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Hazel eyes train on me through thick-rimmed glasses, and the doctor leans back in his seat, running a hand through his silver hair, sighing as he does it.
“I’m sorry. What did you say?”
He smiles softly, revealing a look of pity I know all too well. It makes my stomach churn. I don’t want pity. I want help.Answers.I want a chance to live a full life—to get a man like the one outside to take a second look at me.
Is that really too much to ask?
The doctor sighs. “Maybe it’s time you meet with a grief counselor. Someone who can help you come to terms with what’s happening.”
I snort.If I had a dime…“Come to terms with dying at the ripe old age of twenty-six? I’ll pass, thanks.”
“You know, it’s normal to be angry. Afraid. Learning that you only have six months—”
“Thank you for your help,” I interrupt him, not wanting to hear another damned word. “I really appreciate everything you tried to do for me. I won’t ever forget it. In fact, I’ll remember until the day I die.” Pushing to my feet, I sling the olive-green strap of my messenger bag over my shoulder.
Dr. Alexander stands as well. “Think about what I said.”
Uh-oh. There’s the problem with not listening.“Which part?”
“Going into hospice care could keep you comfortable until…”
That’s a new one.“Until I die?”
He purses his lips. “I truly am sorry.”
Forcing a smile, I step forward and offer my hand. He takes it, holding it softly, as though the slightest pressure might break me. That’s been the worst part of dying. Having everyone treat me like I’m made of glass. “I really do appreciate everything you’ve done. But I won’t be going into hospice care.”
“Ember, you don’t have anyone. Accepting help is not—”
“I’ll be fine,” I interrupt.Thanks for the reminder that I’m all alone.
Thankfully, he seems to have the good nature not to argue with me. “Please, just think about it. While you do, we can continue the cold therapy. It seems to help keep the spells at bay.”
I know he’s just looking out for me; after all, we’ve spent the last year running every test, trying every possible route to manage my symptoms, and so far, nothing has worked. But he’s the only doctor, out of the sixteen I’ve seen over the last five years, who I believe has actually given it his all.
Yet, he still found nothing. No one can tell me why I pass out at random, why my hot flashes make me feel as if I’m about to spontaneously combust. And so far, no matter how many tests they run or how many ‘specialists’ I see, not a single doctor has been able to tell me why my temperature runs over a hundred degrees…or why my organs are shutting down, one by one. How, one moment, I feel totally normal, and the next, I can be nearly positive that I’m about to draw my last breath.
“Thank you for everything. Sincerely. But I won’t be needing the cold therapy anymore.” I offer him a hug then force myself to leave his office before he can bring up hospice again or ask me why I turned down the one treatment that brought me any relief.
Sarah, the receptionist, glances up from her computer to offer me a smile and a wave. “See you later, Ember.”
Once upon a time, right after I’d started seeing Dr. Alexander, we’d gone out for a girls’ night. Drinks at the club. She’d gone home with a man she’s now engaged to. She’d been the closest thing I’d ever had to a friend…until I’d confided in her that my prognosis had worsened.
Wasn’t long after that she’d pulled back. Stopped inviting me out, stopped returning my messages.
Not that I blame her. There aren’t many people who’d want to be friends with a walking dead woman. After all, why would you want to grieve someone you just met?
“See you around,” I say. “Good luck with the wedding.”
“You know you’re invited.”
I tap my bag. “Have my invitation right here.” Neither of us mentions the giant elephant in the room. Her wedding is in just over a year, and according to the good doctor, I have less than six months before my entire body shuts down and I join the dearly departed.
Sunshine warms my bare shoulders as I step out into the bright early-summer afternoon. Texas summer came early this year, and with my hot flashes, I’m already rocking cut-off shorts and a tank top in the seventy-degree weather. Since my temperature runs at one-hundred-and-four on average, one-ten during a spike, there aren’t many opportunities for me to be cold.
I step up to the curb and force my attention away from the handsome businessman waiting for the crosswalk beside me. Not that he pays me any attention, at all. Since I can’t keep anything down, putting any kind of weight on is impossible. Add that to my flushed skin, thinning hair, and gaunt appearance—let’s just say I know I’m less than noticeable.
It’s embarrassing to have the body of a pre-pubescent teenager, but at least I don’t look healthy. Pretty sure that would be false advertising.
