Dashing is the first word that comes to mind. Dr. Fraine looks to be around forty. His dark hair has a peppering of gray, his dark eyes inviting.
He smiles briefly before continuing. “I may have overbooked my day.”
I mumble, “that’s okay,” probably sounding dim, but his whole aura makes me feel… safe. Before he’s even examined me or talked about my health, I’m sure he’ll help me.
I’ve never felt that way since this all started.
His nurse comes back in while he uses his stethoscope to listen to my heart and lungs. He looks in my eyes with a bright penlight, all the while asking me questions. “...Okay, look straight ahead. That's it. You said this started almost a year ago?”
I forget about the lithe, scrub-clad nurse documenting things on a computer in the corner as I focus on the doctor. I explain everything I have told other health professionals, the episodes, the test results that never give answers, the memory loss, and I even admit to the vivid hallucinations.
“Hallucinations? Could you tell me what you mean by that?” He drops down onto a rolling stool next to the exam table. “Did that start right away, or develop over time?”
I suck my lips in, my eyes roaming the room before settling on his nameplate under a faculty picture: Dr. Christopher Erik Fraine. How do I describe this? I finally focus on my hands resting in my lap. “I have an episode… or a seizure? I’m not sure what they are. I see and hear things that feel real, but I… I don’t think they’re real?”
Yes, I do. Why did I say that?
There’s no judgment on the doctor’s face, and his tone is kind when he responds, “I’ve looked over your medical history and tests. I’d say the previous doctors thought you were having focal onset seizures, but I don’t think that’s accurate.”
The reassurance in his words and demeanor makes me relax slightly. He’s paying attention… a tiny hope springs up. “The oncologist I saw a couple of months ago said it was leukemia.”
He folds his hands around one of his knees, a slight grimace escaping before he coughs. “I’ll let you get dressed, and when you’re ready, just step into my office, alright? We can discuss how to proceed.”
Even while skirting around my previous diagnosis, I’m still calm. Maybe too calm, considering the shit situation I’m in. But I trust Dr. Fraine completely. He exudes capability.
The nurse softly shuts the exam room door while I glance back at the painting. Hopping down from the exam table, I don’t pull on my jeans and sweater. Instead, I step closer to the painting, even running my hand over the gilded scrollwork of its frame. I’m surprised to see it’s by the same artist as the drawings in JJ’s hatbox: E.B. Housman.
It shouldn’t… since the artist has ties to this university.
Once I’m done dressing, I note that I’m feeling healthy… healthier than I have for a while. No shortness of breath, no faint feelings, no pain.
Ironic, since I’m at the doctor’s office and none of my symptoms are plaguing me.
Dr. Fraine looks up from his computer when I walk in. He asks me to have a seat. “Ms. Ahrens, there are some tests I’d like done again: another brain scan, an MRI with contrast, and blood work, but it’s only to confirm what I believe you have.”
The smile I had melts away. His seriousness can’t be a good sign. “O-okay… yeah, I understand.”
Come the fuck on… really? No. I don’t understand anything.
He gives me a look of sympathy, one I’ve seen far too often. “It’s highly likely you have Transitive Progressive Tyre Disorder. The hallucinations are due to neuron erosion. Other symptoms include passing out from exertion, memory issues, short periods of catatonia, and eventually organ function failure.”
My heart takes a free fall… organ failure…
“That sounds...” I clear my throat. “How long before… ya know, before...” My words fail.
Grabbing his tissue box, he moves around the desk to sit on the side of it, extending it to me. “Would you like us to call your parents and discuss treatment options?”
No tears fall as I sit stiffly in my seat, shaking my head. I don’t want to tell them. Eventually they need to know, but I want to spare them as long as I can.
“I don’t want to give you a time frame, because treatment can slow it… but there is no cure.”
I’m numb as he tells me there is a regimen of hormones, nerve medication, and pain medication to help with symptoms, but I don’t pay much attention. My mind is stuck in a loop. “There is no cure… there is no cure… organ failure.”
Handing me his card with a phone number, date, time, and new passcode to the campus, he says, “I’d like to see you twice a week. I’ll get meds ordered and sent to your address. Be sure to let me know right away if you have any strange side effects.”
All I can do for the rest of the few minutes I’m with Dr. Fraine is nod, because I’m suppressing a scream building inside me. I’m not ready to go. Even if I felt like ending it months ago, I’m not really ready to be done.
Everything feels unfinished.
