Chapter Text
“Have you tried soaking in hot, salted water?”
The question feels like it echoes, reverberating off the sterile white walls of the doctor’s office. Your breath crawled to a stop, suspended in your chest – somewhere between a soft inhale and exhale. Did you hear that right?
“What?” You ask dumbly, fingers rubbing absentmindedly at that constant, nagging pain – as if it throbbed to life in response to the doctor’s words, alighting in defiance.
“Many patients find that a hot bath tends to reduce symptoms. A salt bath, especially,” he continues, a well-meaning sympathy in his eyes.
A complicated emotion claws at your lungs, seems to render them inelastic and brittle. It pulls your features taut, stretching them into a forced, neutral expression. Your pulse hammers like a bass drumming against your ribs, hitching into a tight ball in your throat – rendering your next words warbly.
“... Salt,” your question comes out flat, and the doctor nods, capturing your blank stare within his sympathetic one. Your eyeline darts elsewhere, anywhere else but his – confusing, traitorous tears beading at the corners of your eyes.
“Yes. Table salt, just crack some in, or get one of those big bags. It should help with the pain,” he explains neatly, as though you could spend the rest of your living days pickling in a hot, salted bath. As though you haven’t already tried.
As though you haven’t tried all of the most obtuse, wallet tightening methods to relieve this persistent, unyielding ache in your body. As if there weren’t reusable hot water bottles collecting dust in the corners of your room, heating pads rolled up and discarded when it was clear that their searing warmth would never penetrate deep enough to soothe the pain that clung to your flesh, that hung off your bones.
TENS machines with sticky pads that no longer stuck. Foam rollers that took up space. Articles of compression clothing that curled around the mothballs in your closet. An abandoned yoga mat that clung to dirt when you could no longer maneuver the fleshy prison you were trapped in into 5 yoga poses to reduce pain (Shockingly effective!)
You swallowed around the lump in your throat. “I’ve… tried that, yes. It’s not incredibly helpful, and it’s also a bit inconvenient.”
The response comes low, flat – warbled and fraying at the edges. The doctor’s eyes darted down to your cheeks, tracing the hot tear that had rolled down it.
“Well, I’m sorry, but there’s not much I can really do. The department head isn’t a proponent for steroid injections, or needless surgery when we don’t know what’s wrong-”
“So you made me come here, essentially to tell me that there’s nothing more you can do?” Your interruption comes swift, strained, and hoarse – informed by your heated frustration, shattering your veil of quiet neutrality.
He widens his eyes a fraction, gaze swivelling to the attending nurse behind you in alarm, before his expression is schooled, and he swivels in his chair to face you.
“No, no. That’s not… I can get you transferred to a different doctor, in the same department, if he has the time to see you today. He’s more open to that sort of thing. But you have to understand, your scans all came back normal. Our hands are tied here, we don’t know what’s wrong.”
The explanations roll off his tongue, quick and easy and placating. Yours feels like lead in your mouth.
In a flash of shame, you close your eyes and rub the tears from your face, determined to maintain at least some semblance of dignity. Why were you even crying?
The tears keep falling, anyway, and you abandon the fruitless endeavour.
“Sorry about this,” tumbles from your throat, “That’s… That would be lovely. Thank you, I appreciate it.”
The creaks of the chair mirror your own rusted joints as the doctor leans back against it, calling out to a colleague from beyond the door he’d cracked open.
You don’t catch the tail end of his conversation, but you’re soon ushered out with a sympathetic nod and a meaningless platitude, sent once more to the waiting room.
Your eyes burn, and you hobble to the hospital washroom to get a handle on yourself immediately - wanting to avoid the pitying stares of the other patients awaiting their consultation.
The lock clicks behind you. Robotically, you pace towards the sink, and turn on the tap to splash some cold, bracing water against your face – and by habit, your gaze drifts upwards to the mirror.
Cool beads of tap water dot your features, beading up and rolling down your cheeks in inelegant brushstrokes, sucking the warmth from your reddening flesh as they went. Your eyes, once clear and vivid, were edged in a sore red, lifeless and swollen.
You cut a pathetic figure, and a curling sense of hatred seizes your chest, gnarls into your throat.
The sobs that wracked from your chest were quiet, restrained, and breathless – tempered so no one would hear the miserable, wretched patient who’d shut themselves in a toilet stall to bawl their eyes out.
For all that you were quiet, the pressure of your cries only turned inward – throat closed and forming a vacuum that struck your lungs with each hiccuping breath. God, were you pathetic.
