A stinging pain begins to radiate in the arches of my feet before moving up through my entire body to the migraine at the top of my head. My jaw pops and throbs with every movement, making any effort to eat unbearable. The muscles in my calves spasm while every joint creaks and pops. My fingers and toes tingle, briefly losing feeling before an intense aching pain returns. The room spins as my vision blurs and a wave of lightheadedness washes over me. The symptoms have persisted for three months, now and my concern is growing.
We pull up to the doctor’s office, parking the bronze ’96 Ford Taurus under a snow-covered tree in the corner of the lot. Jack shuts off the car’s ignition, but doesn’t move to open the door. I take a deep breath and slowly exhale. It’s gonna be okay. You’re gonna be okay. You’re fine. He reaches out and closes his gloved hand around mine, squeezing gently. I glance over, flashing a small smile. His eyes meet mine; they shine brightly behind his thick-framed, Clark Kent-esque glasses. What a dork.
“I really appreciate the ride, Jack.”
“Don’t mention it, Morrie. What are brothers for?” He adjusts his beanie to better
protect his ears from the harsh December air. “You ready?”
Opening the door, I carefully step out of the car, slipping a little on the ice, but catch myself, knees and hips popping with every movement. “Whoa! Morrie, you okay?” Jack leaps out of the car and rushes to my side, wrapping an arm around my waist as I regain my balance.
“Yeah. I’m okay. It’s just a little icy.” I grab my purse before gently shutting the door and crossing the parking lot. The dark building looms over us as we approach. Jack yanks the frosty glass door open and a wave of warm air envelops us. We begin trudging up the stairs, pausing halfway as I attempt to stave off the wave of dizziness that has suddenly overcome me. When the lightheadedness subsides, we push onward. At the top of the stairs, we take a sharp left and enter the waiting room.
“Hi, I’m Maureen Hawthorn. I have an appointment.”
“It looks like you’ve checked in online. We’ll call you when we’re ready.”
I walk over to where Jack is sitting, pull out my phone, and begin scrolling through Twitter. Huh. National Geographic posted a story about female resilience and survival. Funny. I’m not feeling so resilient at the moment. My head throbs and I close my eyes, desperate for some relief. The lights are so bright in here. Tears well up in the corners of my eyes before crawling down my cheeks one at a time.
“Maureen Hawthorn.” I slowly open my eyes, pocket my phone, and stand to follow the nurse.
“I’ll be right here, Morrie.” Jack gives me an encouraging smile as I turn the corner.
The nurse leads me down a long hallway to a small side room where she asks me to remove my coat and scarf before taking my vitals: height, weight, blood pressure, heart rate, temperature. The nurse records the results on her laptop before she begins to ask the usual, probing questions. How long have you been you sexually active? Do you smoke? Tobacco or marijuana? How frequently? Do you drink? How much? What medications are you currently taking? What was the start date of your last menstrual cycle?
When she has satisfactory answers to all her questions, the nurse escorts me to a small exam room. I haphazardly shove my scarf into my coat sleeve as we walk. As we enter the room, I toss my coat and purse onto a chair and climb onto the examination table, making the paper crinkle and crunch loudly.
“Sit tight. The doctor will be in soon.”
I smile at the nurse’s back as she leaves, closing the door behind her. I take a deep breath, scratching at the table’s paper wrapping as I exhale. Glancing around the room, I take in the dark grey coloring of the walls, the deep purple color of the carpet, the jars filled with tongue depressors and cotton balls beside an open box of latex gloves. The room smells like any other room in any other doctor’s office: sterile with a tinge of sweet that I can never seem to identify.
I wait in agony for the doctor to arrive. Has time ever moved this slowly before? Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. My legs begin to cramp and my fingers begin to ache. Stretching out my legs, I roll my ankles in a desperate attempt to ease the pain. Pop. Pop. Pop. The muscles in my calves begin to loosen so I move on to the pain in my hands, gently rubbing each finger between my thumb and pointer finger. The pain begins to subside, but I’m still rubbing my fingers when the door swings open.
