“Well,we’regonnastart weaning you off the Prednisone soon,so hopefully you’ll start to feel a little less of that.” He pulled an iPadfrom his desk and began tapping. As he worked, he explained that weaning wasimportant to avoid withdrawal, and I laughed and joked about being addicted.Dr. Lambert chuckled lightly, and replied, “Well, you’re not entirely wrong.Because you’ve been on it for a while, your body has become dependent andstopped producing cortisol naturally. What we need to do is lower your dosagein small increments, to see how you react and to get your body doing what it’ssupposed to do again, without relying on the drug to do the job for it.”
Inodded absentmindedly, trying to absorball oftheinformation. I was never good at understanding the medical world, thus myreliance on Google for so long. Hell, my mother had accompanied me to mydoctor’s appointments until I was well into my twenties. I guess that’s whythis guy was doing what he did, and I was the one playing the guitar for aliving.
Dr.Lambert seemed to catch wind of my clueless demeanor, because he smiledreassuringly. “Don’t worry. I know what I’mdoin’. Inseveral weeks or so, providing you don’t slide back into the flare, you’ll beall good and back to normal.”
Itwas almost comical, the use of the wordnormal.There was nothingnormalabout what Iwas going through.Normalthirty-year-old men aren’t sitting in a doctor’s office, talking about beingweanedoff ofsteroids. They’re not discussing stoolsamples and colonoscopies. God, that’s not whatnormalpeople did until they were, what? Fifty?
“We’realso going to get you started with mesalamine, a maintenance drug to handleyour symptoms and hopefully keep you from going into another flare,” he added,tapping along the screen of his iPad. “You’ll be taking those three times aday.”
“Forhow long?”
Helooked up from the device. “For as long as you have Ulcerative Colitis.”
“So,forever,” I grumbled with a single nod, and Dr. Lambert smiled apologeticallybefore returning his attention to the iPad in his hands.
Aftera few more moments, he set it aside and gave me his full attention. “How’ve youbeenholdin’ up otherwise?” Dr. Lambert asked,leaning back and eyeing me studiously.
“Andhere I thought you were just a GI,” I joked, my voice rough to my ears. “Ididn’t know you were a shrink, too.”
Hecocked his head. “Do you think you need a shrink?”
Ifurrowed my brow, pulled in a heavy breath, and shook my head. “Nah, I don’tthink so.”
“’CauseI can refer you to one, ifyou think you need to talk to somebody. It’s not uncommon for people in yourposition to face some pretty difficult emotional side effects.”
Oneside of my mouth lifted simultaneously with a shoulder. “Well, itain’tfun, that’s for damn sure. I think I’ve made my peacewith it, in that it is what it is, you know?Nothin’I can do about it, so I justgottaaccept it. But …”I hesitated for a moment, and he gestured for me to continue. “I think I’m moreworried about how it’sgonnaaffect other aspects ofmy life. I mean, I’ve had a bad gut for as long as I can remember, but neverlike this. Like, what’s itgonnadoto my career? How would people react, if they caught wind of it?”
Hesighed and leaned forward. “Well, what do they know now? You’ve been laid-upfor a few weeks, so what has the band beentellin’people?”
“Flu.That’s what I told them to say.”
Heinterlaced his fingers and nodded. “Well, I suppose you could keep that up. Youcould probably get away with people neverknowin’ thetruth. There are ways around it, and you’d be surprised how many people in thepublic eye keep quiet about having IBD. But I also think you’d be surprised toknow how many people are very open about it as well, even in your line of work.”
“Iknow,” I said, nodding. “I’ve beendoin’ some readingabout that. Dan Reynolds from Imagine Dragons …”
“AndMike McCready from Pearl Jam,” he pointed out as his mouth lifted into a smile.“He’s their guitarist, and he has no shame intellin’people about what he’sgottadeal with. You’d besurprised by how many people appreciate honesty. Some might even admire you forit.”
“Andsome might criticize me for it, too,” I retorted.
“Isthat what you’re worried about?”
Ithought about that question on the drive home, throughout dinner, and during mynightly run through the neighborhood. Iwasworried about it. I remembered how nasty the bullies in school were to Molly,when they’d tease her about her lack of a dad and her weight. They were crueland ruthless, and I hoped they’d one day grow up to be better people. But thething about bullies is, they don’t all grow up. How many of them are out there,now teasing the fat guy at the office? Or picking on the new intern because shelacks a sense of fashion? Or posting hateful, anonymous comments about theguitarist in a band for a disease he can’t do a damn thing about?
Wouldit bother me to be a target, if it did come down to that?
“Youshould’ve heard the doctor, Molls,” I said, lying in bed that night with thephone pressed to my ear. “He startedtalkin’ aboutadult diapers, and how they might be an option when Igottaplay and can’t stay out of thefreakin’ bathroom.”
“Well,you do what yougottado,” she replied simply.
“That’seasy for you to say,” I snorted. “I’d never live it down.”
“Whatthe hell are you worried about? Are you worried abouttheseguys? Oreverybody else?”
“Idunno. Maybe it’s everybody.”
“Nothing’schangin’, Chad,” she said softly. “All that’sdifferent is, you have a diagnosis now, and you’relearnin’how to deal with it. That’s all. Nobody thinks differently of you.”
“Well,maybeIthink differently of me.”