Your fingers dug through your pockets, seeking your phone, and through your blurred vision, your eyes land on the first unread notification:
Kyle: I hope it goes well. Update me.
It makes you crumple into yourself once more, dragging more strangled chokes from your lungs.
You thumb over the message and open up your partner’s chat, fingers trembling. Responses flood through your mind.
It went horribly; Fuck the healthcare system; There’s nothing that can be done; Just shoot me dead right now.
Instead, you settle on a practical,
You: I’m seeing another doctor in two hours.
He comes online immediately, and you can see that your message had been read. A silent beat passes, and you can almost imagine a confused frown pinching his brows. He goes offline, and your heart clenches – ever so slightly, until your phone buzzes with the notification that he was calling.
Startled, you immediately pick up.
“Why?” The question is clipped, terse. You shrink into yourself.
And though your mouth opens to respond, it feels like the words were stuck in your throat. You had no earthly idea how you would have described what just happened, so you don’t.
You take in some shuffling in the ensuing silence, before he murmurs your name lowly, in a confused query.
“Yeah,” you rasp, voice thick and crackling, “I’m here. I just…”
He inhales sharply, and then comes the muffled, tinny voice of him excusing himself on the other end of the call, as if he’d held the phone away from himself and covered it over with a palm. A chorus of acknowledgements, sounding further away, and then the telltale click of a door closing seals the guilt in your chest.
Then, his voice returns with full clarity – piercing through the quiet of the toilet you’d barricaded yourself in.
“What’s wrong?” he asks gently, “What happened?”
Quietly, you explain the situation to him – tracking his breathing as it got progressively shallower, and fiercer. And once you’re done with your recap, you hear him sigh harshly, and you can almost see him pinching the bridge of his nose in aggrieved disbelief.
“I can push lunch back an hour to accompany you to your next appointment,” and a little noise of protest leaves your throat, as if to interrupt him – which he soundly ignores.
“Which clinic are you at- wait, nevermind, it’s in the shared calendar. Wait for me, alright?”
“Kyle, you don’t have to-” you begin to insist, but are soundly dashed by the annoyed click of his tongue, and you bite your lip.
“No, I’m going. It sounds like they’re passing the buck, and I won’t just stand by and let them do that. If they’re not going to take you seriously, then I’ll go there and make them. Who was your previous doctor?”
“Kyle, I-”
“Before you object, I’ll find out even if you don’t tell me,” he warns, “It’s not exactly legal, but I can use my code to check. And I will, so you can just save us some time by telling me.”
“I… Okay,” you concede, breath sweeping from you in a gusty exhale, and you resort to sending him the screenshot of your appointment from your health management app, warmed slightly by Kyle’s protectiveness and anger on your behalf.
He hums, satisfied. “Is Kenny still there with you?”
“Yeah, he’s sitting outside,” you confirm, heart clenching – you’d beelined straight to the toilet and barricaded yourself in there with the hopes of cleaning yourself up, making yourself presentable before facing him.
“Good. At least you’ll have company.”
“I… guess. And, thank you, Kyle.”
For a beat, there’s only silence. Then, your name, in a soft, uncharacteristically warm murmur.
“I love you. It’ll be okay. I’ll see you soon, okay?”
Despite yourself, a small smile splits your chapped lips. “Yeah. Love you too. See you later.”
A quiet laugh, the click of the call ending, and then only silence. You take in a slow, measured inhale – and wince as that pain once again nudges at the edges of your consciousness – and you rub absentmindedly at the soreness in a self-soothing motion.
Then, a soft, rhythmic knock pierces the silence, and you jump. You hear your name from behind it, in a gravelly drawl, curled at the edges with a slight, southern twang.
“You doin’ okay in there?” Kenny asks languidly – though his tone is tinted with a bite of worry.
One last bracing breath. Then, you get up, shuffling to the door, and clicking it open. You’re met with relieved, electric blue eyes – framed in long, messy strands of straw-blonde, and a curled smile.
“Man, you just ran right outta there after your consult. Thought you had to take a shit or somethin’... but…” His amused, teasing banter trails off as he takes in your harried expression, your bloodshot eyes, and he softens. The sharp, devilish upturn of his eyes feathers at the edges into worry once more.
“Oh… Sweetheart,” he breathes, a warm palm finding your cheek, swiping errant strands of hair from your temples and at the same time, wiping the remnant tears from your skin. “You doin’ okay? What happened in there?”
