“What did they say?”
“Heart was fine.”
Blake’s lips thinned.
“Six months in, my symptoms became more bothersome. I kept having flushing episodes. By that point, I was convinced it was something in my diet since I was still feeling nauseous, so I saw a GI specialist, who said I had some markers of IBS. He suggested a lifestyle change and put me on a special diet.”
“Did it help?”
“Not at all.”
Blake’s hand twitched like he wanted to reach for mine, but he held back.
“You know what that gastroenterologist did?” My voice took on an edge. “In my follow-up appointment, he kept checking his watch, like I was wasting his precious time. When I insisted something was wrong, that I couldn’t live my life like this anymore …” The memory made my ribs burn. “He looked me dead in the face and told me I was just getting older.”
Blake’s expression stilled.
“I told him he was wrong. That I didn’t feel like a woman in her thirties, that I felt like I was ninety-five.” I laughed, but there was no humor in it. “He just dismissed me. Told me to go to the ER if things got worse.”
I took a shaky breath. “The physical exhaustion, the nausea … it was taking its toll emotionally. My primary care suggested depression.” I met Blake’s eyes. “But I wasn’t depressed before I got sick. The despair came after. After months of symptoms, after being told everything was normal, after struggling just to get through each day. I saw a psychiatrist to rule it out anyway,” I continued. “They agreed with me. The exhaustion and despair were consequences of whatever was wrong, not the cause.
“By month eight, I started having dizzy spells. Especially when I’d stand too quickly. So, my doctor sent me to a neurologist. Who found nothing and suggested it was hormonal, so he sent me to an OB-GYN. Who found nothing and told me I should see a lung doctor since my lingering cough came back.
“Months of being bounced between doctors, all pointing fingers at each other.” I blinked back tears.
Blake massaged his hands harshly.
“So, I took matters into my own hands.” I straightened slightly. “Tracked everything: food, products, places I went. It was an overwhelming task, and I’d review it every night, every week, but I found no patterns.” My shoulders slumped. “I started to worry that maybe my new apartment had hidden mold or something, but then there was about six weeks where I felt better. Started hoping maybe it had just been a virus all along. But then …” I closed my eyes. “Everything came back with a vengeance. My flushing was more intense, sometimes accompanied with a feeling of throat tightening, and I’d have a hard time catching my breath.”
My voice cracked as I admitted something I’d never said aloud before. “You don’t know how many times I cried myself to sleep. I knew I was sick, and it felt like no doctor believed me.”
Blake’s warm hand covered my own, his eyes meeting mine. In a deep, tender tone that seemed to reach into my very soul, he said, “I believe you.”
My eyes stung. His belief, after a year of dismissals, felt like the first real breath I’d taken in months.
“Why didn’t you call me when this started?” The question came out soft, laden with a year’s worth of missed chances and what-ifs. His eyes held mine, filled with something that looked dangerously close to regret.
“Because you might have said the same thing every other doctor said. That nothing’s wrong.”
And of all people to not believe me, I couldn’t handle that from Blake Morrison.
Blake’s beautiful lips thinned. “Somethingiswrong, Tessa. I would never have dismissed you like that.”
The fierce protectiveness in his voice took me back to a hundred different moments: Blake stepping between me and anyone who dared to hurt me, Blake showing up at my door after every breakup with ice cream and terrible movies, Blake’s fists clenching whenever someone made me cry. That same protective fire still burned in his eyes, only now it wasn’t aimed at high school bullies or boyfriends; it was aimed at every doctor who’d failed to fight for me.
“And all these symptoms …” Blake’s voice shifted slightly, doctor mode tempering his earlier tenderness. “Did you ever have problems with fainting before today?”
I shook my head, watching his expression grow more focused.
“All right, give me one second.” Blake left the room and came back, sitting in the chair. “Bought us a few more minutes. Residents are managing that patient.” He leaned forward. “Now tell me everything that happened today from the time you woke up until you landed in the emergency room.”
I drew a steadying breath. “I woke up at my normal time after a good night’s sleep, got ready.” My fingers traced invisible patterns on the blanket as I recounted the morning. “Scarlett met me at my place for our prescheduled breakfast date. When Scarlett and I went outside, I dropped my cell phone. I bent down to pick it up and stood up too fast …” I swallowed hard, remembering the world tilting sideways. “That’s when I half fainted.”
“Did you feel sick when you woke up?”
I rubbed my temple. “Not today, no.”
“So, it came on suddenly?” His brow furrowed together.
