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Shawn was in bed the first time he felt the chest pains. It was a little pressure on his chest and at the base of his throat. At least it’s not heartburn, he thought. The heartburn had always been more annoying and these chest pains were easier to roll over and ignore.
Shawn always had heartburn, but when he’d told his father at age fifteen, it’d been shot down with the remark, “you’re too young to get heartburn,” so he took Tums and kept his mouth shut. Gus always had the little chewy tablets on him somewhere, in his pockets or in his briefcase or in his car because he knew Shawn would never remember to keep them on himself and he would never stop complaining about it. Gus had tried to get Shawn on an acid reflux medication once, but Shaw had brushed him off with some research about kidney failure he’d read a few years ago and never forgotten.
The second time his chest hurt, he was riding with Gus to the SBPD station to deliver his big reveal. He’d solved the case about four hours ago and had spent the rest of the time deciding how he should tell everyone. The pains were just a little more intense and lasted just a little bit longer.
“You alright?” Gus asked, noticing the way he rubbed his chest with a small grimace on his face.
“Yeah, I’m good,” Shawn assured his best friend. “Just some heartburn. I probably shouldn’t have eaten that fourth chili dog.” Which was true, but he wasn’t about to deprive himself of the joy of downing four chili dogs in four minutes for the sake of a little burning in the throat and some tightness of chest that was more likely than not a piece of a hot dog stuck in his throat.
“That was impressive, though,” Gus said. “I’m gonna take you on next time. I’m gonna eat five in four minutes.”
“Oh, good luck,” Shawn cheered sarcastically. “Like you could handle it. ”
“Shawn, I will have you know that I have won a food eating contest twice …” The fake psychic rubbed his chest once more for good measure and pushed the pain out of his mind.
The aches came more and more frequently after that, just as frustrating reminders that there was something wrong with his body. One bout began while he was surveying a corpse in the field and continued all the way back to the station.
“Are you alright?” Jules asked, setting a concerned hand on his shoulder.
“I’m fine,” he insisted. Brushing her hand off his shoulder and straightening out his back. Over time, he’d come to realize that it hurt less if he stood up straight.
“You’ve been rubbing your chest for a half hour. Are you in pain?” Her blue eyes and concerned tone would have been cuter to him if he weren’t so distracted trying to stop looking like he was hurting.
“No, no,” he shook his head. “I’m just,” he changed his hand movements ever so slightly, “itchy,” he decided, scratching his sternum where he’d been rubbing.
“That’s quite an itch,” she stated, not believing him. “I hope you don’t have poison oak.”
“It’s an allergic reaction,” he bluffed. “I’m allergic to hazelnuts. I ate some Nutella this morning.”
“Nutella is a children’s food,” Lassiter growled from his desk, not bothering to glance up from his casefile.
“You try saying no to that delicious chocolate spread,” Shawn lectured.
“I have,” Lassie said, “multiple times.”
The little pains continued to grow in length and intensity until one afternoon, sitting in the Psych office, a fit like he’d never had before gripped his chest and left him gasping for breath. A weight sat on his breastbone, crushing his throat and squeezing his heart and making his back tingle. Shawn’s eyes shot open wide, completely taken off guard by what used to be innocent throbbing, and reached out for something to hold onto.
“Ah,” he gaped, crying out quietly to try and ease the sensation. Gus looked up, more irritated than concerned.
“What’re you doing?” His long-time best friend asked. Shawn tried to fake a smile, but it appeared more as a sneer.
“Just bracing myself for a wild psychic vision,” he told Gus.
“I know you’re not psychic, Shawn,” the salesman reminded his partner. “Seriously, what’re you doing?” A pang of pain ripped through his sternum and he gripped the desk tighter, fighting to keep his charade intact.
“My chest just hurts a little bit,” Shawn shrugged, clenching his teeth.
“Your chest hurts? Chest pain is serious, Shawn! What does it feel like?” Gus rose from his seat and rushed over to inspect his friend up close.
“Pressure,” he said and rubbed where it hurt. “But it’s not a big,” he sucked in breath as another pang of agony swept through him, “deal.”
“I’m taking you to the hospital,” Gus announced, tisking and gripping his friend’s arm.
“I’m fine!”
“Chest pains are a sign of a serious condition and I will not let you die, Shawn,” Gus cried and dragged his best friend out the door and into the car.
“You’re overreact-” Shawn squeezed his eyes shut, the pain coming in another, throbbing burst and, this time, not bothering to leave again. “Okay, take me to the hospital,” he ceded and continued to groan through his teeth. Shawn, who had been shot and not cried, struggled to keep the tears from shedding down his face, unsuccessfully.