And the reminder of that humiliating consult causes fresh tears to bead at the corners of your lids once more.
“It… Didn’t go well. I have a follow-up appointment with another doctor who can apparently actually do something about the pain, but it’s in two hours from now,” you explain, voice tight with restrained frustration.
His gaze hardens, brows angled in a disbelieving frown. “Huh? Why?”
You sigh, haggardly. “I don’t know, Kenny. I’m just… I’m tired.” Your voice rings hollow, and you allow yourself to tip forward, resting your forehead against his shoulder. His arms reach around you immediately, cradling you against him, a hand reaching up to stroke at your head placatingly.
“I know, baby. I know,” he soothes, and your grip tightens on his burnt sienna jacket. “Have you told Kyle about this? He might-”
“Yeah, I have. He insisted on following me into my next appointment.”
Kenny huffs a short, breathy chuckle. “Yeah, that sounds ‘bout right.” And you can hear the amused smirk that swept his words. You smile, but fidget nervously in place.
“But that’s in two hours, so if you have to go-”
He draws back from you, hands clasped around your shoulders to ground you, and raises a brow.
“Not a chance in hell, kitten,” he promises, stare fixing you in place. “I’ll keep you company. Let’s go get some food and drink in ya, huh? Your treat.”
Your chastened guilt morphs into disbelief in the span of a split second. “Kenny-!”
The protest is cut off by a sharp bark of easy laughter.
“Fine, fine. My treat, whatever. Let’s go, c’mon.”
He steps aside, and offers you the crook of his elbow. You accept it, and he allows you to lean your weight onto his deceptively sturdy form, alleviating some of your pain. An appreciative smile forms on your lips as he walks slowly with you, letting his nose lead him to the in-hospital cafe.
“Thanks, Ken.”
He looks down at you, and a roguish grin splits his lips, showing his teeth in a sharp smile.
“No problem, sugar.”
Two hours and some mild conversation over fragrant pastries and hot, soothing tea later – you spot a familiar mop of copper curls, and you register Kyle’s quickly approaching form, still decked out in his scrubs and coat.
His stern emerald eyes scan the area, and when he finally spots the two of you, his squared shoulders sag with relief. Making a quick detour to the counter, he snips out a quick order of a hot tea and a yogurt cup, before reaching into his pockets for his phone.
“You hospital staff?” The cashier drones, distractedly, already reaching into the display for Kyle’s order, and Kyle closes his eyes, a second too long to be considered a blink.
“Yes,” he responds, curtly. The worker’s eyes dart to him, then back at the register.
“10% off your total bill, just tap your card there.”
He does so without responding, and as he treads over to the pair of you, he shrugs himself out of his coat, and plops into an empty chair with a tired grunt. Kenny’s lips pursue in a wolf whistle.
“Hello, doctor,” he croons, and Kyle shoots him a dry stare.
“Bite me,” he snips tersely, and Kenny’s grin widens, satisfied, before clicking his tongue in disapproval, taking on a scolding tone.
“Later, babygirl, we’re in public, control yourself!”
Kyle thwaps Kenny on the shoulder, and the blonde man just laughs, eyes crinkled with mirth. You chuckle softly, and greet Kyle with a chaste kiss on the cheek.
“Long day?” you muse, and his sharp eyes take you in.
“No, just… Annoyed,” he sighs, rubbing a hand down his face in exasperation. “I couldn’t get that doctor of yours to admit to passing the buck, even though the attending nurse backed me up. He just kept insisting it was out of his jurisdiction, and, I guess it was.”
Your heart sinks slightly in your chest, though you were at least glad you didn’t get some poor doctor fired, or something. If you knew Kyle, you could guess that he’d tried his level best to ensure you’d get the best care possible. And, if he’d failed, then…
It was… Likely because of you, wasn’t it?
No positive tests, no real proof that your body waged daily war against you. While frustrating, that doctor had only been trying to be helpful – insulting as it was to imply that you were too dumb to have tried something as banal as a hot bath.
… He’d only been trying to be helpful. It wasn’t personal, even if you took it that way.
… You were just sensitive. It shouldn’t have been as big a deal as it was.
“It’s alright,” you breathe softly to Kyle, “I didn’t want to get anyone into trouble anyway. It was just a suggestion, anyway – I was just sensitive.”
“It wasn’t the hot bath thing,” Kyle grouses, brows pinched, “It was that he handed you over onto another doctor with such a stupid reason. We do steroid injections, why couldn’t he? How many times have you been passed around?”
