Saving Meghan(17)
“Tell me how your symptoms began,” the doctor asked.
By this point, Dr. Fisher had already taken my vitals, felt around my body, my throat, my glands—not in a creepy way; in a doctor way. I swear I could have done the job for him. I’ve had it done to me enough times that I have the moves down.
I was wearing a dumb gown—a “johnny,” some call it—which had become my sundress these days. If I took off the gown, the doctor would see my breasts that had gotten smaller and count too many exposed ribs. I could guess he was worried I don’t weigh what I should. I bet he was thinking eating disorder, but he’d be wrong. I don’t have a body image problem. I wasn’t trying to look like those magazine models with raccoon eyes and pipe-cleaner builds. I had an appetite that had decided to go on holiday for reasons yet unknown. But if the doctor needed to see me naked, I’d let him, and I wouldn’t care. That’s one benefit of getting poked and prodded by so many strangers. Your body becomes property to be passed around; you become immune to touch.
I told Dr. Fisher about the first time I felt off, which is how I’ve come to think of my condition. Not “sick,” but “off.” I told him how I never felt deathly ill, but I knew something was very wrong with me. It started at school, I said, when I got my first headache, that’s when the first switch got flipped.
“No, it wasn’t then, sweetheart,” my mother corrected me. “You had a piano lesson, remember? And you had to stop early because your head hurt too much.”
That’s right, I thought. That’s when it happened. That lesson was the start of my slow decline. And then I thought: How does she know more about my sickness than I do? I hate to admit it, but it’s moments like these when I have doubts about what’s going on inside me. Am I sick, or do I just think I am?
Dad said, “She started to have joint pain soon after, not really severe or anything. More like a nagging, dull ache, wouldn’t you say?”
Yes, of course you’d diminish it, I thought, not looking him in the eyes. But then again, you diminish everything, don’t you. Even us.
“Yeah, that’s right,” I said while I turned to my mother, as if I couldn’t answer without her approval.
“And the joint pain, what was that like for you?”
There was a catch in the doctor’s throat, like he got choked up or something, and again I thought of his sadness. It radiated off him like body heat. I was in a typical exam room, not in his private office, so there were no personal effects I could study that might offer clues about his past. I wondered if his whole family was killed in a plane crash. That’s the first thought that came to me, and I briefly contemplated the possibility I might be psychic. Maybe he was the sole survivor of this terrible tragedy I’d invented, and I remind him of the daughter he lost. It helped me to imagine other people suffering more than I was. It put things into proper perspective. It reminded me that it could be worse. It could always be worse.
The doctor looked at me funny again, waiting for me to answer. It wasn’t creepy, the way he studied me. It wasn’t that kind of look. More like he was remembering something, and I’m a reminder of that something for him. I got the sense he wanted those reminders, too, but at the same time, he didn’t. It made me think of a boy from school who I had a crush on. Every now and again, I’d catch him staring at me, but he’d always turn away, as if it were okay to admire me from afar, but any real contact between us would overwhelm him. The doctor’s looks are sort of the same, but not in a boy-likes-girl kind of way. It’s more like I’m overwhelming for him, though for the life of me, I can’t imagine why. I settle on my plane-crash scenario and move on. Then I remembered the question about my joint pain, and I tried to think how best to answer.
“It felt like, um … like my joints were stiffening.”
Oh great, Meghan, I scolded myself. That’s soooooo helpful. That’s going to tell him soooooo much. Part of the problem was that I didn’t exactly know what to say anymore. Should I tell Dr. Fisher about how lethargic I’ve become? How I’ve lost interest in my friends? My life? I know I’m too young to be going through the motions, but I can’t seem to help myself. Nothing holds much interest or appeal for me these days.
I’ve stopped playing piano. Stopped soccer. I used to love school, never complained about homework, or reading, or even math, which was far from my best subject. I just did the work happily. I had my friends. We talked about boys and teachers, and gossiped the way most girls do. I went to parties and attended school and sporting events and whatnot. I watched whatever shows on Netflix everyone was watching. I posted pictures to Instagram that made me look cool, or pretty, or even better, both. All of that was gone now.
I couldn’t concentrate for shit. I didn’t care about school anymore, or my friends, or Instagram, for that matter. I wasn’t depressed, or sad, or melancholy. I didn’t feel like cutting my wrists or legs like some friends of mine did. I wasn’t suicidal either. I wanted to live, but I was shutting down. That’s the best way to describe how I felt. Meghan Off! It was like switches were flipping inside my body. Instead of running full speed, I was coming to a grinding halt. I didn’t want to overshare in front of my parents, so I told the doctor some of this, but not all of it, just enough to give him the impression that I felt utterly, strangely depleted.