“You’re going to be okay,” Gus cooed, trying to be soothing. Shawn hardly heard a word.
Hours later, when Shawn was finally admitted to the hospital, his friends and family waited anxiously in the reception area. Henry, more than certain the whole thing was a hoax, sipped his coffee contemptuously next to an agitated Lassiter while Juliet and Gus paced. When a doctor emerged from the hallway with a clipboard and calling, “Shawn Spencer’s family?” they all jumped to their feet, regardless of personal opinions.
“That’s us,” Gus and Henry said simultaneously. The doctor graced them with a strange look and then began speaking.
“Well, the good news is it wasn’t a heart attack. Mr. Spencer is much too young to worry about heart attacks.” Dr. Something spared a moment to laugh at his own joke. “He has what is commonly known as GERD.”
“Gastroesophageal reflux disease,” Gus said automatically. The doctor shot him a tiny glare. “I’m sorry, it’s reflexive,” he explained.
“You’re telling me heartburn gave my son a heart attack?” Henry interrogated, angry as always.
“Well, when a person’s had acid reflux as long as your son has, it damages the esophagus. The chest pain is caused by muscle spasms in the throat. He’s going to be fine.” A communal sigh was released by the group and the doctor decided it was time to lead them to their favorite fake psychic. They followed like sheep. Shawn was laying on his bed, one hand pressed to his chest, eyes closed. It didn’t take a detective to see that he wasn’t sleeping. Henry stepped up and slapped the bottom of his foot. Shawn jolted up.
“Dad?”
“Quit fake sleeping. You’re not going to die.” The whole crowd, although they came to be supportive, wound up feeling slightly irritated that they were at the hospital for Shawn again when it was not a serious matter.
“I’m sorry my chest pain has inconvenienced you,” Shawn said. “I hope a trip through the gift shop will make this trip worth it.”
“When can he leave, Doctor?” Gus asked, both concerned for his friend and trying to keep the hospital bill down.
“Mr. Spencer is free to go,” the doctor announced. Shawn bolted out of bed, not bothering to cover his exposed rear. “I'm going to prescribe a temporary medication to ease your symptoms. Please see a specialist, Mr. Spencer. I don't want to see you in here again.”
“You got it. Thanks, doc.” And, like nothing at all had happened, Shawn journeyed toward the exit.
“Wait a minute, Shawn,” Henry called. His son froze.
“If Spencer’s alive, I’m not sticking around. O’hara, we've got work to do.” Lassiter announced and Juliet patted Shawn’s shoulder once before following her partner out.
“Why don't you take medicine for this?” His dad inquired, leaning in seriously. “You really have to start taking care of yourself, Shawn. You're not twenty-two anymore.”
“I told you about this when I was a kid,” the psychic reminded his dad.
“I think I would have remembered,” Henry scoffed.
“I tried to tell you,” Shawn corrected himself.
“You can't blame me for everything, kid,” he deflected. “You should've taken yourself to a doctor!”
“Come on,” Gus interjected. “It's the past. What's important is that he’s getting help now.” The Spencers, never ones to drop a fight, realized Gus had a point and this was a fight for another day.
“Shawn, put on your pants before you go,” Henry demanded and then left to discuss the bill with the hospital staff.
“Put your pants on before you go,” the faux psychic mocked, angrily grabbing his pants off of a chair and equally as angrily putting them on. “Can you believe him? Mister ‘you’re too young for heartburn’ himself, telling me to see a doctor.”
“We are in a hospital,” Gus informed his best friend, tone stern. Shawn looked up, surprised that he wasn’t on his side.
“Yeah, I didn’t miss the ride,” he jested.
“I had to take you to a hospital today,” Gus said again, trying to make Shawn comprehend. “I thought you were dying. You’re going to start taking care of yourself if it ruins both of our lives.” The other man, only half-dressed in his own clothes, gaped at his best friend. “I’m talking diets, exercise, the whole nine. No more hospital visits. No more chest pains.”
“Gus, I’m fine.” The futility of his words didn’t escape him as they left his mouth. The pharmaceutical salesman raised a single eyebrow. That was all it took. “Okay,” Shawn yielded. “We’ll diet and exercise. No more chest pains.”
“We?” Gus questioned.
“Yes, we,” Shawn confirmed. “I’m not doing this alone. If I can’t eat four chili dogs for breakfast, neither can you. It’s just fair.”
“Nothing about that is fair, Shawn! I’m not the one with an esophageal sphincter that doesn’t close properly. I can eat all the chili dogs I want.” Gus crossed his arms sternly as the pair walked out of the hospital room together and toward the Blueberry.
“We’re in this together, Gus. Mi stomach es su stomach. I won’t diet unless you do. Do you want my throat to disintegrate?”