Lifestyle Magazine

No Diagnosis

By Bewilderedbug @bewilderedbug

No DiagnosisHe knew better than to say anything when she was in this mood.

He was used to it by now, after every single test, her mood blackened, her beautiful face stained by disappointment, her spirit just a little more broken.

She would start shouting soon enough, acting irrational.

He would too, if he went through the amount of poking and prodding that she had to undergo during all these medical tests, all for naught.

It had been six years.  Six years of constant testing, constant hypotheses, constant disappointment, one after the other with no avail.

The doctors could never give her a straight answer, t he tests were always negative.

Yet she was still sick.

She was still in pain.

She still had no answers.

They still had no clue as to why.

He sat next to her through each negative test result, each doctor telling her that it was all in her head, every night as she lay, doubled over in pain, swollen, crying and unable to sleep.

He was beyond frustrated and could not imagine what she must have been feeling.

This time, she seemed defeated.

Again.

The tears had not come yet, but he was waiting.  They always came.

He pulled into their driveway and she suddenly seemed to come to life as she jumped out of the car and stalked off towards the house, her anger finally surfacing.

It could be frightening, but he was glad that she threw these tantrums.  It was toxic to keep this type of angry confusion inside of you.  It changed your personality and ate away at you slowly if you didn’t get it out.  He just wished it wasn’t so violent when it came out.

He sighed, turned the car off and sat in the car for just one moment longer, his head on the steering wheel, trying to find  the strength to go inside and face what he knew was brewing in there.

He braced himself and walked into the house to see her banging pots and pans around in the kitchen.

The tears had not started yet.

“Love, what are you doing?  You should rest.  I can take care of dinner.”  He knew this would set her off and that she would scream again like she had almost every single time they had reached home after one of these hospital visits.   He wanted her to get it out before it made her into a quivering, crying mess that she tended to become when she tried to be “brave”.

She stopped as she was filling a pot with water at the sink, and took a deep breath.  “I thought pasta for dinner”  She moved the pot onto the stove a little more roughly than required and started chopping vegetables a little too fast.

He approached her from behind and hugged her, stopping her from chopping the vegetables before she chopped off a finger.

“It’s okay,” he whispered, “we’ll get through this.  We will find out what’s wrong.”

She started to weep quietly and he held onto her as the quiet sobs transformed into wails.  Her shoulders shook, her nose ran and tears seemed endless.

She turned and hugged him, putting her head on his strong shoulder and allowing her now free-flowing tears to soak into his shirt.

He just held her until she started to calm down.

When she calmed down, she stayed in his embrace, her head resting on his wet shoulder, her body exhausted by the emotional trauma she had just experienced.

“I can’t do this anymore…”

“One more baby, just one more.  The haematologist next week.”

“Why?”  she stepped back, snapping at him, ‘just so that they could tell me I’m crazy again?  Maybe they’re right….”

She walked to the kitchen table and sat heavily into the wooden chair, staring at the salt shaker as she brooded.

“Honey, we can’t give up,” he said, sitting opposite her,” please.  We just need to keep going.  We’ll find the problem.”

“I’m so tired.”

“Okay love, you can go sleep.  I’ll wake you up a little later for dinner.”

“No.  I’m not tired.  I’m tired of this.”  She pointed at her head with both hands and waved them around in a circular pattern, “This being sick and not being sick at the same time.  I’m tired of this not deciding if it wants to kill me or live with me.”  She poked her abdomen “This.  I’m tired of not having it ever working properly.  I’m tired of being and feeling disgusting.  I’m tired of this!!”  She started beating her arms and legs with clenched fists.

He reached across the table, holding her hands to prevent her from hurting herself further, unsure of how to bring up his thoughts, “Honey, do you think maybe we should get some help for you?”

She looked at him, angry warning eyes drilling into his skull, “Help?  You mean like a maid?”

He braced himself, “No baby, help, you know, to help you deal with this.”

She pulled her hands away angrily.  “You think I’m crazy too don’t you?  It’s all in my head right?  Vomiting all night, in my head, not able to cut my own food because of pain in my upper body, in my head, swelling and hives, in my head, confusion and walking into walls, in my head!!  I’m the crazy one right?  I’m just a lost case, attention seeking bitch right?!”  Her voice got louder and got higher and higher in pitch as she started weeping again.  She collapsed off of the chair, onto the floor, her head in her hands, her little body bent over in half in a vertical fetal position.  “You should just leave.”  She said between sobs, “just leave.  I don’t need you.  I don’t need any of you.”

She collapsed on her side onto the floor in the fetal position, protecting herself from the world as she wept.

He sighed.  He got up and lay down behind her, spooning her and holding her shaking, fragile body against  him.

“I’m never going to leave you, my love,” he whispered and kissed he back of her neck. “I don’t think you’re crazy.  I just want you to feel better.”

She sobbed silently into her cuffed, shaking hands.

They stayed in that position until she calmed down half an hour later.

He knew she was thinking when she was still and breathing regularly.

He waited for her to start talking again, scared to disturb the semblance of mental peace that she seemed to have found temporarily.

Eventually, she did speak, quietly.

“Okay.  One more time.  Only once.”  she twisted around to face him.  “Promise me, only one more.  If nothing comes of it we forget it and just live with it.  Agreed?”

He didn’t like this, but he hated seeing her this unhappy.

“Fine,” he said, ” Agreed.  If it gets really,  really,  really bad though, promise me you’ll let me take you to the doctor again.”

“Fine,” she said although she didn’t look like she meant it.  “Fine, I will let you do that.  Just this one and then we try that.  Please.  I can’t….”

She started shaking her head furiously and her hands were crumpling up towards her freshly tearing eyes again.

“Okay okay!” he said, wanting to do and say anything, once she would stop crying.  He had had enough emotion for the night.  “Where’s the referral?”

She looked guilty and pointed towards the bin.  “I….um…I sort of ripped it up.”

He smiled at her.  He loved her when she was this vulnerable.

Shaking his head slowly, he picked the pieces out of the trash.  “You might want to hang on to these,” he advised with a smile and reached his hand out to help her up.

*********************************************************

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, femmefauxpas challenged me with “Shaking his head slowly, he picked the pieces out of the trash. “You might want to hang on to these,” he advised. ” and I challenged Kirsten Doyle with “Suspicious eyes watched over it all.”


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