01 02 03 Prone to Wander: She handed me a tissue. 04 05 15 16 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 31 32 33

She handed me a tissue.


She was a PA. Young, pretty, and pregnant.
I had scheduled the appointment earlier that day. 
I said, I’m hurting. Can I come in?
On a scale of 1-10, how bad?
Where does it hurt?
I don’t know how to explain.
The tears spilled from my eyes when she asked where it hurt. She was a stranger, filling in for my regular Dr. who I couldn’t remember seeing last.
Do you want a prescription?
No. I can’t.
What is your goal for this appointment? She asked, confused.
I guess I want to make sure I’m not dying, I choked.
Everything looks fine. I don’t think you are.  I hope your day gets better.
She smiled sympathetically and handed me another tissue.
You can follow up with Dr. _______ in three weeks, OK?
I couldn’t even nod.
I could tell no difference. Everything, and I mean everything throbbed.
I trudged to my car and called my husband at work.
What did the Dr. say?
Did you tell the truth?
I don’t even know how.

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