5. Isla

5

ISLA

M y hand flies to my chest as I’m jolted awake. It takes me a second to calm my racing heart. All I can hear is the blaring sound of my phone alarm coming from my nightstand. I’ve been sleeping in later since I returned from Italy, but I need to get up early today. It’s the day I’ve been waiting for—one I’ve “affectionately” referred to as D-day, short for Diagnosis Day.

I groan as I stretch my arm out to stop the loud noise. As I sit up, a wave of nausea hits me, forcing me to stop my movements and take deep breaths.

Slowly, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand up. The room spins for a moment, but I close my eyes and hold myself up against the wall. A few more measured breaths do the trick, and I make my way out of my room.

I walk into my bathroom and splash some cold water on my face, hoping it’ll wake me up and calm me down. It doesn’t work, but at least I feel more human.

Or something like that.

With a sigh, I start getting ready for the day. Every movement feels like a chore, but I force myself through the motions because I’ve been waiting for this moment. I need answers. As I’m pulling on one of my favorite sweaters, I hear my mom’s voice coming from what I assume is downstairs.

“Isla? Are you ready?”

“Coming,” I reply quickly. I’m so ready to get this over with.

I grab my phone and take one last look in the mirror to make sure I look presentable. Even though I’ve been up for at least twenty minutes, I still look exhausted. The happiness I experienced living in Italy for the short time I was there is long gone. In its place are tired eyes that wish I could be anywhere but here.

You can do this.

The words do little to psych me up, but it is better than nothing.

I head toward the stairs and see my mom and Bella waiting near the front door. Mom has her purse and car keys already in hand. “There you are. Ready to go?”

I nod, not trusting my voice. There are a lot of thoughts coursing through my mind, but I don’t trust myself enough to voice them appropriately. All of this is a lot to take in and deal with, and if I’m being honest with myself, I haven’t begun to process most of what has happened.

“I stuck a couple of granola bars in my bag in case you get hungry, and I grabbed your wallet off the counter,” Mom says as she opens the front door. Thank goodness one of us is thinking straight. I pat Bella on the head, telling her goodbye just before we leave the house.

The car ride to my new doctor’s office is mostly silent, save for the low hum of the radio. After having several tests run and an ultrasound done already, I’m not all that enthusiastic about going back for the results. While my last couple of visits have gone fine, I don’t have much hope. This isn’t my first rodeo with doctors trying to figure out exactly what is wrong with me, so I have to say my expectations are pretty low. Thankfully, Mom doesn’t try to engage in small talk because there is nothing she can say that will distract or make me feel better. Instead, I stare out the window, watching my hometown fly by. Being left to my own thoughts is all I want right now.

We pull into the medical center’s parking lot, and Mom turns off the car. For a moment, we both sit there, neither of us making a move to get out.

“You ready?” Mom asks softly.

I glance at her and see her hand hovering over the door handle. “As ready as I’ll ever be,” I reply. That is such a lie. My stomach is tied in so many knots, and I can’t tell if it’s from the news I’m going to get or from the illness that has been plaguing me.

We step out of the car and walk into my OB/GYN’s office. After checking in, I notice that the waiting area is quiet, with just a few other patients sitting in the room. I sink into a surprisingly soft chair while Mom sits beside me on a couch. I now more than ever appreciate that my doctor is trying to make her practice a relaxing and calming space because I’m anything but. My leg bounces as I wait and try to think about the results and how my doctor might deliver them.

“Isla Johnson?” a nurse calls, and I stand up faster than I should have.

Mom squeezes my hand, and I look down at her. “Want me to come with you?”

I hesitate for a moment, wondering which option to take. “I... I want you to come in with me.”

Mom nods, and soon, we’re following the nurse down a long hallway. As we reach a door marked “Exam Room 3,” she gestures for us to enter. We take our seats, me in the examining chair and my mom in a regular chair nearby. The nurse takes my vitals before announcing that Dr. Patel will be in a few minutes. I pull my phone out to give myself something to do while we wait.