“Maureen, how are we today?” The doctor strides in, closing the door behind her.
“I’m okay. How are you?”
She takes a seat, flipping open my file. “I’m doing well. Thank you. So, why don’t you tell me what’s been going on?”
I begin to recount the anguish of the past three months: the physical pain, the exhaustion, the inability to focus, the irritability and depression. The doctor holds eye contact, occasionally nodding before scratching a few notes down in the file. As soon as I’ve finished, she stands to check my breathing. In and out. In and out. Returning the stethoscope to her pocket, the doctor begins feeling my throat. Fuck! Her fingers are cold! She gently presses her fingers into neck, starting near the collarbone and moving up to the base of my jaw.
“Hm. A little swollen here.” She turns on her heels and sits back down. “We’re going to schedule you for an ultrasound to make sure the swelling isn’t anything serious.”
“Serious?” Did I wait too long to come in?
“Based on your symptoms, I believe it’s autoimmune. Have you been experiencing any stress?”
I have to stifle a laugh. Teaching kindergarten isn’t really known for being a stress-free profession. I basically herd cats for eight hours a day, five days a week. Not to mention the divorce. Five years of marriage and Max suddenly decides he’s done. “Stress? Yeah. Of course.”
The doctor nods and rises. “The stress you’re under is causing your body to attack itself which is why you feel sick, but don’t appear sick. Autoimmune diseases rarely present with visible symptoms because it’s all internal. We’re going to need to do a blood test to confirm the diagnosis. I’ll send in a nurse.”
The doctor leaves the room. Her words are still ringing in my ears when a cheery-looking nurse with a bouncing ponytail opens the door. She smiles widely as she rolls in a cart topped with needles, antiseptic cloths, cotton, and bandages.
“Hi, there! Hop down off the table for me and take a seat in the chair.”
I nod and climb down from the table, joints popping and paper crunching. I toss my things on the floor and take a seat, rolling up my sleeve and extending my right arm. The nurse ties a rubber strip around my upper arm and asks that I slowly open and close my fist to increase blood flow. She inserts the needle into my vein and I inhale sharply, trying to ignore the pinch. The vial is attached and rapidly fills with blood. I glance over at the spurting crimson liquid. Gosh, it comes out fast. The needle is removed and its place is taken by a piece of cotton.
“Hold that, please.” The nurse turns to grab the bandage, cutting a long strip. She wraps my arm in a band of fluorescent pink. I quickly pull the shirtsleeve back down to my wrist, hiding the only visible evidence that anything is wrong. “You’re all done, sweetie. We’ll call you with the results.”
“Thanks.” Gathering my things, I head back down the hallway toward the waiting room. Jack is exactly where I left him, scrolling through some random news article on his phone. “Hey, pal. Thanks for waiting. You ready to go?”
“Yeah. Sure thing. Hey, Morrie, have you heard about this God particle thing?”
“What is it?” I wrap my scarf around my neck and tug on my coat.
“Scientists at CERN think they’ve discovered the Higgs Boson. It could explain why objects have mass, Morrie. This is a huge deal.”
“Sounds like it. Do you think Dad knows?”
“Do I think Dad knows? Who do you think sent me the article? Check your email. I bet you got one, too.”
“Maureen Hawthorn? This is Cindy from your doctor’s office. I’m calling with the results of your blood test. So, it looks like your thyroid hormone levels are well below normal which means that your thyroid is not working like it’s supposed to. Based on the symptoms described when you first came in and the results of this test, we believe you have chronic lymphocytic thyroiditis. Unfortunately, you will need to come in every six-to-eight weeks for blood tests to ensure that your thyroid function remains consistent.”
“Consistent?”
“With this particular autoimmune disease, your hypothyroidism can rapidly switch to hyperthyroidism so we need to monitor your hormone levels. Your doctor has prescribed a synthetic thyroid hormone and would like to schedule you for an ultrasound as soon as possible. Is there any time tomorrow that works best for you?
