Underneath the Sycamore Tree(84)

“Ms. Matterson,” the doctor greets. He squeezes Dad’s shoulders like he must have done hundreds of times since our arrival.

“Emery,” I whisper, taking a deep breath of relief when the word forms correctly.

His hair is still dark. Not graying like most doctors I’ve crossed paths with. His face is wrinkle free and kind, like he hasn’t witnessed true tragedy yet. Does that give me hope? Or will I be the one to break him?

“Emery,” he corrects, washing his hands and drying them off at the sink in corner. “I’m Dr. Thorne. I was assigned to you when you arrived at this wing. After reading over your medical file and seeing the image tests, EKG, and lab work they did on you tonight, I contacted your rheumatologist for some additional information. I’ll need some further answers from you on how you’ve been feeling, to get a better picture.

“Can you tell me about some of the symptoms you’ve been experiencing? Is there anything out of the ordinary you’ve noticed over the past few months? Every detail will help.”

Dad’s breathing is unsteady, and I wonder if he’s going to cry. I’ve never seen him do that before and I’m not sure I ever want to. Tearing up and letting them spill are two different things. It’s like an acceptance that things have changed. When you tear up, you’re simply unsure. When you cry, you know.

I don’t want to know.

I don’t want Dad to know.

For some reason, I struggle looking at the young doctor. Instead, my eyes go from Dad to Cam to the door. I think about Kaiden and pretend he’s right here. He should be, he’s family.

My ears pick up on the drum of my heart, which pounds in a rocky beat. It doesn’t sound normal at all. It’s been like that for too long, and excuse after excuse I reasoned with its abnormality as if it made a difference. It overpowers the noise coming from the various machines hooked to me. Thump thump. Thump thump. Thump thump. Thump. Thump.

“Emery?” Dr. Thorne repeats.

“H-head…aches.”

He nods, glancing at the computer screen I didn’t know was on. “It looks like you came to the emergency room over the winter because of a migraine that turned into a fainting spell?”

I don’t answer.

Dad says, “Yes. She got sick at school and fainted, but insisted it was from the migraine.”

Pressing my lips together, I finally meet the doctor’s eyes. “I saw a…neuro..logist right after who helped me get medication.”

“Does it?”

“Yes.” No. I don’t know anymore.

“You no longer get headaches?”

No answer. My lips tingle.

His eyes scan the screen once more before he proceeds with his questions. “Have you noticed any changes in weight?”

I know for a fact any fluctuation is right in front of him, documented from my many visits and check-ins. “Gain. I’m not sure how much.”

“Bruising? Bleeding? Dizziness?”

Exhaustion sweeps through me. “Dr. Thorne, I’m t-tired. I-I’m sorry, but I want to know what’s going…I’ve never felt…I never had…”

I’m used to being here.

I’m used to the interrogations.

The assumptions.

The medical jargon.

But not in the Intensive Care Unit.

“Please,” I whisper brokenly.

Dad squeezes my hand, and I ignore the bite of pain that greets his strong grasp.

The doctor moves the computer away from him, giving me a firm-lipped expression. I know it too well, the distance he puts between us while he figures out how to deliver the news.

“We’re running additional tests,” he begins, not looking at anyone but me. I appreciate the effort he puts in that no other doctor does. I’d get worked up when doctors talked to Mama like I couldn’t possibly understand what they’re saying, much less be affected by the diagnosis as though I’m not the patient. “The scans that were done on you tonight showed many alarming things. Your brain tissue shows signs of extensive inflammation, as does the area around your heart. And your kidneys…”

I hold my breath.

My heart drums.

The clock on the wall ticks.

His voice is so soft it’s like velvet against my skin. “Emery, your kidneys barely showed up on the images done.”

Blinking, I shake my head.

His eyes are softer than his voice, but his body is straight and tense and professional. “The levels of your creatine and BUN tests also drew red flags. As soon as the radiologist read your images, the lab was contacted to do an additional glomerular filtration rate, or GFR, test that gives us an idea of your kidney function.”

My bottom lip trembles, but I refuse to cry. I know what he’s saying before he even says it. After I heard Mama talk to Grandma about Lo, I figured out how to do an online search to read about what she died from.

Kidney failure.

“The good news is, there are treatment options,” he proceeds to tell me, though his optimism if further than I can see. “Depending on what the labs show, we can figure out the best course of action for you. Your rheumatologist will be involved to speak to you about the medications you’re currently on…”

On and on he goes.

He tells me that the headaches are most likely related to my kidney problems and asks about any issues urinating.