I’m going to be sick.
It’s not necessary for me to tell Dr. Friedlander I need to find a bathroom urgently. He reads the distress on my face loud and clear. He senses the nausea as if I’m wearing it like a mask. He comes around his desk, takes hold of my arm. I’m escorted back out into the corridor where Jim takes over, leading me to the ladies’ room. As soon as I’m through the door, I sprint into a stall, bend over, and vomit everything in my system.
Slowly, achingly, I stand upright inside the stall and breathe. Wiping tears from my eyes with the backs of my hands, I peer into the toilet. I’m alarmed to see spots of blood. My hand pressed against my stomach, I reach for the lever and flush.
What the hell is happening to me? My insides?
I step out of the stall, go to the sink, tur
