22. Flick
Flick
I shift in the waiting room chair, but there’s no position that brings comfort.
The cushion feels like concrete beneath me, and my jeans pinch at my waist where the steroids have added unwanted pounds.
It’s also gotten harder to sleep—which means it’s harder to think straight, harder to work.
And when I can’t focus, I get irritable and just feel like the whole world is against me.
I want to lash out at everyone and everything.
Thinking about all of it makes me want to cry. Like?—
Standing, I move to the window where rain streams down the glass in lazy rivulets. Each drop races its neighbor to the bottom, and I find myself picking favorites, willing them to win this pointless competition. Anything to distract from why I’m here.
Today’s the day. The halfway point. When Dr. Barnes will check if these awful steroids are actually doing anything besides making me miserable.
And if they’re not working... I guess I’m fucked.
My chest tightens at the thought. I press my palm against the cool window, watching my breath fog the glass.
“Hey.” Sebastian’s voice pulls me back.
I turn, forcing my lips into something resembling a smile. “Hey.”
Thank God he’s here. The waiting room feels less like a cage with him in it. Since I haven’t told Hannah about the pericarditis, bringing her was never an option. And if we run into her again like last time...
No. Not thinking about that. I’m still hoping this whole thing resolves itself and becomes a secret I never have to share. Just another chapter I can close without anyone reading.
Sebastian unzips his backpack, pulling out a small bag from Knit Happens. “I stopped by and grabbed some crochet hooks and yarn. Hannah helped me pick them out.” He holds up a skein of soft blue wool. “Thought maybe you could teach me? Might help pass the time.”
Now? Here?
My skepticism must show because he adds, “I figured it might help you relax a bit.”
Do I really look that wound up? Probably. My shoulders are practically touching my ears, and I can’t stop fidgeting with the hem of my sweater.
I glance at the door leading to the exam rooms, then back at him. “Sure. Okay.”
We settle into adjacent chairs, and I walk him through the basics.
How to hold the hook, how to maintain tension, how to form a simple chain stitch.
His veterinarian hands should be perfect for this—precise, steady, used to delicate work.
But somehow his stitches come out loose and uneven, like he’s deliberately doing it wrong.
“Let me try again,” he says when his chain falls apart for the third time.
I bite back a sigh. He’s trying to help, trying to keep me distracted, but all this forced activity is making my anxiety worse. My mind won’t stop racing ahead to what Dr. Barnes might say, what new medications she might suggest, how many more pills I’ll have to swallow just to function.
“You know what? You practice for a minute.” I reach for the stack of magazines on the side table. “I’m going to flip through these.”
“Actually, I brought crossword puzzles.” He dives back into his seemingly bottomless backpack. “We could work on one together?”
“No thanks.” The edge in my voice is sharper than intended, but I can’t help it. His constant need to keep me occupied feels suffocating. Asking him to come with me was obviously a mistake.
The exam room door opens. A nurse in purple scrubs steps out, clipboard in hand. “Felicity?”
I flinch at my full name—nobody calls me that except in medical settings—and shoot to my feet so fast the magazines slide off my lap. “That’s me. Yes. Hi.”
My legs feel disconnected from my body as I follow the nurse, Sebastian’s footsteps close behind.
We go through the familiar routine. Step on the scale—five pounds heavier, just like I thought.
Blood pressure cuff squeezing my arm. Questions about symptoms, medications, side effects.
The needle prick for blood work that I barely feel through my numbness.
Then we’re left alone in one of those windowless exam rooms that always make me feel trapped. The walls are beige, the art generic, the smell antiseptic with an underlying note of fear—mine and everyone else’s who’s sat in this chair.
I wedge my hands between my knees to stop them from shaking. The paper on the exam table crinkles every time I shift.
Sebastian pulls out his phone. “Look at this video I found. Someone trained their cat to ride in a bike basket. Think we could teach Cat to do that?”
He leans over to show me the screen—a tabby cat wearing a tiny helmet, sitting primly in a wicker basket—but before I can respond, there’s a knock.
“Come in,” I manage, though my voice cracks.
The door opens, but instead of Dr. Barnes’s familiar face, a stranger walks in. She’s younger, with short dark hair and glasses that make her look severe.
“Felicity? I’m Dr. Jackson.”
My stomach drops. “Where’s Dr. Barnes?”
“She’s out sick today. Hopefully back in a few days.” Dr. Jackson settles onto the rolling stool, tablet in hand. “I’ll be handling her patients in the meantime.”
Shit. This is exactly what I didn’t want. Dr. Barnes knows me, knows my history, knows how I respond to different treatments. She listens when I tell her what doesn’t work. This stranger? She’s probably already decided what she thinks is best before even looking at my chart.
My breathing speeds up, and I force myself to inhale slowly through my nose. Maybe I’m jumping to conclusions. Just because she’s not my regular doctor doesn’t mean she won’t listen.
“So.” She swipes through screens on her tablet. “You’re halfway through the steroid course. How are you feeling?”
“The arthritis symptoms haven’t really changed.” My voice sounds small in the sterile room.
She nods without looking up. “That can happen. You’re only at the midpoint. Your inflammation markers are still elevated, unfortunately.”
The words hit like a physical blow. “So the steroids aren’t working?”
Part of me feels relief—I never wanted to take them anyway. But mostly I feel the crushing weight of disappointment. All these side effects, all this suffering, for nothing.
“Too early to say definitively. I want you to complete the full course.” She taps something on her screen. “I’m also prescribing an NSAID for when you begin tapering off.”
I straighten so fast the paper crinkles loudly beneath me. “NSAIDs don’t work for me.”
