Chapter 03 - Mary
Mary
Once again, the doors hiss at me, and I am bathed in that awful cold glow of the ER.
My body braces instinctively, but this time I smile and push the urge to run aside.
I have a very cute doctor to torment. Would she give me her number?
Of course not, dummy. That’s, like, unethical or something.
But still, I can’t keep the smirk from my face as I walk down the hallway with light steps.
This time, the triage nurse looks up when I arrive at the desk. Her eyes scan over me quickly before she frowns slightly. She grabs a form and a pen and hands it over.
“Please fill this in. I’ll come and take your vitals in a minute.”
“Oh, I don’t think that’s—”
The nurse raises an eyebrow, effectively silencing me. I scan the room for my savior, but Doctor Durand is nowhere to be seen. Shame, really.
With the form in hand, I sink down into one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs.
They might have that fancy fake-leather look, but they are still hard as a brick underneath.
Chairs like these are designed to scare away the people who aren’t in desperate need.
Why that silly marketing trick found its way into the waiting room of an ER is beyond me, but here I am.
My butt is already getting numb after only a few minutes in the chair.
I glance at the form and fill in the basic information: name, phone number, address, emergency contact, symptoms, and so on. By the time I reach the bottom of the page, I’m seriously questioning whether I should have bothered to even come in for this recheck.
I sigh softly and return the form to the nurse. She glances at it, stiffens for a second, and then her eyes shoot up to meet mine just as I’m about to return to my seat.
“You’re Marilouise?”
I wince at the sound of my birth name.
“No, well, yes… but no… Sorry, Belgian trauma. Call me Mary, please,” I chuckle and wave my hand at nothing, as if that explains it all.
The nurse doesn’t return my smile. Instead, her jaw tightens slightly, and her eyes dart back to the form before finding mine again.
“Wait here, please,” she says in a clipped voice before pushing her chair back so hard it almost topples.
I blink and watch her leave through the doors behind her. A sudden fear grips my heart. Did Doctor Durand actually flag my record, like she said she would? No, that was… She was just joking, right? Or was she?
I bite my lip while the nerves surge through my body.
Everything inside me screams that I should bolt now, but before I can move, I feel a presence behind me.
When I pivot, I am greeted by rich brown eyes staring me down.
Holy shit! Where did she come from? I gasp audibly, and her eyebrow shoots up in question.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that, Doctora,” I instantly quip, unable to restrain myself. “You just materialized behind me like some kind of vampire.”
“?Qué?” she says, confused, before blinking rapidly and shaking her head. “I’m doing your recheck myself. Follow me.”
Suddenly, her tone is sharp, and she strides away without waiting for me, her heels once again clicking against the floor.
How did I not hear her coming up behind me?
I can’t help but roll my eyes and take quick strides to catch up with her.
At least this time, I am able to keep my balance, so when she comes to a sudden stop again, I am not barreling into her.
“Geesh, what is it with you and these dead stops,” I murmur under my breath.
The doctor glances over her shoulder with a glint in her eye but she doesn’t reply.
Instead, she pushes the door open and gestures for me to enter.
For whatever reason, I do as she commands, and I prop myself up on the gurney.
The corners of her mouth twitch slightly, and she lifts her chin a fraction.
I huff defiantly. She is acting like she won a boxing match or something. It’s not that deep.
“You look lucid,” she states in a flat, low voice, which instantly draws a snort from me.
“Lucid? Really?”
Her eyes widen slightly, and she purses her lips.
“Come on, Doctora, you could’ve gone with ‘alive’ or ‘vibrant.’ Hell, even a simple ‘better’ would have been… well… better.”
The doctor blinks at me and then shakes her head before turning to the computer. With a few swift strokes on the keyboard, she pulls up my file. Her posture is rigid, and her neck is slightly flushed. My stomach swoops at the sight. Oh, that got to her.
“Have you monitored your levels?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say with a smile.
The doctor freezes for a moment before she very slowly turns around. Her jaw is locked, and her eyes are dark and stormy. She lets them roam over my face as she breathes deeply, opens her mouth, snaps it shut again, and then shakes her head.
“Please share your data,” she eventually sighs.
Oh, that got to her too.
I pull out my monitor and show her the history. She goes over it, her brow furrowing.
“These morning levels… are they before or after your walk?”
I blink. “You remember?”
Her frown deepens, and she looks up at me, confused.