“... About three times, I think,” you respond slowly, “But once was because the doctor retired, though she only did so after my surgery.”
“I was there with ya, and she was so busy she barely had time to look at your condition after,” Kenny supplies, a pinch of annoyance in his tone.
Kyle grunts non-commitally as if to say, “See?” – and it’s at that moment where a server passes his order to him. He clips out a thank you to the woman, and she scurries away just as fast – seeking to put distance between herself and the gloomy storm cloud that he carried with him.
Kenny observes the man detachedly, chin resting against his palm, marveling at the way tension coiled within his muscles. He gets it, really – he’d himself wanted to punch the lights out of the doctor who’d so coyly suggested you to, essentially, take a hike, when he’d heard what you’d been told.
“Take a hot bath,” – like he hadn’t spent time with you just combing your damp hair back in the tub, groaning and breathing heavily and crying because it just didn’t help.
But angry as he was, he couldn’t have Kyle aggravated – he looked like he was one wrong word away from throwing hands at the next doctor who saw you. He needed his big, fat brain working for you, not against you.
Hatching a plan to direct Kyle’s angst towards a less… Potentially career-damaging source, a lazy grin curled on his face, pulled sharp in taunting. “Hey bigshot, you couldn’t have come down earlier to wave your employee discount around?”
Kyle’s eyes narrowed dangerously in Kenny’s direction, though he let the fatal glare roll off him easily. He could take it.
“I have a legal license to cut you, McCormick,” he hisses.
Kenny just smiles that cocky, infuriating smile.
Come time for your appointment, you’re handed over to Kyle easily, hanging off his elbow rather than Kenny’s.
Kenny hazards a risky, wet smooch on Kyle’s lips when he passes his coat to him, only to be swatted away indignantly.
“Well, I’ll be out here, waitin’. I’ll stay right here, and totally not use this for nefarious purposes. See ya,” he grins, gesturing to Kyle’s discarded coat mischievously. He rolls his eyes.
“If you see an isolation room, walk into it,” he responds blandly. Kenny fakes a swoon, placing a heart over his chest.
“Aw, shucks. You don’t need to get me sick to take care of me, babygirl.”
“Oh, I’ll take care of you, alright,” Kyle bites back, darkly – bristling from the nickname.
You let them bicker, as you rap your knuckles politely against the door, announcing your presence.
The doctor within perks up at your entrance, and you enter – leaving the smirking Kenny in the waiting area.
“Good afternoon, please take a seat, and…” his voice fades into confusion, when he spots Kyle trailing after you, expression even.
“... Mr Broflovski? Your group isn’t on rotation in this ward this semester,” he checks his schedule, as if to confirm, before levelling a puzzled stare his way, “To what capacity are you here?”
“He’s my partner,” you answer for Kyle, as he pulls up a chair beside you.
The doctor’s brows perk, an amused, interested glint to them – like a schoolgirl who’d just discovered some juicy gossip. Kyle doesn’t doubt that he’ll hear about this from his classmates, after the consult – HIPAA be damned.
“Oh, I see. Make yourselves comfortable, then,” the doctor states politely. “I’m Dr. Jordan. Now, can you tell me why you’re here?”
Taking that as your queue, you launch into a speech detailing your personal history, your current symptoms, your levels of pain.
The old doctor nods evenly, splicing in encouraging hums when appropriate to encourage you to continue.
“And how long have you been experiencing this?”
Your brain stutters to a grind. How long had it been? You almost couldn’t properly remember a time when pain didn’t infect every dusty corner of your life.
“It’s been three years,” Kyle supplies in your stead, “I’ve observed that walking is difficult and painful for them, and when I ask, they usually report an NPRS of six to seven at rest, and ten during a flare up. Average step count has reduced by about 90% over this span of time, dropping to an average of two hundred a day.”
You turn to the redhead, expression focused and solid. “... NPRS?”
“Numeric Pain Rating Scale. It’s what you’ve been using to describe your pain, on a scale of one to ten.” Dr. Jordan explains to you patiently, before turning a wry expression to Kyle.
“And Mr Broflovski, I’d like to hear directly from the patient, if possible – though your dedication is commendable, and I’d like to see those statistics if possible.”
Kyle shifts in his chair, meeting the doctor’s gaze with a challenge.
“Apologies. I just thought it prudent to mention that the pain that’s been reported so far, is what they feel now, in this very consultation, and not their worst.”
