I received good news yesterday. But the good news makes no sense without last summer's bad news. So here you go. Another chapter for the memoir.
INT. ENDOCRINOLOGIST'S OFFICE - AUGUST 2008
She was frowning. Skimming over the files in front of her, she didn’t bother to look up to ask her question.
“How old are you again?”
She grunted and continued her reading. Her frown intensified. I braced myself for a lecture. For the accusation that I was an over-Googler, a hypochondriac whose self-diagnosis had just abused an all-too-generous medical plan.
I could take her ridicule. Even her rhythmic grunting didn’t intimidate me. I knew she would roll her eyes, but I didn’t care. For the sake of my own (questionable) sanity, I had to know. I telepathically dared her to admit that, yes, I had reason for concern, but, no, a 25-year-old has no business fretting over an old woman’s disease.
She stopped reading. Her face was now twitching, the corners of her mouth so severely down-turned that I feared her face might invert itself. She kept her finger on a list of three digits and shook her head.
She finally looked me in the eye.
“You have osteoporosis.”