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“You’ve known each other for three years. You already discussed marriage with her. Graves’ disease doesn’t care about the calendar.”
Drew considered him through narrowed eyes. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Aithan shook his head. “Nothing. Just a nagging feeling that she’s worse off than she’s admitting to us or to herself.”
“You’re seriously that worried about her?”
Aithan looked toward the stairs. “Yeah, I am. One of my clients died because of a thyroid storm.”
Drew sat upright. “Wait. This shit Zel has can be fatal?”
“Yeah.”
“Fuck. We should get her to the hospital.”
“Not that simple. She’s not having a storm now. And I’m not saying she’s going to. They’re actually pretty rare. But her thyroid levels are definitely outta whack, which might explain her sudden stomach problems, too.”
“How do you know all this?”
Aithan shrugged. “After that client passed away, I made sure I understood Graves’ and any other illnesses my clients have. It’s part of helping people stay healthy.”
“Well, shit.” Drew rubbed his forehead. “I’ll get her to that doctor, even if I have to drag her there kicking and screaming. But I think the marriage thing should wait. It’s just pissing her off and that’s not helpful.”
Aithan nodded, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Yeah, okay. Priorities.”
Drew stood. “I’m gonna march into the lion’s den and talk to her.”
“Good luck.”
“Heh. Thanks. Pretty sure I’ll need it.” He grabbed a few flattened moving boxes from the kitchen and carried them upstairs. Zel sat on the floor in the hallway. She’d pulled all the sheets and towels from the linen closet and was sorting them, putting some into a pile and others into a box.
“Keep and donate?” he asked as he dropped the boxes in the master bedroom, then sat on the floor beside her, back against the wall. “You’re doing that now because why?”
“It needs to get done.”
“It’s ten o’clock.”
“So?”
“So I think sleep is probably more important for you than sorting sheets and towels.”
“Thanks,Dad, I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Zel—”
She stopped sorting, closed her eyes, and pressed her hand over her mouth. Drew wasn’t sure if she was going to cry or bite, so he waited. Finally, she sighed and looked at him. “The doctors want to remove my thyroid. They want to cut open my throat and take it out, and I’m terrified that—” She stopped, swallowed, drew a steadying breath, then continued, “terrified that they’ll damage my vocal cords and end my career.”
Well, that was another bit of unexpectedly awful news. “But you’re on medication.”
“And not achieving remission. Radio-iodine therapy is the preferred treatment for Graves’, but I’ve tried it twice. Both treatments failed and both triggered thyroid storms. The only guaranteed solution for me is thyroidectomy and that carries a thirty percent chance of vocal fold injury. So I pushed back, proposed being on methimazole for an extended period before trying radiation again. But my doctors are adamant about surgery.”
“Because they’re worried you’ll have another storm?” She nodded. Things were making more sense. “That’s why you’re pissed off about the tremor.”
“Yeah. I’m gonna get flak from my endocrinologist. She was fine with me being on medication long term as long as it was effective.”
“But it’s not.”
Zel picked lint off a towel. “Not consistently.”