Her fingers pause on the tablet. When she looks up, there’s something in her expression—not quite annoyance, but close. The look of someone whose routine has been disrupted. My worst fear made real: a doctor who sees me as an inconvenience rather than a person.
“Can you explain what you mean by ‘don’t work’?”
The clinical detachment in her voice makes me want to scream. Instead, I list the symptoms like I’m reading a grocery list. “They destroy my stomach. I can’t eat, so I lose weight and have no energy. The nausea is constant, even if I force food down.”
“Are there medications to counteract those side effects?” Sebastian suddenly asks, his presence startling me. I’d almost forgotten he was here, I was so focused on this new doctor who clearly doesn’t care about my concerns.
“I don’t want more medications.” I turn to him, heat rising in my face. “I already take handfuls of pills every day.”
His forehead creases with confusion. “But if something could help with the side effects, wouldn’t that be worth trying?”
“Every medication has its own side effects.” My voice rises despite my efforts to stay calm. “So then you need another pill to manage those, and another to manage the problems from that one. It never ends.”
“But what if they work? What if you don’t have any side effects?”
Is he serious?
The urge to laugh battles with the need to cry. “Do the animals you treat take five different medications without any problems?”
“The side effects are worth it,” he says slowly, like he’s explaining something to a child.
Worth it according to whom? The animals who have no choice? Who can’t tell him when the cure is worse than the disease?
That’s exactly how I feel right now—like an animal everyone thinks they know better than. Everyone wants to muzzle me, force pills down my throat, make me a good patient who does what she’s told without question.
I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste copper. I want to run from this room, from this conversation, from everyone who thinks they know what’s best for my body better than I do.
Dr. Jackson clears her throat delicately. “If the NSAIDs cause unmanageable symptoms, call the office. We can get you in same-day and reassess.”
The weight on my shoulders doubles. I came here hoping for good news, for some sign that this nightmare might be ending. Instead, everything’s getting worse.
“There’s really no other option?” My voice comes out weak, defeated.
“Not at this time.”
Damn it. Of course not.
“Okay.” The word tastes like surrender. “Thank you.”
She leaves after the standard pleasantries, and then Sebastian and I are walking through the parking lot, rain misting our faces. My body moves on autopilot while my mind spirals.
Maybe I should just give up. Take whatever cocktail of pills they prescribe, let them wreck my system.
Watch my business crumble as I lose the ability to work.
Move back in with my parents, become another chronic illness cautionary tale.
The daughter who had such promise until her body betrayed her.
I’m so tired. Tired of fighting, tired of explaining, tired of being treated like I don’t understand my own body. Even Sebastian doesn’t get it, apparently.
Hannah would understand.
Tears blur my vision as I climb into Sebastian’s car. Of course, Hannah would understand. My Chronic Pain Crafters live this reality every day. They know what it’s like to be dismissed, to have your concerns minimized, to be treated like a problem instead of a person.
And what have I done? Lied to her. Kept secrets. Pushed away the one person who would truly understand what I’m going through.
“I know this is hard.” Sebastian starts the car, his voice full of that fix-it energy I’ve come to dread. “But we can manage the steroid side effects. Post-it notes for memory issues. Morning walks for the depression. Complex crochet patterns to calm your mind.”
I nod because I don’t have the energy to explain why his solutions are like offering a bandage for a severed limb. None of those things will give me my life back. They’re just pretty distractions from the ugly reality.
“I’ll come to your next appointment,” he continues, pulling out of the parking lot. “And I can use my alumni access to research alternative treatments. There might be options Dr. Jackson doesn’t know about.”
“Thank you.” The words come out as a whisper.
I stare at the rain-slicked road, watching the windshield wipers sweep back and forth in their endless rhythm. Yes, I want information about alternatives. But right now, what I really want is someone to acknowledge my pain without immediately trying to fix it.
If Hannah were here, she’d let me feel this.
Maybe she’d even cry with me. Then we’d go to that overpriced stationery store near the medical building and buy pens we don’t need in colors that make us happy.
We’d go home, eat CBD brownies, and watch terrible reality TV until the world felt bearable again.
But that’s not happening. Sebastian’s dropping me off before heading to work, and I have a custom order to dye while I cry alone in my kitchen.
He hasn’t even asked how I feel. He just keeps telling me things. Telling me it’s hard, as if I don’t know. Telling me to take medications that we’ve established don’t work for me. Telling me what I should do instead of asking what I need.
He pulls into my parking lot, and I climb out feeling like my joints have been replaced with rusty hinges.
“Hey.” At my front door, he wraps his arms around me. His embrace feels hollow, like we’re going through the motions. “It’ll be okay. You have me now. I’m here to help.”
The lump in my throat makes it hard to speak. “Yeah.”
“I have to get to work.” He kisses me, but it’s just lips meeting lips. No spark, no electricity. The chemistry that once made my knees weak has fizzled out like a flame deprived of oxygen. “I’ll text you later.”
I force a smile as he walks away, then let myself into my condo. Cat meows from her perch on the back of the couch, but even her greeting can’t lift the weight settling over me.
Another day of pushing the boulder up the hill, only to watch it roll back down. Another day of pretending I’m fine while my body wages war against itself. Another day of keeping secrets from the people who might actually understand.
I hang my rain-damp jacket on the hook by the door and head to the kitchen. The custom order isn’t going to dye itself, and bills don’t stop coming just because I’m falling apart.
As I fill the dye pot with water, I catch my reflection in the kitchen window. The woman staring back looks exhausted, defeated. Nothing like the vibrant yarn artist I pretend to be online.
The water starts to heat, and I add the pre-soaked wool, watching it swirl in the forming colors. At least this I can control. At least this makes sense.
Even if nothing else in my life does anymore.