Chapter 22 #2
The waiting room is typical—beige walls, uncomfortable chairs, months-old magazines that no one really reads.
Usually, one of my friends would be here with me.
It’s an unspoken pact among our group of five: whenever possible, we show up for each other’s appointments.
The buddy system for chronic illness, offering support when the medical establishment so often fails to provide it.
But I forgot to mention today’s appointment to anyone, and after what happened to Devin this morning, I wasn’t about to pull focus from her situation.
Speaking of which...
I settle into one of the waiting room chairs and pull out my phone, typing out a quick text to Flick.
How is she doing?
While waiting for a response, I try to open my email, but the words swim meaninglessly on the screen. I can’t focus on anything. Devin’s health scare this morning, Elaine’s brutal scolding, the appointment I’m about to have—it all swirls together in my head like a nauseating carousel.
My phone buzzes with Flick’s reply, and I open it immediately:
Good. We’re at her place and she’s hydrating. How are you?
Such a simple question. One I’m not sure how to answer honestly.
Before I can formulate a response, the exam room door opens and a nurse in lavender scrubs calls my name. I grab my purse and follow her back, grateful for the interruption.
The routine is familiar—weight, blood pressure, temperature, the same questions about medications and symptoms I answer every time.
Once she leaves me in the exam room, some of the morning’s tension finally starts to drain from my shoulders.
I’ve been waiting weeks for this appointment, desperate for answers about why my flares have been lasting longer, occurring more frequently.
If there’s any bright spot in this disaster of a day, it’s getting answers.
Doctor Oakley arrives within minutes—a small miracle in itself—and I straighten in my seat on the exam table.
“Hi, Alexis.” He settles into his rolling chair. “Good to see you.”
“You, too.” I shift to the edge of the exam table, already uncomfortable from sitting, my mind automatically calculating how long it’s been since I last used the bathroom.
He clasps his hands over one knee, leaning back slightly. “So you’ve been experiencing longer flares, right?”
“Yes.” I nod emphatically. “And they’re happening more often, too. Sometimes I’m not even sure where the flares end and start. It’s like they bleed into each other.”
“Gotcha. That can happen as time goes by and the disease changes.”
“But could it be a fluke, too, right?” Hope creeps into my voice despite my efforts to sound neutral.
He hesitates, his brow furrowing slightly. “What do you mean by a fluke?”
“The longer, more constant flares might be temporary.”
“Ah. Well.” His lips twist in that way doctors have when they’re about to deliver news you don’t want to hear. “More often than not, no, that’s not the case. Unless we’re able to identify a reason the flares have become more consistent and then treat from the source. You’re a food writer, right?”
“Yes,” I say slowly, not liking where this is heading.
“Have you gone on an elimination diet recently?”
“I—I did a few years ago. I tried eliminating everything. I was just eating rice for weeks. Nothing helped. I don’t have any food triggers.”
“Food triggers can change over time. Considering your recent uptick in flares, it’s quite possible that you’ve developed a sensitivity that you didn’t have a few years ago.”
My shoulders slump forward. “Oh.”
An elimination diet. Now. The implications crash over me in waves. How can I possibly review restaurants when I can’t eat half the menu? How can I do my job when I’m limited to rice and carefully selected proteins?
The answer is simple and devastating: I can’t. If I tell Elaine I need to go on an elimination diet, she’ll probably fire me on the spot. Strike two, game over.
“That’ll be hard for me to do right now.” I hate how my voice shakes, betraying the emotion I’m trying to suppress. “Is there a change we can make in medications? Something new I can try?”
“As of right now, no. You’re on the most effective medication for this condition. If it’s not doing the job, we need to consider other treatments. If you can’t do the elimination diet right now, I suggest doing it as soon as you can. Hopefully that will allow us to identify the triggers.”
“And if we can’t identify the triggers?”
“Then we do another cystoscopy to see how inflamed your bladder is. Some options from there are Botox or bladder installation.”
Bladder installation. The words hang in the air like a threat. I’ve researched it, of course. A catheter threaded through my urethra into my bladder, medication injected directly into the organ. Not just once, but regularly. Possibly for the rest of my life.
“Do you have any questions?” Doctor Oakley asks. His tone is kind, professional, but I feel tears threatening again.
“No,” I manage to croak out. “Thank you.”
He nods, standing with the same practiced ease. “Let me know if you have any further questions, all right? Take care.”
“You, too,” I murmur to his retreating back.
It’s a repeat performance of my exit from Elaine’s office. I can’t get out of the medical building fast enough, my legs carrying me to my car on autopilot. But this time, once I’m safely enclosed in my vehicle, there’s no holding back the tears.
They come in waves—hot, silent tears that stream down my face as I sit in the parking lot. The self-pity is overwhelming, and I hate myself for feeling it, which only makes me cry harder. It’s a vicious cycle of emotion and self-recrimination.
The truth is inescapable. I can’t start an elimination diet until I have a new job. But what if Noah’s publishing house doesn’t hire me? I’ll have to search for another editing position, and those opportunities are scarce, competitive, often requiring connections I don’t have.
Meanwhile, I have to live with this pain.
Accept the unpredictable flares that ambush me at the worst moments.
Endure the uncomfortable sitting that makes every meeting agony.
Rotate the hot and cold packs twice a day like some kind of medical ritual.
And worst of all—the inability to have normal sex.
That last thought is the real gut punch.
Noah has been nothing but understanding about my limitations in the bedroom, but I hate it.
Hate that I can’t give him what he deserves, what any man would expect from a relationship.
I hate it for myself too. I want to experience physical intimacy the way most people can, freely and without consequence.
Instead, I’m navigating this minefield of pain every single day.
My phone beeps from inside my purse, interrupting my pity party. I wipe my face with a tissue from the glove compartment and pull out the phone. Noah’s name on the screen makes my heart do that familiar flip, and I open his text immediately.
How did the doctor’s appointment go?
I nibble my bottom lip, considering how to respond. There’s no point in lying or sugar-coating it. He deserves honesty.
It was rough. Just like this whole day so far.
His response comes quickly.
I’m so sorry. I wanted to ask you to dinner tonight, but we can raincheck.
My fingers fly across the screen.
I would love to have dinner with you tonight. Nothing would cheer me up more.
I set the phone in my lap and take what feels like the first real, deep breath of the entire day. Yes, things are difficult right now. My career is on shaky ground, my health is deteriorating, and I’m facing medical procedures I don’t want to think about.
But I’m starting to feel that with Noah in my life, I can weather just about anything.