“We got your blood tests back…” The dreaded “dot, dot, dot.” The pregnant pause. The “oh fuck,” the deep sigh, the widening eye.
“Your white blood cell count is low.” Right, okay, no biggie.
“Oh, okay, how low?”
“Well, what’s it supposed to be?”
My forcefield is at 44% – my cells are bracing for impact. Methyltrexate is the suspect, my supposed “knight in shining armour” may be doing too much of a good job trying to protect me from my over-active immune system. Okay, Big M, hold your fire, baby. We’re just getting off Evil P here, let’s not mess this up. My rheumy nurse said he would call me back after checking with my rheumatologist on the “plan of action.” That was two days ago.
And so I wait, sprawled across the “dot, dot, dot,” wishing he had just called me once he consulted with her, instead of subjecting me to the pathetic image of my thinned-out immunity army. I joked with one of my keepers as she eyed me with concern. A shirt, I said, seemed to be in order. A shirt that says:
DON’T COUGH ON ME!
She laughed. We both did. No need to be a “bubble girl,” my friends. Nope, not just yet.