Page 48

Chapter 47

Lia

I’m in a private training room after everyone has gone home for the day. Brooks told me he had a shift in his conditioning schedule, but I know it’s so he can stick around in case I need him.

It’s been three days since I told Brooks I love him. Three days since he told me he loves me back. Three days since we started trading even more secrets. I don’t expect this won’t continue to have challenging moments, but all we can do is take it day by day.

Today, I’m seeing a team doctor and I’m a ball of energy. Nervous to potentially get answers, but anxious about what it could mean. Brooks was right; there’s no way waiting until July was going to work.

When the doctor introduces himself, he’s kind and welcoming, picking up on my anxiety. I take off my top and show him my back, keeping my bralette on.

“Are you having any other symptoms? Any pain?”

“Sometimes my hands and wrists are really sore,” I admit. “Like I did a weird exercise using muscles I haven’t used before.” I put my hands out and he feels through each knuckle and does some range of motion stretching.

“How bad does this hurt? Or itch?” The doctor stands in front of me and waits for a response.

I think back to all the nights I’ve struggled to sleep, all the burning from lotions and creams meant to help with the dryness. My brain kept trying to convince me it could be worse, but I never took the time to think about how awful it truly was.

“Depends,” I answer. “I’ve had trouble sleeping some nights and burning with lotion, things like that.”

He sighs and then is behind me again, looking closely at my skin. “Where else have you had redness or areas like this?” He asks this while delicately touching the skin on my back. “My eyelids, scalp, and sometimes on my elbows. It’s never been as bad as it currently is on my back.”

He nods and I’m surprised with how he’s listening to me. I feel like most doctors I see are trying to get me in and out as quick as possible. Maybe having a connection to team doctors is a true perk I didn’t know I needed.

“Everything here seems sensitive skin friendly, so that’s great,” he says while reviewing the list of products I use on a regular basis.

He looks at some other spots on my neck, my lash line, and then asks me to put my shirt back on.

“As a reminder, I’m the first step for you figuring this out. But I think this is severe plaque psoriasis. The spots on your back aren’t presenting the way tried and true psoriasis does, but if we don’t treat it, it might. With your other symptoms, I’d want to rule out psoriatic arthritis. Both are autoimmune conditions. Are you familiar with that term?” His voice is kind and soft.

I swallow harshly. “Ugh, yeah. The body attacks healthy parts of itself, right?”

“Pretty much. Autoimmune conditions range from asymptomatic to severe, and no patient is ever the same. I’m going to get you a referral to a dermatologist and a rheumatologist.”

“My insurance is kind of lacking—” I try to explain.

“Don’t worry about it. We’re calling in a favor and I’ll let them know that. We’ll figure it out.” He gets his phone out and says, “Until then, try to drink enough water, eat good food, and keep your stress under control. Stress is one of the biggest triggers for autoimmune flares.”

Why am I immediately stressed thinking about not being stressed?

I can’t explain why, but tears start rolling down my face. The doctor keeps using ‘we’ and it’s making me emotional by how much this borderline stranger is on my side. The support and his guess at my diagnosis are fighting for which is making me more emotional—I couldn’t pick a winner if you paid me.

“I’m sure this has been hard, but we’ll get you some answers and the help you need.” He gently puts a hand on the top of my arm.

It’s a small gesture—one that shouldn’t smash into me like it does. The tears flow freely no matter how much I try to stop the stream.

“I’ll give you a minute and call the offices for the doctors I’m referring you to. They’re both great—you’re in the best hands,” he says reassuringly.

Why isn’t there a way to pause crying? Like, I’m happy to continue this, but can I get six seconds to tell someone something without sounding like a character from the Muppet show?

“Thank you. For…” I try to take in air to bring my voice down an octave. “Everything. I appreciate you.” I grab my shirt and pull it on.

“Lia, we’re here for you. You’re part of the team.” He puts a hand on my shoulder as I let my head fall forward, ugly sobs escaping.

The heartbreak creeps up when the only person I wish I could have is my mom. The woman who has been gone for over fifteen years. I close my eyes and try to catch my breath, but I can’t. My hand claws at my shirt, feeling for my heartbeat—it’s erratic and too fast. I try to envision waves crashing, one of my go-to visuals for calming myself down. No matter what, it’s like the water won’t cooperate.

I lay back on the table, throwing a forearm over my eyes and welcoming the pressure. Maybe I can forcibly close my eyes and I’ll be able to get a grip. Find the string that brings me back to reality, where I’m okay and things will most likely work out. My brain searches feverishly for the string, and I think I’ve found it when everything goes silent.

You were made to do hard things.

It’s what my mom used to tell me whenever I was hurt, struggling, or complaining about not being good enough at something. It was her go-to mantra: you were made to do hard things. She said it with such conviction, not an ounce of doubt to be found. Her words dripped with love and determination. It wasn’t a way to get me to run from an emotion or challenge, but to run at them with full speed instead.

You were made to do hard things.

I cry for myself, for my mom, for the adult relationship I’ll never have with her. Tears fall for the unknown, in gratitude for the doctor who spent time with me, for the man who helped me understand that accepting help doesn’t make me less.

The sobs subside as my hands press on my chest, feeling the air fill my lungs and then out again. I take my phone and text the person I need more than anything right now.

Me

i know it’s a school night

but want to go to the diner?

icecream and french fries on me

Wes

sure

you good?

not really but i will b e

I text Brooks when I’m walking out to the car.

Me

hey, i’m grabbing some food with wes

i’ll be home in a little bit

Brooks

sounds good. be safe

He doesn’t ask me about seeing the doctor and I love him even more for that.