Chapter 8 (by Gingernaps3)

Amy tucked a section of her golden hair behind her ear. She picked at her turquoise nail polish as she gazed around the room. The counter beside her chair displayed a small, black laptop, standard first aid supplies, extra long cotton swabs, and the blood pressure cuff a nurse had used moments ago. The beige walls were accented with a few framed pond photos. A heavily-cushioned chair with white paper lining sat in the middle of the room. The only noise to be heard was the low hum of the overhead lights, aside from the occasional tick of another piece of nail polish getting chipped off. Amy hoped the doctor wouldn’t need a physical exam today. At least, not one that would warrant changing into a gown.

Before she could finish her thought, however, the door to her left opened, and a middle-aged woman with rust-colored hair pulled back in a ponytail smiled and greeted Amy as she entered the room. Although Amy already knew who she was, she could still spot Kay Wiseman, MD embroidered on the woman’s white coat.

“So, Miss Amy,” said Dr. Wiseman as she sank onto a stool beside the counter. “How have you been lately? How’s your mom?”

Amy folded her hands to stop herself from picking at her nails during conversation and replied, “Oh, well, you know, still going. Last I saw, she now has this oxygen thing that she carries with her everywhere.” She glanced at Dr. Wiseman’s sympathetic grimace and continued, “It helps her walk more, but she still has trouble getting around and stuff.”

“That’s too bad,” Dr. Wiseman replied. “Yeah, my uncle, who I’m sure I’ve mentioned before, is involved in a lot of research on your mom’s disorder. I understand how it could be tough to see.”

Amy nodded.

Dr. Wiseman inhaled sharply and changed the topic. “Well,” she said, “let’s get to it then. So it looks like you’ve been having some high pulse rates lately?”

Amy nodded again and began to describe her symptom. For the last week or two, anytime she checked her pulse, the rate was almost always in the 80s, and once or twice it was in the 90s, even at rest. As she spoke, Dr. Wiseman nodded occasionally and typed on the laptop. She asked Amy about chest pain or shortness of breath, which Amy denied.

“I see,” said the doctor when Amy had finished. “How long has this been going on, you said?”

“Just in the last week or two,” Amy replied, “but I’ve felt extra tense for the last few months, so...I don’t know if that’s, you know, got anything to do with it.” She picked at her nail polish again, ignoring the increasingly-visible pile of turquoise flakes on the black tile floor.

“Have you been having difficulty coping with your mother’s diagnosis?” Dr. Wiseman asked.

“What?” Amy blushed in embarrassment. “N-no, I’ve been fine with that. Mom’s disease, it...it is what it is.” More turquoise chipped off.

https://theprose.com/post/263522/chapter-8

https://theprose.com/book/2114/the-third-patient-collaborative-writers