He says your name curtly, though it is suffused with an undercurrent of warmth and worry, “has expressed a fear of exaggerating symptoms to medical professionals, so I just want you to make sure that you get the full diagnostic picture, doctor.”
Said man’s eyebrows raise in slight surprise, and he turns his attention to you.
A chastened, shameful feeling washes over you. Had you been approaching this wrongly the entire time?
When you’d talked to Kyle about your prior appointments, he’d always insisted on you advocating for yourself. And… You thought you had been. Have you been doing it wrong?
You’d only meant to report your symptoms accurately, and when the veritable army of doctors had poked and prodded at you, bent you this way and that – you’d simply told the truth of what you were feeling as a result of their manipulations.
You didn’t want to come across as medicine-seeking, or doctor shopping, or anything like that.
You just wanted help – to help them help you, as best you could.
Dr. Jordan sighs.
“My apologies, I thought that, given your history with our other doctors, that they’d explained to you the most accurate way to report your symptoms. I shouldn’t have assumed,” he apologises gently, turning an amused expression to Kyle, still seated rigidly beside you.
“And Mr Broflovski, might the hostility you’re turning my way have something to do with what I heard through the grapevine earlier, about one of our students raising hell over some form of malpractice against my colleague?” He said lightly, tone curious – but a thrill of fear went down your spine.
What had Kyle said or done? Would he get in trouble? Oh god.
You feel your throat closing, in the same way it had so often in these appointments. The unimpressed disbelief etched into the faces of the doctors who had reviewed your charts, gone through your tests – to find nothing awry.
Their dismissive words, coated under the guise of detached professionalism, prescribing you the same set of pills over and over – the same belittling little set of instructions to perform and stick with the exercises they’d prescribed, because they’d work if you were doing it right. Go see the physiotherapist, again, to relearn how to do your stretches. Because you must be doing them wrong, because you were too young to have this sort of pain – went unsaid.
Kyle notices you clamming up, and, aggrieved – deepens his forward lean, a dangerous glint to his eyes.
“I hope not to overstep my bounds here, doctor, but I’m going to be candid,” he murmurs, lowly – dangerously.
“I’m unsure if you know of the extenuating circumstances surrounding my partial residency here, but I am currently preparing to take the bar exam in addition to putting my hours into this hospital. I hope to one day practice medical law, and I am not afraid of reporting someone who shouldn’t be practicing medicine to the state’s medical board." The threat is clear in his sharp tone.
“It’s been several years and I’ve seen the person I love get yanked around one time too many, returning from each consult more weary and hopeless. I’ve personally observed their commitment to each and every regimen prescribed to them, to no avail, and little care. Something has gone wrong, somewhere. Whether it be the personal fault of one practitioner, or the system in totality – doesn’t matter.
“So, if they’ve not been taught precisely how to advocate for themselves, you’ll forgive me if I find myself having to take a sharper tone, in order to impress upon you the severity and reality of their pain.”
When Kyle finishes what sounded like a professionally prepared speech, the room is cast in a heavy, tense silence.
You didn’t know what to say – your tongue was lead in your dry throat. Twin sensations of guilt and appreciation warred within you, at the old doctor’s unreadable expression.
He levels a discerning gaze on Kyle, whose eyes were sharp and darkly serious – the very picture of a guard dog, snapping at the ankles of an unjust system.
Then, a smile graces Dr. Jordan’s aged features.
“For your sake, I’m going to pretend not to have heard you blatantly threaten this hospital, Mr Broflovski. And, if you should choose to put your M.D. rather than your J.D. into practice when you graduate,” he leans back into his chair, threading his fingers together, “Please drop me a call. The world could use more doctors like you.”
While you’d been silent all throughout, a surge of pride washes over you, mirrored by the doctor before you – a quiet awe for your wonderful, smart, courageously righteous boyfriend. That warmth within you is chased by a tinge of fear, however, when his expression turns serious.
“But I’d recommend you not repeat your tone on someone other than me, Mr Broflovski,” he warns, “They might not be so forgiving, and it would be a shame to stall your career by getting kicked out of medical school too early. If you want to affect real change, sometimes it’s best to understand when to catch flies with honey, rather than vinegar.”
Kyle leans back against the back of the chair, grunting dourly, now quiet.
“Your sense of justice is unpolished, but bright. Thank you for your input and the information. Now,” the doctor turns to you, “Let’s try this again, as if it were your first consult here. Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong?”
