Page 2 of The Girlfriend Game
I scoff with annoyance, as if I should be grateful for a good ticker. I suppose I should, but it doesn’t help me in the least if there’s no explanation for why I blacked out tonight.
The doctor continues. “And I see the blood panels indicate no signs of elevated white blood cells, which eliminates the possibility of cancer, narrowing things down significantly. Although, we are still waiting for neuroimaging to check for any signs of neurological trauma. You haven’t had a concussion or hit your head recently, have you?”
I shake my head. “Not that I recall.”
I try to remember the past few weeks, but it’s all a blur. My stress levels have been through the roof as our team has endured some painful losses leading up to the conference playoffs and, hopefully, the NBA finals this year—the pinnacle of every player’s hopes and dreams when they reach the NBA. If the Pilots do win, it would be my second championship ring in my ten-year career.
“What if it’s not my brain? Does that mean I’m okay?” I ask optimistically, hanging on to the small hope that it’s an easy fix and a one-time thing. Just a fluke and a blip in time. I don’t need the unknown hanging over my head. All I want is to get back out there with my team to clinch the conference title. I’ve never missed a game or had a significant injury of any sort in my NBA career. “What do you think happened to me out there, Doctor?”
His name tag saysHarmon, MD.
He strums a hand along his trim beard, reading over the notepad thoughtfully. “That’s an excellent question. We don’t often see a healthy young man, such as yourself, experiencing what you did without some kind of predisposed condition or head trauma, which leads me to believe it’s nothing physical, per se.”
I perk up. “That’s good, right?”
“Perhaps, yes,” he offers sympathetically. “But I have called in another doctor to have him conduct his own assessment. And if he agrees with me, and we determine the diagnosis, we can get you discharged tomorrow. But it may require medication and continued treatment.”
My brows furrow indignantly. “Treatment? You just said it’s not physical…”
He tucks the tablet against his chest inside his crossed arms, the gaps in his lab coat sleeves flapping to imitate angel wings. “Mr. Forester…Zeke… I don’t believe your collapse tonight was a result of any physical ailment or injury. Based on what I saw in the video footage and what you described feeling before the collapse with the heaviness in your chest, the lightheadedness, the difficulty breathing, I think it’s very possible you may have suffered a severe anxiety attack that caused you to lose consciousness and black out.”
He smiles tightly as I gape at him in horror.
“Seriously? Are you suggesting it’s all in my head?”
Dr. Harmon chuckles and shakes his head. “Well, to some extent, yes. I am referring to your mental health and your state of mind. If our on-call psychiatrist, after his assessment and evaluation, agrees with me, then we’ll get you started on some anti-anxiety medications and proposed therapy. From there, you should be fine.”
With a reassuring pat on my hand, he nods his head and strides out of the room, leaving me with more unanswered questions and a seething anger brewing inside me.
This doctor doesn’t know what he’s talking about. And I am not going to talk to a quack.
Because I’m Zeke Forester, Pilots’ basketball player and NBA All-Star. And Ido notsuffer from anxiety.
And I certainly don’t need therapy, thank you very much.
