Seventeen
The doctor wants a follow-up visit because she is worried about blood clots. “Just a small adjustment to your medication,” she said on the phone, “and we’re fine. I want to talk it through.”
Blood clots terrify me. I was in hospital once because they thought they saw one on my lung. Twenty-four hours of peaceful misery in a white bed with whiteness all around.
I turned up to see the doctor, just as she asked.
She did a lot of talking.
The doctor wondered if I have fibro. “The original diagnosis took so long,” she said, which was a very polite way of her saying that no one listened to me for years, “that it’s possible. Overlapping symptoms can help us pinpoint different illnesses.”
“Why didn’t you think of fibromyalgia earlier?” I didn’t remind her I’d asked about it. I want
