I flipped a few more pages in the album, past baseball uniforms, first days of school, family photos in front of the house for Easter. My gaze landed on another: Brooke and me at our 8th grade graduation. Both of us were clearly in our awkward teenage phases. Her teeth were covered in braces, and her dark hair was smoothly pulled back into her signature ponytailbeneath her graduation cap. Her cap was placed perfectly on her head, while mine sat slightly askew. In the photo we embraced in a tight side hug and wore matching giant grins. I could tell I was standing tall, proud that I had finally surpassed her in height.
I remembered how she and her group of girl friends at school had teased me mercilessly that year, even going so far as to convince me that Brooke had a secret boyfriend named Joshua, a fact that always made me clam up and blush. They were never mean about it, but they loved to rib me about the blush that would creep into my cheeks at just the thought of Brooke “dating” someone. My memory leapt to popular-kid Connor’s 13th birthday party, where everyone conspired to try to get Brooke and me to kiss through games like “Spin the Bottle” and “Seven Minutes in Heaven.”
“Stop, guys,” Brooke would scold them. “It isn’t like that. We’re just best friends.”
I searched through more photos, my eyes zooming in to see if any of the photos showed the small birthmark on the back of her neck, near her right ear. When we were teens I’d joked with her that it looked like a hickey, but my strait-laced best friend wasnotamused by that description.
Next, my mind flickered back to sitting in the stands watching Brooke’s varsity volleyball games. She was the captain, and a fierce competitor. Her long ponytail swished from side to side as she directed her teammates to victory. As the game wore on, I loved seeing little wisps of hair sneak out from her perfect ponytail. Her face was set in determination as she took a step forward, tossed the ball in the air, and sent it sailing over the net.
I opened my fourth beer, and fired off a text to my mom:
Coming to Vermont for the reunion.
2
BROOKE
Fun Fact #30: According to the American Nurses Association, “Nursing is an age-old profession. As long as humans have been providing health care, nurses have been there in some way, administering treatment, caring for patients, and supporting their recovery.”
“Tomboy Brooke” was no more—I’d left her back in Birch Hollow. Moving away to Boston for college had allowed me a chance to finally start fresh and shed eighteen years of tomboy conformity, the outer layer I’d projected in order to fit in with the neighborhood boys.
In college I had found a love of feminine fashion, and I especially loved wearing dark skinny jeans, oversized sweaters, and cute boots in the fall. I felt like the quintessential early-aughts New England girl, traipsing around the Boston campus with fall leaves crunching underfoot and an infinity scarf around my neck.
My first college act was to join a sorority, overhauling my childhood persona and placing myself far out of reach of anyremaining sporty, tomboy nature. I hid my childhood knowledge of sports trivia and love ofThe Goonies, molding my personality into New Brooke. New Brooke got hair blowouts and pedicures, gave makeup tips, and only went to baseball games to whisper with her sorority sisters about the boys’ firm butts in their baseball pants. New Brooke was the life of any party.
This was all before the diagnosis, of course.
Now, as a young adult, I felt like I’d found a happy medium. I kept my nails on the short side, but always fully manicured. I kept my dark brown hair long, alternating between its natural smooth and straight texture and curling it into full, loose waves. I had to pull it back for work, but even in my scrubs, I never left the house without my undereye concealer, my perfected eyebrow tint, and a coat of black mascara. Work Brooke had to be pulled together.
At home, I finally allowed myself to relax. I kept a home-only wardrobe of comfy sweats and faded tees in my favorite fabrics. Comfort was of the utmost importance, and I chose fabrics that didn’t irritate my eczema, which had significantly worsened over the years. The sweats and comfy clothes were also particularly important for my stiff and achy joints.
After I graduated with my Bachelor’s of Science in Nursing from UMass Boston, I had used my sorority connections to find a nursing job in the city. My own doctors warned me that I might find a nursing job—with all those hours on my feet—too taxing. But I’d wanted to be a nurse nearly half my life, and I was determined to see it through.
Work was exhausting, but with the right inflammation-reducing medication, I could make it through my shifts, though without more than an ounce of energy left to spare. So my days off were spent in lounge mode, flipping through magazines, catching up on shows, and cuddling up with my sweet two-year-old red golden retriever, Maple.
My social circle had shrunk dramatically since my sorority days. Honestly, I didn’t miss it much. Sorority events were occasionally fun, but that life had almost always felt like a performance for me. It’s like I had swung so far from trying to project the perfect tomboy image, and instead spent four years trying to project the perfect girly girl. Neither was really me.
And nowadays, I just didn’t have the physical or social battery for social events beyond work. Other than my roommate, Whit (who also happened to be my favorite nurse co-worker and absolute best friend), I rarely interacted outside of work.
Whit was midwestern-weather-girl beautiful, classy and natural with light brown hair streaked naturally with blonde. She kept her hair shorter than mine, and it had a natural waviness I envied. Freckles dotted her light olive skin. She had a thrift-store slash designer-chic style of fashion, with stylish shaggy bangs and bright green eyes that popped under dark lashes.
Like I said, total stunner.
Whit and I had initially bonded over both being taller-than-average females (I was 5’7” and she was 5’9”), and our shared adversity during clinical rotations had cemented the friendship in a forged-in-fire, sisters-in-arms kind of way.
As fate would have it, Whit was a homebody like me, so we often spent nights having movie marathons of our favorite classic rom-coms. We’d eat chicken-and-avocado burritos and drink sparkling white grape juice out of champagne flutes, laughing together until our eyelids felt heavy and we stumbled off to bed.
Another amazing thing about Whit was that she never questioned me when it came to my physical or social limits. She was one of the few people who knew about my early-stage rheumatoid arthritis diagnosis, and she knew that consuming alcohol was a big no-no on my medication. I could have theoccasional glass of wine, technically, but it always exacerbated my side effects, and I’d end up even more exhausted. It just wasn’t worth it for me. Being a 23-year-old non-drinker definitely caused a few questions and sideways glances out in public, but thankfully, at home with Whit, I never felt that pressure.
After today’s shift, I felt particularly run down. My joints had their telltale tingling and burning sensations, and I knew I was in dire need of an evening in my sweats with my feet propped up. By the time Whit arrived home, I was already sprawled out on the couch, my face makeup-free and my hair flowing loosely across my shoulders. She plopped down on her preferred side of our comfy beige couch and gave Maple a rub of greeting. I rubbed my neck and let out a sigh of relief as the joints slowly cracked.
“How’s our pretty girl doing today?” she asked affectionately, causing Maple to flop onto her back in a silent request for belly rubs.
“Being the smartest and sweetest, as always,” I cooed. “I’ve started adding to her training. Watch this. Maple, go get meds.”
Maple hopped off the couch, trotted to my room, and returned with a pill bottle gently clutched in her jowls.
“What a good girl, Maple!” Whit exclaimed. “Seriously,” she said to me, “that’s impressive. Think we could train her to take over our shifts? Today was brutal.”