A few minutes later, Dr. Eva Patel enters, her kind smile doing little to ease the knot in my stomach that has only grown in size. “Hello, Isla. How are you feeling today?”

I force a weak smile. “A little nauseous, but I guess I’m more nervous than anything.”

She nods, and I can feel the sympathy in her gaze. How bad are my results, or am I just overthinking everything? I watch as she takes a seat before pulling up my file on her tablet.

Dr. Patel clears her throat and says, “I understand. Let’s review your test results, shall we?”

I choose to stare at the woman who is about to reveal my fate. Dr. Patel reviews the results on her tablet. Her expression gives nothing away, and I’m unsure of what to think. Mom reaches over and squeezes my hand, silently offering her support. The seconds that it takes Dr. Patel to speak feel like hours.

“Isla,” Dr. Patel begins, her voice gentle yet unwavering, “your blood test results and your ultrasound show that you have Polycystic Ovary Syndrome or PCOS.”

The words hit me like a ton of bricks. It feels as if my world is crashing down around me, though all the while, relief floods my veins. We have an answer? It’s PCOS? I’ve heard of it before but never gave it more than a passing thought. This isn’t supposed to happen to me. My mind races with questions as I struggle to keep myself from breaking apart.

A single teardrop falls from my eye. “Wait. You’re actually able to diagnose me? We know what’s wrong with me?”

Dr. Patel reaches over and takes my hand. “Yes, we are. Based on what you’ve shared with us in your intake chart, I’m so sorry it took this long for you to find the answer that you were searching for.”

Another tear falls and it is quickly followed by more. “You believe me.”

“Of course I do,” Dr. Patel says as Mom comes over to hug me.

Thankfully, Mom is able to talk for me because I’ve started sobbing into her sweater. “We’ve been to appointment after appointment trying to figure out what was going on with her body, and now we finally know. You don’t know how much of a relief it is. We now know what we are fighting against.”

I know there is no way I could have said it better myself.

“I’m glad that I’ve helped,” Dr. Patel says.

“You really have. What... what does it mean?” I ask after I finally pull myself together. My voice is so quiet that it is barely above a whisper, and I wonder if she even heard me.

Mom has moved back to where she was before but grabs my hand once more to squeeze it tighter. I’m so thankful I told her I wanted her to come back here with me.

I still am trying to process that I was believed and that we now have an answer about why I feel the way I do sometimes.

Dr. Patel explains the condition, but her words blur together as I process the news. She mentions irregular periods, hormone imbalances, and potential fertility issues down the line. My fertility isn’t something I’ve focused on, and now I’m being forced to. I can feel the tears welling up in my eyes again as she continues to talk to us.

I look over at Mom and see she’s on the verge of crying too. She’s trying to be strong for me, but she can’t mask the concern on her face.

“Is there a cure?” I ask, my voice trembling.

Dr. Patel shakes her head. “Unfortunately, there is no cure for PCOS, but there are treatments available to manage the symptoms and reduce the risk of complications.”

She discusses various options, from lifestyle changes to medication, but my mind is reeling. Nothing is making sense, yet in a way, it all does.

As the appointment comes to a close, Dr. Patel gives me her recommendations for dietary changes and some medication that I’m nervous to take but will try if it can help me feel better. We can pick up the prescription on the way home, and I can see Mom already making notes about what I should and shouldn’t eat.

I leave the doctor’s office with Mom in what can only be described as a daze. We walk back to the car, and once we fasten our seatbelts, Mom doesn’t bother turning on the engine. Instead, we sit there in silence, both of us lost in our thoughts. The reality of my diagnosis is slowly sinking in now that I’m away from prying eyes, and it’s filling me with fear.

“Mom,” I whisper, my voice cracking, “I’m scared.”

She reaches across the console and pulls me into a tight hug. “I know, baby. I know. But we’ll get through this together, I promise.”

I lean into my mom’s embrace, letting the tears I’ve held back finally fall. Her arms give me a smidge of comfort after the news I’ve just received, and I don’t take it for granted for a second.