“Oh. Um. Can I do sometime in the morning?”
“Sure. I have a 10:00, a 10:15, a 10:30, a 10:45, and an 11:00.”
“Could I do 10:00?”
“Sure. Alrighty then. So, your appointment is at 10:00 at Methodist Hospital. You should arrive about fifteen minutes early to fill out any paperwork. Do you have any more questions?”
“Um. No. I think I’m okay. Thank you.”
“Okay then. Have a nice day.”
“Thanks. Uh. You, too.” I hang up and take a deep breath, rubbing my temples to subdue the oncoming migraine.
I sit at the kitchen table, pulling on the fraying edge of the tablecloth. The, once bright, paisley print is starting to fade, but the memories that accompany the cloth remain vivid. The sun is setting behind the trees, its orange glow reflecting on the windows. My laptop sits on the table in front of me, the screen glowing with WebMD, Mayo Clinic, Webster’s Dictionary, Wikipedia, and a million other tabs. My mind races with the knowledge gathered through my obsessive research.
Chronic lymphocytic thyroiditis. It’s… an inherited thyroid disorder… damages the thyroid cells… thyroid hormone plays a crucial role in the health of nearly every cell… immune system attacks the thyroid… primarily affects middle-aged women… a chronic autoimmune thyroiditis… production of antibodies which attack the thyroid… gland is gradually destroyed… complications include thyroid lymphoma… due to a combination of genetic and environmental factors… Fuck.
Tired of the emotional roller coaster my research has taken me on, I open my email to make sure I haven’t missed any notifications from Principal Finch. I smile at the email staring at me from my inbox. “Fwd: ‘God Particle’ Found? ‘Historic Milestone’ From Higgs Boson Hunters” Haha. Jack was right. Dad sent me the article, too. Closing my laptop, I pull up the Higgs Boson article on my phone and head upstairs.
I wake up before the sun has risen above the horizon and stare at the ceiling fan rapidly spinning above me. The muscles in my arms and legs tighten, aching as I consider the possible outcomes of the ultrasound. Everything could be fine. Or it could be cancer. Or it could be nothing. Or maybe you’re dying. Fuck. I need coffee. I sit up, but find that I am struck by a sudden wave of dizziness. After taking a moment to regain composure, I throw off the sheets and slide out of bed.
Gradually walking down the creaking staircase to the kitchen, I run my hand along the wall to maintain balance. Without Max, the quiet of the house is suffocating and the once picture-laden walls are barren. In the kitchen, I begin making a pot of coffee, staggering around in the dark before deciding to flick on the lights. Damn, that’s bright! I quickly turn off the lights. Soon, the fragrant scent of coffee fills the air. I inhale deeply. I’ve always loved the smell of coffee. I walk over to the kitchen table, stumbling a little as my knees lock. Fuck. I stabilize myself with the table and take a seat, waiting for the coffee to brew. I stare at the smooth, silver surface of my laptop before opening it. The tabs from the previous night’s research stare back at me from the glowing screen. Hypothyroidism complications. Thyroid cancer. Chronic lymphocytic thyroiditis. Hypothyroidism causes. Thyroid healing. I drag my cursor up to the little plus sign and click, opening a new tab. I stare blankly at the screen for about thirty seconds before deciding I’ve done enough research and slamming the laptop shut. Leaning back in my chair, I glance up at the time, glowing green from the microwave. 2:33 Great. Jack should be here in about six hours.
Jack and I sit in the creaking wooden chairs of the waiting room as I fill out paperwork, answering questions about insurance coverage, emergency contacts, allergies, medical history, the usual. I return the clipboard and paperwork to the front desk before returning to my seat. The small, wooden table beside me is littered with old magazines; I pick up the nearest gossip mag and begin flipping through the pages. Whose-its is dating so-and-so who is the father of her sister’s baby. Groundbreaking stuff. Before I can get too engrossed in mindless celebrity news, a nurse with a clipboard and navy blue scrubs calls my name. I stand and follow her through the large, swinging doors.
