Chapter 10 – Michael
Chapter Ten
MICHAEL
S itting at the kitchen table, I click the next link on my tablet, opening up another site. Like everything else online, the topic of fibromyalgia leads to an endless rabbit hole—which I jumped down about an hour ago.
When Hannah brought up the condition, it took me a moment to even properly process the word. I’d never heard it before.
With each sentence I read now, my stomach twists a little tighter. Evidently, it’s quite controversial in the medical community. Some doctors don’t even believe it exists—which is fucked up, and it’s not surprising that it mostly affects women since I know from hearing my mom and sister talk that it’s sometimes hard for their health issues to be taken seriously.
One commenter in a thread refers to fibromyalgia being the “new hysteria”—basically a made-up condition that women are using as an excuse to get attention. Shaking my head, I move on.
Fatigue, joint and muscle pain, bad periods, IBS, poor sleep, TMJ… The list of symptoms goes on and on. No one really knows what causes the condition, but from what people say online, it sounds absolutely fucking exhausting.
“Like gravity has been turned up and the world is pressing down on you,” one person writes. “I’d compare it to going on an unexpectedly long hike with a backpack you can’t take off—every day, all day long,” another person says.
I sit back in my chair, my jaw tight. Damn. So that’s what Hannah experiences every day?
Why didn’t she tell me sooner?
Then again, why should I expect that? I’m not entitled to know anything about her life, and she was probably worried about how the news would change our dynamic.
Leaning forward, I start a new search: “How to help people fibromyalgia.”
The first thing that comes up is the spoon theory. It’s all about how people with chronic pain conditions often imagine their energy is measured in spoons, and they have a finite number of these spoons each day. Most daily activities, from small ones like getting dressed to large ones like completing a day at work, require spoons. Once a person runs out of spoons for the day, any additional activities they do might cause a flare. It can take a while for each individual to figure out exactly how many spoons they have per day, and once they do, most people are careful to monitor their usage closely.
Learning this part is a punch to the gut. Hannah and I must have seen mini golf completely differently. For me, it was a relaxing way to spend an evening. In her head, though, she was probably calculating how many spoons the game would require. Maybe she didn’t even have any spoons left, but she chose to stay for me.
Sighing, I push my fingers through my hair. So that’s two dates I’ve messed up.
Three strikes and you’re out, right? I better make our next night together something special.
I’ll tailor this next one to her needs, make sure that every detail is just right, that it will require the least number of spoons possible.
But…how the hell do I do that? How do I figure out what the perfect activity is for someone with fibromyalgia?
The internet can only take me so far. I need insight from people who know Hannah, who are familiar with her interests and energy levels. Which means I’ll need to do something I never do, something that I hate.
I’ll need to ask around town.
“Michael, honey. You’re early.” My mom steps out of the elementary school office to greet me.
I freeze in the hallway. She must have seen me through the glass door. If I’d known she would be in there, I would have taken the other way around.
“Yeah, I want to talk to one of Katie’s teachers before school gets out.” I stuff my hands into my jeans, hoping she doesn’t ask any more questions but knowing she will.
It’s not like I was avoiding running into my mother here—she does teach at this school after all—I just would prefer to skip an interrogation. Jenny got it from somewhere, and, well…this is where she got it from.
It doesn’t help that the two of them live together, which means it’s just a tornado of probing and unsolicited advice over at their house.
“Oh?” Her eyebrows rise. “Who?”
“Maya.”
She cocks her head and folds her arms. “Is something going on in art class? Katie?—”
“No, it’s about something else.”
She studies me. “I thought you were seeing the owner of the yarn shop. Are you dating Maya too?”
A couple teachers walk by, glancing at us in interest.
“No, Mom,” I say quickly, not wanting to start a rumor about my dating multiple women.
Not that Hannah and I are exclusive. We’ve only been out a couple times—three, if you count coffee—but I don’t want to date anyone else. Most of all, I want Hannah to know that I don’t want to.
“Hmm.” She’s still giving me that look like I’ve been caught doing something at the back of the classroom I shouldn’t be, passing notes or hiding my Game Boy behind my textbook.
It wasn’t fun when I was her actual student twenty-five years ago, and it isn’t fun now.
“I’ll see you later.” I walk past her.
“Oh. Michael,” she calls out, but I’m already around the corner and pretending like I don’t hear.
A part of me feels guilty about that, but I didn’t come here to catch up with family. I came here for information.
Maya’s classroom door is propped open and empty, but I knock on it anyway. She looks up from where she’s standing at her desk, a brown-haired young woman that I’ve spotted working the drop-off and pickup lines.
“Hello,” she says softly.
“Hi.” I take a cautious step into the classroom, not wanting to intrude too much on her space without an invitation. “I’m?—”
“Michael. Katie’s dad.”
“Yeah.” My shoulders relax. If she knows I’m Katie’s dad, does that mean she knows I’m dating Hannah? According to Jenny, Maya has been going to Hannah’s crafting group for women with chronic pain.
What sort of condition does Maya have? Looking at her now, she doesn’t seem any different from anyone else. But that’s just a reminder that we never truly know what people are going through. We can take a quick glance at someone and make all kinds of assumptions that don’t even come close to hitting the mark.
“Is this an all right time?” I ask. There aren’t any students in her room, so I’m praying that I’ve scored when it comes to timing.
“It’s perfect. This is my planning period for the week.”
I clear my throat. “I wanted to ask you some questions…about Hannah.”
Her eyes widen. “Oh. Sure. Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, yeah. I just…” I shift my weight, surprised at how nervous I am. “We’ve gone out on a few dates, and I would really like to get your advice on…on planning a date that works for someone with chronic pain.”
I duck my head, suddenly realizing just how I’ve put her on the spot. By asking about Hannah, I’ve inadvertently brought up Maya’s own chronic condition—whatever that may be. And perhaps she doesn’t want anyone to even know about it.
When I look up, though, she’s smiling. “That’s amazing.”
“Really?” My voice pitches.
“Yes. Have a seat.” She pulls a chair over to her desk. “I don’t know how much Hannah has told you…”
“Just that she has fibromyalgia. I’ve read some online, but I wanted to get advice from, uh, someone who really knows.”
Again, thank God, she doesn’t seem put off. “Okay, so warmth is key. So is food. It’s hard to have the energy to do anything if your physical needs aren’t met.”
From my pocket, I take out the pen and small notebook I brought along and jot down notes. “Great. What else?”
“No physically taxing activities.”
“What would be considered taxing?” I ask, already afraid I’ll screw that up. As of last night, I wouldn’t have considered mini golf taxing for anyone who can walk.
Maya lays it all out on the table, giving me more tips than I was even prepared for. By the time I need to leave her room to pick up Katie from the front of the school, and after I’ve thanked Maya maybe a dozen times, I finally feel equipped to meet Hannah’s needs.
“Dad!” Spotting me come out of the school, Katie runs up. “Can we go to the bookstore? There’s a new comic I want.”
I consider our to-do list, filled with dinner, chores, and her bedtime routine. “Sure. We can drop by for a few minutes. Let’s go.” Maybe they will have a book on fibromyalgia.
“Yes!” She bounces up and down as we walk to the truck.
“How was your day?”
“Good,” she says, clambering into her seat and buckling up. “How was yours?”
“Great, and getting even better.” I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror. My grin wide, I look like someone I don’t recognize. A new man.
And maybe I’m exactly that.