Saving Meghan(18)
“I might start homeschooling Meghan,” my mom announced, like that’s at all relevant.
I managed to keep myself from rolling my eyes. I don’t know if she’d already compiled a full dossier on his life, but I appreciated that my mom wasn’t touching this doctor’s arms, gazing into his eyes, priming the pump, so to speak, so she can milk him later. For that bit of restraint, I offered a bit of my own.
“She’s missed so much classroom time,” Mom continued. “I don’t think it’s going to work out this year.”
I saw Dr. Fisher glance at my mother, his eyes lingering maybe a beat too long. I didn’t fault him for it. I’d look, too. My mom is gorgeous. She’s one of the most beautiful people in the world. Strangers are always checking her out, and before I got sick, some would ask if we were sisters, which always made us both blush before we laughed.
My mom means the world to me, and I wouldn’t care if she were ugly as a troll. She’s my advocate, my rock, my best friend. I do what she says, and I trust her completely, certainly a lot more than I trust my dad. The fact that he’s the one who suggested we see this doctor is probably the reason I’m so guarded, but there’s another consideration as well—the tests. Because I don’t understand my new disease, I don’t know what procedures this doctor might want to perform.
I can’t say when it happened, but at some point over the last few years, I’ve developed an inexplicable, deep-seated fear of needles. You might think it’s about the sting; the prickling worry that crops up whenever I hear the fair warning, “You’re going to feel a little pinch.” Swab on a numbing agent, have me look away, and that should be the end of it. But, no, it’s not the end, not by a long shot. There are words for what I have—I know because I’ve looked them up online. Aichmophobia. Belonephobia. Enetophobia. They sound like rare jungle diseases to me—but, nope, they are morbid fears of sharp things like pencils, even a pointed finger. What happens when you put a needle near me? I feel like I can’t breathe. I start to shake like I’m possessed. I’m overcome with an inexplicable feeling of dread. I sweat. I feel like my throat is filling with sand. I can’t speak.
It wasn’t like this when I was a kid. Sure, I hated shots. I’d throw fits. Produce tears at the mere mention of them. But I didn’t feel like I was dying. Imagine someone holding up a sharp object to your eyeball, moving it closer and closer, forcing your eyelids open, making you watch it advance, while you buck and thrash against straps holding you down, and then you’d start to understand how needles make me feel.
We’ve tried hypnosis, medication, all sorts of tricks, but none of it has worked. Needles are my biggest nightmare, and if this doctor wants more than a vial of blood from me, he’s going to have to put me under to get it.
For the next half hour, we talked about my symptoms and all that good stuff. Dr. Fisher listened attentively. I liked him—a lot, actually. He seemed to care, and that made me feel strangely sad. I imagined what it would feel like if my dad looked at me the way Dr. Fisher did, with sympathy and deep concern instead of judgment. I should just say it, put it out in the open, tell everyone what’s really going on here. But I stopped myself. I always stop myself. There were enough problems as it was.
“I’m going to be honest,” Dr. Fisher said after we’d finished playing everyone’s favorite game: What’s the Matter with Meghan? There were no more symptoms to review, or issues to discuss, no more medical secrets to reveal. “I think you were right to bring Meghan to see me. From what you’ve described, I’m concerned that she does have mitochondrial disease.” My mom covered her mouth with her hands, but I still heard the gasp. “The challenge is going to be proving it.”
My dad leaned forward in his chair, eyes boring into Dr. Fisher’s. “Why? Can’t you just run a test?”
“With mitochondrial disease, testing can be tricky,” Dr. Fisher said. “We can do some blood work, but I’d recommend a muscle biopsy.”
“What’s that?” my mother asked while I was thinking the same.
“It’s a surgical procedure where we take a small piece of muscle, usually the size of the end of a little finger, from the upper thigh to test whether or not Meghan’s body is producing enough energy for normal function. Recovery is quick, though Meghan will have a scar a few inches long. We’ll be able to give a local anesthetic, but for the procedure to work, she’d have to be awake.”
From a cabinet in his office, Dr. Fisher produced a needle unlike any I’d ever seen before. It was as long as my forearm, with two plastic loops at the handle where his fingers would go. To my eyes, the needle looked like a machete. Before Dr. Fisher could say anything more, before he could explain the procedure in more detail, or how he’d use that needle on me, I jumped off the table and raced out of the exam room as fast as my weakened legs could carry me.
CHAPTER 9
ZACH
Zach awoke at five o’clock that morning, his usual time, grateful not to have had the dream. Thin at forty-two, he proceeded through a series of body-weight exercises—push-ups, sit-ups, several types of planks, various stretches—working long enough and hard enough to get a good sweat going. He showered, shaved, and thought of Stacy. Images of her came to him often, but they always caught him by surprise. The most he had heard from his ex-wife in the past two years was when she would Like something he shared on Facebook, which he seldom did.