But there’s no time for that.
Not if we want to make it to the rheumatologist appointment on time.
I’m sittingin the waiting room, flipping through my social media account, responding to comments left on my recent posts. Someone calls out my name, and I jerk my head up to see who it was.
The woman in scrubs who took Zara to the exam room stands by the front desk and looks to where I’m sitting.
I stand. The murmuring in the room intensifies, like a swarm of locusts descending on a field.
“The author,” a woman to my right whispers. “He’s aNew York Timesbestselling thriller author.”
I don’t look to see who said it. The nurse approaches me and is the only person here who has my attention. I’ve had people approach me at restaurants because they recognize my face from my books. Normally, I’m happy to talk to fans, to let them know I appreciate them. I wouldn’t be where I am today without them.
But this is one of those rare times when I don’t want to be recognized, when I don’t want to be approached.
The only thing I care about is what’s going on with my best friend.
The nurse nods at me. “You can come back now.”
She walks me down the corridor and points to a closed door. “You can go in. The doctor will be here in a minute, to talk to you and your girlfriend.”
I don’t bother correcting her on the girlfriend status and open the door. Zara is sitting fully clothed on one of the seats across from the exam table. Above the table is a close-up painting of a bear inspecting a butterfly on a daisy.
“The nurse brought me here,” I say, taking the seat next to Zara. “But I can leave if you want.”
“No, stay.” Zara reaches for my hand.
Mine engulfs hers. “How did it go?”
“Pretty much the same as the appointment with the last rheumatologist. Lots of prodding and questions.”
The door opens, and a tall woman of Asian descent enters the room. She looks to be in her late forties, a few laugh lines creasing at the corners of her eyes. Her dark hair is pulled up in a low bun.
She smiles at me. “Hi, I’m Dr. Winfrey.”
“Garrett Carson.”
Her eyes widen a tiny amount. “As in the thriller author?”
I chuckle, less reluctant to admit to it here than in the waiting room. “That would be me.”
“My husband’s a huge fan of your books.”
My hand finds Zara’s again. I never know how to respond to comments like this, when it’s someone the person knows who’s the fan. “Thank you.”
Dr. Winfrey sits on the rolling stool. “So, Zara. I’ve reviewed your lab results, X-rays, and have a better picture of what we’re looking at. Do you know anything about axial spondyloarthritis?”
Zara shakes her head. “Is that like ankylose…um. I can’t remember what Dr. Holmes called it.”
“Ankylosing spondylitis?”
“Yes, that’s it. Dr. Holmes ruled it out because the pain was first felt in my shoulders. And my HL-something-or-other was negative. And he said something about the X-rays. Something about no signs of—” She waves her hand at Dr. Winfrey in a whatever-you-just-called-it gesture.
Dr. Winfrey gives her a patient, knowing smile. “Dr. Holmes’s specialty doesn’t include spondyloarthritis. HLA-B27 is a marker for the condition, but it’s predominantly found in Caucasian patients. Having the marker doesn’t mean you will go on to have axial spondyloarthritis, but the lack of it often leads to misdiagnosis.”
My brain is spinning with all these foreign medical terms. I squeeze Zara’s hand. The bear in the painting above the exam table symbolizes protection, the butterfly healing. I can’t protect Zara from the condition, but whatever she needs, I’m here for her.
“He’s also old-school,” Dr. Winfrey adds. “You don’t present with the SpA symptoms most commonly seen in men. Men usually experience pain in the base of their spine first. Women present the disorder differently, often with pain in the shoulders and the neck before anywhere else. That’s why it usually takes longer for women to receive the proper diagnosis compared to men.”
