, the doctor at this hospital took me seriously.
She didn’t dismiss me or tell me I probably didn’t eat or drink enough water.
She didn’t question if it was just my head or mind playing tricks on me.
Hell, I spent a week at an inpatient program when this all started because Bryan and the doctors told me it was my anxiety, just to be accused of wasting his money afterward when it didn’t help.
There is nothing worse than not being able to trust my own body because it no longer works like it used to, only to have no one listen to me.
Today, the tears threaten to fall not because I feel helpless, but because I feel hope for the first time. The doctor actually heard me. She listened to me and believed me when I said there is something wrong.
I know they tell you not to google your symptoms, but when no one would listen to what I had to say, I had no other choice but to research so I could advocate for myself.
When I told the doctor today that I suspected I had Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome, or POTS for short, she sat down and had me tell her every single symptom that made me believe I might have it.
And she fucking believed me.
The tears begin falling down my face at the relief I’m feeling.
I’m not crazy. It’s not all in my head. I was right.
Maybe. There are some tests I need to take to confirm it but the doctor thinks there’s a chance it could actually be POTS.
That’s all I’ve wanted for so long—for someone to take me seriously.
This is the first step in the right direction.
I might actually get some answers after all this time.
At the very least, we can rule this out and go from there.
A soft knock sounds at the door, and I furiously blink to clear the tears and wipe at my cheeks. As if it’s not going to be obvious that I’ve been crying like a baby in here.
“Oh my god, Avery. What’s wrong? Why are you crying? What did the doctor say?” Tamara’s voice is full of concern.
By the time I can see clearly, she’s already scooting a chair closer to me at my bedside. She reaches over and takes my hand between both of hers.
I laugh through the emotion that I can’t seem to control. “I’m okay. I promise.”
“Your face is leaking. You do not look okay.” Tamara gives me her signature look, eyes narrowed, lips pursed. It’s the face I imagine she uses during contract negotiations when a team tries to lowball one of her clients.
“These are happy tears, T.”
She looks at me confused now. Not that I blame her. I haven’t even told her the real reason Bryan and I got divorced. I guess it’s time to finally let someone in on everything that’s been going on with me.
While I wait for my discharge paperwork, I tell her everything.
I tell her how my health has been deteriorating for about a year now and how, at first, Bryan pretended to be supportive, accompanying me to my appointments.
After the first month with no answers, that quickly changed.
He began gaslighting me, calling me crazy, accusing me of being a gold digger, even though the man has some of the best insurance on the planet.
I tell Tamara how I started to believe him.
How I was in such a bad place mentally, not knowing what was going on with my body, wondering if it really was all in my head.
“It wasn’t until I overheard him on the phone with one of the ‘doctors,’ that I began to see the light.
” I use my fingers to emphasize the word “doctor” because to this day, I don’t even know if they were legitimate doctors.
He started having them make house calls, claiming he didn’t want the press all up in our business.
“I remember him saying, ‘Can’t you just make up something to placate her? Maybe prescribe her some meds that will ‘cure’ this craziness but just give her some vitamins? This is all so fucking ridiculous. I didn’t sign up for crazy.’”
Tamara’s grip tightens on my hands, and when I look up from the spot I’ve been focusing on in my lap, I see her jaw flex, anger written on every inch of her face.
“I’ll fucking kill him. I swear to god, Avery. I will find a way.”
I take my other hand and cover hers with it. “Trust me, six months ago, I would’ve been totally on board for that. But he’s not worth it.”
Tamara huffs out a breath. “Maybe not. But a swift kick in the balls wouldn’t hurt.”
We both burst out laughing, and the tension I felt while telling my story begins easing in my shoulders.
“I would not object to someone kicking him in the balls.”
“Who are we kicking in the balls?” The nurse makes her way back into the room, paperwork and a bag in her hand.
“Avery’s ex-husband who not only didn’t believe anything was wrong with her, but made her believe she was crazy for thinking there was.”
The nurse tsks and shakes her head. “I’m sorry that happened to you. Unfortunately, we see that sort of thing happen a lot in the ER.”