Now that the thick tension in the air had dissipated, you came into yourself once more, finally feeling the breath in your lungs. You shoot a nervous look towards Kyle, who catches your gaze, and returns you a soft, encouraging smile.
And so, you do.
You explain your symptoms – feeling heard and respected, for the first time in a long while. The doctor didn’t rush you, didn’t interrupt – just sat, and listened.
You recount your history, this time daring to pepper in past injuries, and the context behind which you received them. You describe waking up throughout the night, awoken by what felt like searing frostburn at the site of your pain.
You didn’t hold back on using more flowery vocabulary, finally comfortable stating how you perceived the worst of your flare-ups, feeling like your bones were pushing against your flesh, threatening to split your skin apart from within.
Feeling like a large bruise whenever you moved, with deep, splintering pain assaulting you no matter what position you were in, feeling rust coat your joints whenever they creaked.
How you’d slowly lost more and more of your life to this unknown disease. How meaningless it all was.
And then, the hope.
The hope you’d felt two weeks ago at your last consult – where you had broken down into delirious sobbing, explaining that you simply couldn’t, couldn’t take it anymore. The doctor had consequently rushed your next appointment, and provided you some medications to take in the meantime to alleviate your pain.
An opioid.
Just hearing the name of it was terrifying, let alone the heavy warnings the doctor had impressed upon you.
Addictive, respiratory depressant, abusable, might ruin your life…
But it hadn’t – no. It’d given you your life back.
For one precious day, you’d felt your pain disappear. It made waking up gasping in the middle of the night worth it.
You’d walked. You’d run. You’d stretched, you’d jumped. You’d jumped. You hadn’t done that in years.
You felt the familiar burn of your unworked muscles, and revelled in the soreness that came the next day, because it was caused by you, and not some unnameable disease. It was something you could control.
For a long time, you were afraid you’d just been using the disease as an excuse to be lazy.
Sorry, I can’t go out today.
Not today, I’m afraid.
Thanks for the gym invite! Unfortunately…
But no. Just that one day – it brought you back to reality.
You weren’t lazy at all, you really were just tired and in pain.
You told the doctor all of this – your mindset change and how effective the medication was, and was that a diagnostic marker of anything? You explained hopefully.
Expecting Dr. Jordan to at least look happy, you were instead disturbed to find that his face was grim under that veil of professionalism.
By the time you’d finished, the doctor had pushed a box of tissues he’d had sitting on his desk towards you, and Kyle was gripping your hand within his tightly. An everpresent reminder of his presence beside you, with you.
The doctor nodded along slowly. “This sounds… Distressing. You must have been suffering for a long time,” he says sympathetically, then, “Have you heard of the Mankoski pain scale?”
“I- no,” you admit, and he sighs, shaking his head in disappointment that wasn’t directed towards you.
“It’s a numerical scale, similar to the one your partner described just now – only, for chronic pain. The sort of pain you’ve described, it’s beyond a shadow of a doubt that it could be classified as severe and chronic, and the scale allows for both quantitative and qualitative measure of it.”
“I have it here, doctor. I’ve been tracking,” Kyle pipes in, drawing his phone from a pocket, and tabbing to a foreign document that you’d never seen before.
“Days where they couldn’t work, couldn’t move. Days where medication helped, and how much it did. Days where they were bedridden, gritting their teeth and waiting for time to pass for a medication too weak to dull their pain to work. It’s all there, with times and dates.”
Your mouth drops open in surprise. “Kyle, when did you have time to-”
His eyes drop to yours, turning almost sheepish. “I didn’t want to have you keep track of more things, or keep reminding yourself about the pain when it wasn’t necessary. Stan and Kenny helped to fill most of the dates in, when I couldn’t.”
You’re shellshocked, stunned by your boys’ thoughtfulness, and your heart warms at their’ compassion and kindness.
“This… is rather alarming,” the doctor mutters, looking through the information, and your attention is suddenly brought back to him, breathless.
Someone finally took you seriously. It only took a ferocious guard dog and legal threats – but someone still did.
“May I ask for an actual diagnosis, as well as any milestones, and a concrete timeline of the treatment plan you’re planning to place them on?”
The doctor’s attention is brought to Kyle. You’d never have known to ask about a timeline – but hearing it sounded out made you realise it was something you desperately wanted, that you simply didn’t know how to ask for.
He mulls something over in his head, lips pressed thin.
“Alright. Let me tell you my theories on what you have, and tell you what we’re going to do.”