“I’m sorry,” I say slowly. “But anopening? What does that mean?”
“Exactly what it sounds like,” he explains, looking apologetic. “Sometimes, people are born with gaps in between the bones of their spine. It’s called spina bifida.”
“Spina bifida?” I’ve cared for clients with spina bifida before, and I would know if I had it. This guy is off his rocker. “I don’t have spina bifida.”
“Maybe not the kind you’re familiar with—which is often a more severe version. Milder forms likethis,” he nods at the screen,“often go undiagnosed.” He shrugs. “Some people go their entire lives without even knowing about it.”
Amildform of spina bifida? How does one have amildlyopen spine?
I’m getting more and more worked up by the second, and I think Brandon can tell. He presses his hand against my leg, telling me to calm down so this man—a doctor with an inability to get on the patient’s level, clearly—can continue spouting nonsense.
Dr. Ramirez apologizes, sensing my shift toward hysteria. “Let me walk this back. I’ve spotted a small gap in your spine right where it meets your pelvis. This openingcouldbe the result of a milder version of spina bifida.”
“I had no idea there was amilderform of spina bifida.”
He nods, allowing me to absorb this information. “Typically, it doesn’t interfere with the normal function of the spine.”
“Okay, so . . . what do I do? I mean . . . about it?”
He shrugs nonchalantly, and it irritates me. “That depends.”
“On . . . ?”
“The severity of the condition.”
“Okay . . . ?”
Dr. Ramirez shoots a quick, apprehensive glance at Brandon. “Are you in pain normally? Or was the accident when the lower back pain began for you?”
I hesitate, afraid of my own answer.
Dr. Ramirez takes pity on me. “Symptoms of a condition like this could manifest as lower back pain, incontinence, or weakness or numbness in the legs. Perhaps pain in the bowel or genital area.” He gazes at me evenly. “Have you experienced any of these symptoms?”
My mind spins as I gaze down at my complicated lower half. I can feel Brandon watching me, and my cheeks warm. I have experiencedallof those symptoms. But I’m not about to talk about my poor bladder control and chronic UTI problems in front of him. No way.
“Evie?” Brandon prompts.
“Huh? I, uh . . .” I scratch the skin below my ear, unsure how to navigate this situation. “I—”
“Back pain,” Brandon interjects, who is now my spokesperson, apparently. “She’s always complaining about her back.”
I glare at him.
Dr. Ramirez nods. “That could very well be related.”
I swallow. “And if it is?”
“Well,” he hedges. “I’d recommend seeing a specialist, like a neurologist. They’ll provide a proper diagnosis and offer more guidance. What do you do for work?”
I shrink back into the bed. I already get enough flack from people about my chosen vocation. I don’t need to add fuel to the fire. “I’m a caregiver.”
“Well, if you’re doing a lot of heavy lifting, that may be what’s aggravating your back. Consider taking some time off, and if that helps—well, then you can reevaluate.”
Grimacing, I tug the scratchy blanket tighter around my body. I can read between the lines. What he means by that is,find a new job.I care for people with all kinds of health conditions, and lifting and transferring is asignificantpart of the gig. Never in my life did I expect to have a health condition of my own—and one that could interfere with my ability to take care of my clients. Many of whom I love like family.
The revelation makes me want to weep. I love my job. But it’s the people I love the most. What would I do if I couldn’t provide them care anymore? It would crush me. My life is meaningless enough as it is; I can’t lose the one thing that gives me a sense of real purpose.
“Well,” Dr. Ramirez begins, gently patting his legs before rising. “If you don’t have any other questions, we can get your discharge papers drawn up and get you out of here.”