Before I can comment, Tamara begins bombarding the nurse with questions.
“Is there anything I can do at home to help her? What can we do to prevent another fainting spell? Is there any special food or drinks that can help?”
Tears fill the corners of my eyes at her questioning. My own husband didn’t even take the time to ask these sorts of questions when this all started happening. How could I not see the giant red flag he was waving at me?
I’m smiling at her when she finally looks from the nurse to me.
“What?” she asks with a shrug.
“Nothing. It’s just nice to have someone who cares about me.”
Tamara smiles and squeezes my hand. “Always.”
The nurse is polite and patient as she spends the next fifteen minutes answering every single one of Tamara’s questions, no matter how absurd they might be.
“I got you some things that might help in the meantime while we wait for tests. Here are some electrolyte packets to add to your water and salt tablets you can take. Over the counter electrolyte drinks won’t do much in terms of making a difference, so I definitely recommend using these instead.
” She hands the items to Tamara before continuing.
“I also got you some compression socks. You only need to wear these when you’re standing up.
No need to wear them when you’re lying down or relaxing.
These will help with the blood pooling, which is the cause of your legs turning purplish-red.
If you notice your heart rate elevating when you’re home or not doing much, elevate your legs like the doctor suggested.
Lie on a bed with them straight up against the wall, or even on the floor with them elevated on the couch.
” She hands the compression socks over to Tamara.
“Do either of you have any other questions for me today?”
I shake my head, but it seems Tamara isn’t done.
“Avery was telling me that sometimes it’s hard to shower when she’s feeling at her worst. I don’t have a tub at my small apartment, do you think a shower chair would be a good idea?”
The nurse nods. “Absolutely.” She turns her attention to me.
“I know we don’t have any answers yet, but if it turns out you do have POTS, sometimes it can be hard to stand during flare-ups, so a shower chair would definitely come in handy during one.
Also, scalding showers can cause symptoms to flare. Heat is not your friend anymore.”
I nod, remembering how horrible summer was for me.
“Do you happen to know how much the tests will be? I don’t see it here on the discharge paperwork.” Embarrassment coats my every word.
Tamara squeezes my hand again trying to reassure me, but this is not something I’m proud of. I’m an adult, for fuck’s sake. I should have health insurance. I can’t imagine how much this test will cost out of pocket.
“You should stop at the billing department before you leave if you’re up to it. They might have some advice for you in terms of shower chairs, and they can give you an idea of what the tests will cost.”
I say goodbye to Tamara, reassuring her I’m okay to find an Uber so she can get to work. She already stayed here with me most of the morning and missed half of her day. I saw her phone blowing up while I was being discharged, so I know she has to go.
Once I’m dressed, I make my way to the billing department so I can figure out how much all of this will cost me. What are the chances I won’t have to sell plasma to afford all the tests?
Not good, apparently.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but the best I can do for you is offer you a payment plan if you don’t have insurance right now.”
My heart stutters in my chest and it’s not the usual kind I’ve become accustomed to.
No, my heart rate picks up from the realization of how much all of this will cost me.
The fear and uncertainty of how I’m going to pay for this threatens to knock me off my feet again.
The estimated cost of the tests I still need to determine if I have POTS, combined with the costs of the tests they already did today, is way more than I can afford right now.
Because I mentioned my heart racing before passing out, then proceeded to hit my head on the coffee table, they needed to do an EKG and head CT today. I was referred to a cardiologist where they’ll perform the additional tests I’ll need for a diagnosis.
How the hell am I going to afford any of this?
I fight back tears for what feels like the millionth time today. Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I fold the paperwork and give a half-assed attempt at a smile.
“I’ll have to figure something out before scheduling my tests with the cardiologist. Thank you for your help.”
I don’t wait for a response. I turn and leave the room without a second thought. Picking up the pace, I search for the signs that will show me to the main exit.
Once I see my way out, I break into a jog, hoping like hell I’ll make it out of here before someone sees me breaking down for the second time today.