After a few minutes, I pull back, wiping my eyes with the sleeve of my sweater.

Mom starts the car and thankfully turns on the radio to fill the silence I know will be present during our drive. I watch as she navigates the vehicle out of the parking lot before I speak up. “Where are we going?”

“I was thinking of the pharmacy, and then I can drop you off while I go grocery shopping.”

That is silly. She’d have to go past the grocery store to drop me off at home and then go back. “I’ll go with you. I should probably get out of the house, anyway.”

Mom glances over at me and gives me a small smile. “Great. And we can take it as slow or as fast as you want to.”

Thankfully, our adventure out and about doesn’t last long, and soon, I’m helping Mom bring in the food she bought. Tucked inside one bag is the medication that I’ve decided to start taking, though it’s been weighing down on me the more I thought about it.

Everything is going to be fine.

I repeat the words to myself over and over, like a mantra that needs repeating. It will be okay because we have a path forward, and we will sort everything out in time.

“Isla, honey, why don’t you go rest for a bit?” Mom suggests, her voice laced with concern. “I can finish up here and then get some breakfast ready.”

That sounds good to me. “Thanks, Mom.”

I grab the prescription bag and head upstairs to my room. As soon as I close the door, I sit on the edge of my bed and stare at the bag in my hands.

With a deep sigh, I open it and pull out the medication. I read the label repeatedly as I’m trying to figure out when I should take the first pill.

A soft knock on the door pulls me from my thoughts. “Come in,” I call out.

Dad enters my room, and I’m confused by his appearance. What is he doing here? He hands me what looks to be a Greek yogurt parfait with berries and nuts before he sits down beside me.

I clear my throat. “Not that I mind you being here, but why are you home?”

“Came home to check on you under the guise of grabbing lunch.”

I can’t help but chuckle. It’s way too early for lunch.

“Thanks, Dad,” I say softly, taking the parfait from his hands. “You didn’t have to come all the way home, though.”

He shakes his head, a gentle smile on his face. “Nonsense. You’re my daughter, and I want to be here for you. Plus, there’s something else I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Oh?” I bring the spoon up to my mouth. I’m ready to devour this whole parfait and then relax in bed.

“Have you thought about what this means for school?” Dad asks.

I drag my eyes up to meet his. Of course I have because I hate being behind. I want to graduate on time, but I’m not sure how much I’ll be able to do until my health improves.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do about it. The semester has already started, and I’m supposed to be in Italy right now.”

Dad clears his throat, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Well, I pulled some strings, and if you want to, you can transfer to Crestwood University for the semester to continue your studies. I know it’s not NYU but it allows you to be closer to home as you get better.”

Those words are the last thing I expected him to say. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not. Given the circumstances, it would be a good option for you, but we can look into other options if that isn’t what you want.”

My mind races as I think of what my life would be like if I attended Crestwood. After all, at one point, it was my dream school. Some people would hate to attend the school where their father works, but it was always my dream to go there. At least, it was until my senior year of high school. That change was due to a certain someone who plays on the hockey team here. I had started to imagine being here with that someone, cheering him on at every game. Then that person broke my heart when he said our relationship wasn't working out for him and he thought I deserved someone better.

This same someone I’ve been trying hard not to think about since I got back. Hell, that’s a lie. I’ve been trying not to think about him for the last three years.

Asher Bennett.

Fuck.

“I don’t know, Dad,” I say as I set the parfait on my nightstand. “I’m not sure if I’m ready to jump back into school just yet.”

Dad places a comforting hand on my shoulder. “That makes sense. It’s a big decision, and you don’t have to make it right away. Just know that the option is there if you want it. I’ve also got special permission for you to begin your classes virtually at first if that would make things easier as well.”

It doesn’t make things easier for me. The extra tidbit complicates things because of how accommodating Crestwood is. “Thanks, Dad. I’ll think about it.”

I find those words meaningless because, in my mind, I have already made the decision. If Crestwood will help me get back on my feet and bring some normalcy to my life, I would be foolish not to take the opportunity.

Even if it means seeing Asher again.