We enter a dimly lit room occupied by a bed, a single chair, and a cart laden with ultrasound equipment. I toss my purse on the chair and remove my coat.
“Lie down on the bed, please.” I walk over and position myself on the bed. “Slide up, please. Yep. Right there.”
The nurse pulls on a rubber glove and squirts a translucent gel onto her palm. She reaches over to begin rubbing the gel on my throat. I tense up, waiting for the cold, but it doesn’t come; the gel is much warmer than I expected. She trashes the glove and un-holsters the imaging tool, dragging it up and down my neck.
“Lift up your chin. Okay. Now look far to your right. Good. Now to the left. Thank you.”
“I-um. Is there any-I mean-”
“Looks like we’re all done here.” She hands me a tissue to wipe the sticky goo from my neck. “We will call you with the results.”
“Oh. Uh. Thank you.” I stand and collect my things. Should I be relieved? She would say something if I needed to worry, right?
I stare at the condensation on a glass of orange juice; droplets of water slowly inch their way down to the table, creating a ring. Dad is expressing his excitement at the recent discovery of the God Particle; he removes his glasses, wiping the lenses on his shirt. Mom walks in with a platter of blueberry pancakes in one hand and a bowl of fruit in the other. Jack follows behind her with a pot of coffee and a pitcher of orange juice.
“We are so glad you two could join us for brunch.” Her long, copper hair bounces as she sits down beside me.
“Me, too.” I smile, but don’t meet her eyes.
She is dishing out sizeable stacks of pancakes when my phone begins vibrating rapidly in my pocket. I rise and excuse myself from the table before walking into the living room. I glance at the number, inhale deeply, and raise the phone to my ear.
“Hello?”
“Maureen Hawthorn? I’m calling from Methodist Hospital with the results of your ultrasound last week. Upon further inspection, we noticed a mass near your thyroid and would like to schedule you for a biopsy. It’s a quick procedure. We just need to remove some tissue from the mass to determine if it’s cancerous…”
I exhale, realizing I’ve been holding my breath. It feels like all the blood in my body is rushing to my ears; all I hear is the pounding of my heart. I realize she’s asking me a question and shake my head to reorient myself. “I’m sorry. Could you repeat that?”
“Can you come in on Monday?”
“Oh. Um. Yeah. Yes, of course.”
“What time works best for you? We have a noon, a 1:30, and a 2:45.”
“Noon works.”
“Sounds good. We will see you on Monday at noon, then. Have a great day.” She hangs up before I have a chance to respond.
I toss my phone down and sink into the nearest chair. It’s a floral armchair my mom found at the dinky old thrift store on Main Street. I replay the conversation in my head, desperately seeking comfort in the nurse’s words. Noticed a mass. Schedule you for a biopsy. Determine if it’s cancerous. Despite my best efforts, I find no comfort. No reassurance that I’m fine. No suggestion that it’s nothing to worry about. Nothing.
“FUCK!” I shout before lowering my head into my shaking palms. “Fuck.” The sound of clanking dishes and panicked mumbling from the other room suddenly reminds me where I’m sitting. “Shit.”
“Morrie? You okay?” Jack rounds the corner to find me sobbing softly and he kneels in front of me. “We…uh… heard you yell.”
“I’m sorry. I’m really okay. I am.”
“Really?” He hands me a tissue.
“No. Maybe. I don’t know.” Tears continue to crawl down my cheeks, leaving wet streaks in their wake.
“Well, I tell you what, Mom made a shitload of pancakes and I, for one, am starving. How ‘bout you?” I smile at him through the tears and nod. Jack extends a hand, pulling me out of the raggedy chair and into a firm embrace. “Whatever it is, Morrie, it’s gonna be okay.”