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I glance around the tiny room. My head still throbs like somebody is drilling a hole in it. My stomach aches. And just that tiny movement leaves me gripping the toilet and heaving again.
The medicine has done nothing, if any of it actually got into my system before I puked it all up.
“Okay,” I concede.
They don’t waste any time putting my shoes, hat, and sunglasses on me. Before I know it, we’re in their truck, then parking at the hospital. Once we enter the doors, everything is a blur.
Vitals, IV, pain medicine, lab work, at some point I change into a hospital gown. It’s all the same as every other visit, even the part where I’m itching like I have fleas instead of puking. Even Brendan and Breckin pacing my room, then both curling up on the narrow hospital bed with me is the same.
“Shit, Asra,” Brendan states, hugging me tightly, “I am so sorry. This is all my fault. If we –”
“No,” I cut him off, but he just shakes his head.
“We shouldn’t have left you outside. We won’t –”
“No!” Tears stream down my cheeks as I find both of their hands and hold them. “I’ve spent the last ten years hiding, hoping for a cure so I could live my life. But you,” I glance from side to side at both of them, “both of you, have shown me that I can live.” A few more tears fall. “I went camping. I went to a carnival, rode a Ferris Wheel, had sex on a beach.” I laugh, even through the pain and tears. “You can’t take that away from me. I’m tired of being a hermit, watching life pass me by. I want to live, I want to have a life.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” Dr. Shultz breezes in and checks my vitals. Once she’s satisfied, she sits down, her casual, green shorts peeking out from underneath her long white lab coat, making me wonder if she came in on her day off just for me.
It wouldn’t be the first time.Run an IV. Glucose and pain meds. Pee test. Call Dr. Schultz.I swear, that's got to be written on a giant, sticky note at the top of my file for every time I’ve come in here. Especially since my diagnosis, she’s the only one that has any clue what’s actually happening with me.
“I wasn’t expecting you for two more days.” A professional smile fills her face as she looks directly at me.
“Yeah,” I try to return her smile, but the pain is too bad, “guess I couldn’t stay away.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Um,” I scratch at my arms, “still hurting.”
Twisting, she types something in my chart. “How would you rate your pain?”
“Maybe a six.”
A slight nod, then more writing before she twirls on the small, round stool to face me again. “Asra, this is the –”
“Two emergency visits in about a week.” My shoulders sag, I know, it’s been rough.
“I don’t think we’re managing it as well as we need to be.” I start to protest, I’ve given up so much, there’s really no other lifestyle changes left to make, when she produces a card from her pocket and hands it to me, “I’d like you to see a specialist. I know it’s a long trip, but . . .”
I glance down at the white business card for a hematologist in Seattle.
“If you can make it, I’d like you to see him. Dr. Manchad is a specialist in blood disorders. He has more experience with porphyria than I do.”
“We can take her,” Breckin speaks up, his arm still wrapped around me.
“Wonderful.” She glances to him for a brief second before returning her attention to me. “I’ve already scheduled you an appointment for Monday morning.”
Breckin nods. “I have to head up that day anyway for a client meeting. You can come with me.”
