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Another follow-up appointment. Martin tells himself over and over that at least they have good insurance now. His mom didn't have that until they figured out how to upgrade. Which took months. And meant that Martin had to choose what brand of bread to buy based on the price. But at least they weren't paying out of pocket anymore, every follow up visit was several hundred dollars.
Martin is staring at the door, waiting for the doctor to come in. He's not exactly sure what he's here for, other than the usual. Maybe they invented a pill that will make him stop vomiting every time he even so much as smells pizza. One that makes the pain stop without all of the dizziness side effects and risks of addiction
The doctor greets him, a half-welcoming, half-disappointed fake smile. You can tell that the expression is a part of the job. "Hello, Martin. You're here again,"
"I am," Martin kicks his legs against the side of the table. Doctors still make him nervous, all these years and a whole other world later. He then thinks better of his fidgeting when something in his thigh aches, and he decides to sit still. His thighs always hurt, whether he walks with a cane or not, so he’s decided to not bother for now.
The doctor takes his vitals again even though the nurse that was here five minutes ago just did. (Does the doctor even look at all the paperwork the nurse filled out?) Both he and Jon are so used to this that they don't complain anymore; any time a doctor reaches towards the wall for the blood pressure machine, they automatically take an arm out of their coat.
The stethoscope makes Martin nervous, always has, ever since he was little. He wants to know if he's doing the deep breaths correctly, but is too embarrassed to ask. He hasn't even told Jon.
They go through their usual back and forth about exercise, eating habits, etcetera. Then they get to the usual, "Pain level?"
Martin has been thinking about this for days in advance. It’s a hard question to answer if you haven’t been thinking about it. This is a whole can of wor-- Ah, Martin has never considered the mental image of worms in cans of peaches. He is probably going to have nightmares about that, now.
"Um… Like…?" Martin puts his arm back in his coat and tugs at his sleeves.
"The level. And if it changes." The doctor sits on the little rolling stool with fingers on the keyboard, expectant. How is Martin supposed to condense such a complex experience into a single number, one between zero and ten?
"As in, the level when I think about it or when I don’t? Like active or passive?"
"I'm sorry?" They turn to him, curious. You can tell this interests them; more data for the system.
"Well--If I think about it, it's like… Averaging around five, maybe. But if I don't, it's more around two." Martin looks down. He really misses being able to pick up dogs without a second thought. If he picks up anything heavy now, it will usually end with a flare up and an ice pack on his back.
"Interesting." They type something. "What triggers the pain?"
"Um. Moving?" This is not the correct answer. Martin gives a nervous smile, and the doctor mirrors it. "It gets bad if I walk too much. Or if I pick up anything heavy. Or if it's hot out. I don't know how hard I'm supposed to push myself."
The doctors makes a few more notes. "Any balance problems?"
Shit. Martin was hoping that they would give him a little bracelet that beeps to inform him whenever he needs to go lie down, take some painkillers, and find an ice pack buried under all the stuff in the freezer for the nights whenever he and Jon don’t want to cook anything too involved, but also don’t want to get delivery from that noodle place they like again. "No. I mean, I trip more than other people do. But I don't fall."
The mouse clicks. Martin wonders what box is being checked off.
"Interesting. Joint pain?"
"Not really, no."
They check off another box.
"Nausea or vomiting?"
Martin lets out a dry laugh. "Could you be more specific?" He doesn't mention how he already circled YES on the forms fifteen minutes ago, and didn't they read those forms? Or was it only busy work to keep patients from having panic attacks in the waiting room?
The doctor's expression returns to the usual mild concern all doctors seem to have. The two emotions doctors are capable of: fake positivity and mild concern. "What triggers it? And how many times have you vomited in the past four weeks?"
"Um…" Martin thinks, counting. "I think three. But I did, um, throw up in my mouth a few more times.”
“Regurgitation is the official term,” They say, recognizing Martin’s discomfort at using an informal term in a formal context. The doctor folds their hands in their lap, waiting for more details. Martin wonders how many doctors were Avatars of the Eye in their previous world, being able to get so much information, and for strangers to trust them completely.
“Thanks. And, um, if I eat too much. Or have something with too much gluten in it. Or if I don't eat enough. I don't think I have Celiac, but I can't have too much. Oh, and the smell of pizza. Sucks that I can’t eat it anymore, hah. The nausea comes and goes, it's hard to tell how or why. It gets better if I put a heat pack on my stomach. Chamomile tea also helps, actually."
Martin thinks about the days whenever it really does hurt, bad enough that every movement is met with a small grunt, but Jon is definitely in a worse state than he is. So Martin will pull himself up and get Jon an ice pack and all of his meds, and make tea.
Even whenever tears fill his eyes from the pain of reaching up into the cabinets for cups. And Martin will think of how much this reminds him of his mother, how caring for someone else can wear down the caregiver. And how similar this situation is to that one. And then he will really start to feel sick.
Eventually one of the cats will rub on his leg, and he remembers that no matter how bad the pain gets, there will be cuddle time with the cats and his husband, which makes it all worth it.