Page 2 of The Back Forty
I wet my lips, trying to ignore the rising panic that's clawing at my chest. “That’s… not good, right?”
“No,” he says gently, shaking his head. “It’s not good at all.”
“Oh… okay. So, what do I do now?”
His expression softens, like he’s delivered this speech a hundred times and knows it by heart. “Lifestyle changes. Healthier eating, regular exercise, managing your stress better. And, most importantly, avoiding the things that caused this in the first place.”
The weight of his words settles over me, heavy and inescapable. “And if I don’t?” I hate that I’m asking but I need to hear him say it.
“Having a stroke makes you significantly more susceptible to another one. Your chances are increased by about 25% now.”
The number hangs in the air, sharp and undeniable.
Twenty-five percent more likely to have it happen again.
I know all about numbers. I can quote the percentages for all the tech products I sell like the back of my hand. And 25% of anything, is a lot.
“Oh… wow.”
So, that's why Catalina told me I needed to quit my job. She knows better than anyone, just like my younger sister Isla does, the demands and pressure of my career. They’ve seen the way I complain about my job in our sisters-only group chat, the one we’ve had for the past decade. I’ve been spilling the truth there for years: my job is stressful. Okay, that’s an understatement and I live and breathe it. Somewhere along the way it's become so engrained in my life that sometimes I can't tell where it stops, and I begin.
It’s hell. But Iloveit.
I work in tech sales in the heart of Silicon Valley, where competition is cutthroat, the technology evolves faster than I can blink, and I’m just one salesperson clawing my way througha sea of sharks trying to make it. Goals are constant moving targets, and when you think you're at the top, someone else lands a big sale, and you're knocked right down to the bottom again.
Sure, it’s not the prestigious medical career that my parents practically throw parades over for Catalina, or the flexible, brainy city engineering job Isla has with the city of Raleigh. But it’s mine. My thing. The one thing I’ve ever truly been good at: talking, convincing, projecting confidence that I don’t always feel, pitching ideas, proposing solutions, and most importantly, closing deals.
It's a total middle child job. We're overlooked, left to parent ourselves and thus became great at dark humor, loud talking for attention and convincing people to see us. Tohearus. Tonotice us.
And yeah, maybe my drug of choice is caffeine—okay, notmaybe,it absolutely is. Energy drinks, coffee and some more coffee after that. It doesn’t stop at noon. Hell, sometimes it doesn’t stop at 2 o’clock in the morning either. And, sure, maybe now I have a prescription for Xanax because panic attacks have become my new normal, but I’ve been having those since college. It’s just part of the package deal when you’re a Type-A, middle child of two immigrant parents from El Salvador.
The expectations are skyscraper-high, the excuses are zero, and you work yourself into the ground or, apparently, into a hospital bed.
Dr. Orion’s voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. “So, what changes do you think you’ll be able to make in the near term?”
“Um…” I shift awkwardly. “I guess I should probably cut back on caffeine consumption?”
He nods; his pen poised over his clipboard. “And how much do you typically consume in a day?”
I do the mental math, or try to and come up empty.
“Say… three cups?” he asks.
I let out a laugh-snort that’s more confession than humor. “No. Probably closer to ten.” And even that feels like I’m rounding down by at least five.
His eyes widen, before he slowly moves to sit on the edge of the bed, his tone shifting to something gentler. “Dani, I’m speaking to you as someone who cares and because your sister is one of the brightest surgeons we have employed here. I know she wants you to live a fulfilling life, but you won't be able to at the rate you're going now. If you need support cutting back on caffeine, we can help. We have programs for that.”
God. It’s not like I’m a junkie.
Okay… but maybe I kind of am.
Dammit this is way more serious than I realized.
I twist the corner of the hospital blanket in my hands, knotting and unknotting it like it’ll somehow stop my heart from racing. “No, I’ll be fine. I’ve quit before. I can do it again.”
Which is true. What I won’t be fine about is the bigger thing. The thing I know I must do but don’t want to admit yet.
My phone vibrates on the tray table beside me, and when I glance down, my little sister Isla’s face fills the screen before disappearing, replaced by a text. It’s a single crying emoji and a message:
