Frail

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?”

“Twenty-five.”

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.”