“Of course I remember. I am treating you. That’s my job.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” I mutter, unable to ignore the pang of reality hitting me in the chest. Why are you like this?
“Your levels?” she asks again, her tone softer this time.
“Before. Straight out of bed, actually,” I answer, my gaze dropping to my toes.
“And those evening levels?”
“Right before bed.”
“Dawn phenomenon. That would be… unfortunate,” she murmurs.
I can’t help but clench my teeth. I’ve been struggling for years to accept the fact that my body betrays me by raising my glucose levels during the last few hours of sleep.
It is the clearest testament to the fact that even when I do everything right, my body is the one really in control.
Simultaneously, it is also my main motivator.
Because if I slip even once, I risk raising those levels, and I am not ready to die yet.
“I wonder…” the doctor muses, pulling me from my thoughts. “Have you ever had a continuous glucose monitor?”
“You mean like one of those round things on your arm?”
Her lips curl up at that, and her whole face softens instantly.
I am struck by the beauty of it. I thought she was gorgeous before, but this hits different.
My breath hitches slightly at the sight.
It feels as if I was given a little insight that not many people get to see, and something inside me goes very quiet.
“Yes, one of those. The CGM takes measurements at multiple times throughout the day and night. It might be worth looking into one. Consider talking it over with your GP.”
“Why?”
She cocks her head, that amused smile still on her lips. For a moment, she considers me. Maybe I pushed her buttons a bit too much, but I am not playing now. I am actually curious.
“With this data,” she nods at the monitor and hands it back over to me, “it’s easy to assume dawn phenomenon. You know what that is, right?”
I nod.
“Your levels are perfect before bed, but spike right before you wake up.”
“Story of my life,” I reply before I can stop myself.
Her eyebrows shoot up, and she huffs out a laugh, catching us both by surprise. I grin as the doctor scrambles to pull her composure back together.
“The CGM will give you insight into what happens during the night,” she drones on.
“I figure the levels slowly rise?”
Now she full-on smiles and nods at me.
“That’s a reasonable thought. But do you sometimes wake up in the middle of the night feeling really cold or hungry?”
“Yeah, of course. Don’t we all?”
The doctor frowns and shakes her head.
“No, actually. That’s not common in people without diabetes. It isn’t even that common in people with diabetes.”
“Huh?” The sound escapes me, and I stare at her for a beat. “What are you saying, Doctora?”
She winces, and for the first time, I regret teasing her with that nickname. Her throat bobs, and she lifts her chin slightly. When the words come, her voice is flat and factual.
“The reason for these spikes might not be the dawn phenomenon but something called the Somogyi effect. This happens when your blood sugar drops too low during the night.” She gazes at me to see if I am still with her.
I nod. “Your body releases a cocktail of hormones, trying to regulate your levels. But it often overshoots…”
“…resulting in those spikes in the morning,” I finish for her.
She nods and holds my gaze for another moment.
“It is rare, but not impossible.”
“Okay,” I whisper, suddenly feeling very bare in front of her.
“Will you consider a CGM?” Her brow furrows slightly when she asks. “Or at least talk to your GP about it?”
I bite my lip as heat flushes my cheeks. Her dark eyes regard me with such intensity that I almost buckle under the pressure. My stomach twists as I drop my gaze to the floor, hearing her soft intake of breath as realization dawns on her.
“You don’t have one, do you?”
There is no malice in her voice, no disapproval. I highly doubt that I am her first patient without a family doctor. No, what’s laced through her voice is something highly unexpected. Worry.
“No,” I admit, my cheeks burning.
“I see,” she whispers.
She doesn’t ask me why, doesn’t need me to explain. Maybe she is not even allowed to. Whatever the reason, I feel a little more at ease because she doesn’t press and instead moves on. After another soft breath, I raise my head just in time to see her nod with determination.
“Well,” she says, as if the conversation didn’t just halt for a moment.
“You can always consider getting one. Your insurance might cover it, but it can cost a little over a hundred dollars if you pay out of pocket.” She glances at me.
“It might be worth looking into. You can also set an alarm and measure your levels every night for a week.”
The way she casually offers me options soothes me, and I smile up at her.
“So, I’ll see you next week, then?” I quip, and her eyebrows shoot up.
“Why?”
This time, I blink. “For the follow-up.”
The doctor shakes her head. “There won’t be one. You are medically cleared.”
And just like that, my stomach drops.