Page 69 of I Almost Do

To be fair, I did go to urgent care a few months ago. But they said, "See your gynecologist," which I do not have. Now Sydney and Jeanine call me names, Bronwyn tells me to remove my cranium from my anus, and absolutely nobody says, "Aw, let me get you a heating pack," anymore, unless it is also accompanied by a lecture or name-calling.

"This is nonsense," Jeanine says. "Make a doctor's appointment. First it was the periods from hell. Now it's all the time. When was the last time you didn't need to take handfuls of Advil just to get through the day?"

"You're not the boss of me," I mumble under my breath.

Sydney's eyes pop. Straight up bug out of her head like a cartoon character. She shoots Jeanine a wary glance and takes a step back. Mr. Pooterfutz scrambles out of my arms and takes off out of the room with a yowl.

Jeanine is five foot nothing, and she insists she’s "in shape," then winks and says, "Round is a shape." She looks soft and sweet. But absolutely nobody sasses Jeanine unless they have a death wish. The woman used to run a kitchen in Manhattan where underlings yelled, "Yes, chef!" the second she opened her mouth.

"What did you just say to me," she says. No question mark. She knows what I said. She's daring me to say it again.

"You're a chef, Jeanine. You're not my nanny," I return.

"Holy. Shit," Sydney breathes. "Shut up."

"I will not shut up," I screech at Sydney, and I know this feels like a random outburst out of nowhere to them. Because it feels like one to me too. But I hurt. All the time. I'm not sleeping because of it. And I just need them to get off my back. It's honestly such a good thing I took all those extra credits my first couple years of college, because if I were trying to carry a full course load this semester, I'd have crashed and burned.

"Everybody wants to tell me what to do,” I continue. “And I'm sick of it. If I want to skip class and lie on the sofa with a heating pack, I'm allowed to skip class and lie on the sofa with a heating pack." And then I burst into tears.

Sydney and Jeanine share a shocked look, then, as one, surround me on the sofa with their arms wrapped around me.

"Honey, this is not normal. There’s something wrong. Your hormones are all messed up. You're in pain all the time. You have to go to the doctor," Jeanine says.

"I don't have one," I whine.

"Oh my God." Frustration bleeds into her voice, despite the fact that she's got her arms wrapped around me in a comforting hug. "I love you, but stop. Get on your phone, find one, and go."

"I can't," I say. And I know exactly how stupid that sounds. Of course I can. All I have to do is pick my phone up off the coffee table and search for a gynecologist.

But I can't. Because I don't want to know what's wrong with me.

It's absolute cowardice. My father would be so, so angry at me if he were here. Probably my mother would too. But they're not here. Because they both died of cancer.

If I go to the doctor, I have to stop pretending I just started having "bad periods." And if I stop pretending, I have to face the fact that I'm scared to death.

"That's it," Sydney says and snatches my phone off the coffee table. She shoves the screen in my face, and I blink back, startled, not realizing at first that she's using my own face against me to unlock my phone.

She walks across the room while tapping buttons. I think she's looking for doctors at first, but then I hear James's voice mail message play over the speaker. I try to lunge off the sofa after her, but those hugging arms of Jeanine's have become iron bands. I holler, "Traitor!"

Then Sydney's talking over the sounds of me cussing her out. "Hey, surprise. It's not your celibate little love muffin after all," she says. "It's Sydney. I stole her phone to tell you to make your wife go to the doctor. She's been lying to you."

I flat-out screech, "I have not been lying."

Sydney looks at me from across the room and pinches her finger and thumb together in that measuring thing that says, "Eh, just a little."

She keeps speaking. "Okay, maybe not lying. But she has been hiding something big. So call her. Thanks. Bye."

Sydney comes back and drops the phone onto the coffee table, then crosses her arms over her chest. "Go ahead," she says. "Kick me out of the house now. Tell me what a terrible friend I am. But I love you. So if kicking me out means you go get whatever this is fixed, then so be it."

"I'm not kicking you out," I snap. "But James is not my boss any more than you are. He can't make me go to the doctor, and it's fucking sexist of you to try to get him to."

"You did not just call me sexist," she seethes. "I'd have called your spouse if you were married to a woman too. Your spouse is supposed to be your partner. The person you are married to is your support system. And if you won’t take care of yourself, then James is the only person I can think of who might talk sense into you."

"Well, you shouldn't have. James is busy. He just got back from London two days ago. I don't like to worry him. He freaks out if I stub my toe."

"We," Sydney says, indicating Jeanine, herself, and me, "are worried. So why shouldn't your husband join in the fun?"

I just shake my head. "You don't understand. He's going to kill me."

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