13. Nikki

13

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I knewwe would be like this physically. At least, I knew I would be like this with Alex. I trust him with my life. He may piss me off sometimes, but he would also walk through fire to protect me. And he would never hurt me.

I have never been so open before, so uninhibited. There was my first time, in high school, which I only admitted to Alex because he teased me about being a virgin. It was awful. The guy, our quarterback at the time, was a complete loser, too. He ended up getting an extreme DUI on his way to prom a week after we slept together. He was supposed to meet me there. Thankfully Alex was going with a group of friends, so we ended up sort of going together.

My mom obsesses over those photos still. If I weren't mortified at telling her what's transpired, she would probably throw a party and burn incense to somehow woo Alex into proposing. That's always been her dream. Both of our moms', actually. They've been photographing us as if we were a couple since we were babies.

I hope we make it. For them.

For me.

I wasn't worried before. But with everything Alex is going through, I can't help but fear that I really am simply a distraction. We need to carve out space for a friend session simply because that seems to be how we are most honest. As friends. And I need more reassurance than I thought I did. I'm not backing out now, but if Alex does, I'm not so sure I can go back to looking at him as simply the boy who sometimes gives me a ride home.

I broke the rules for my job, too. Technically, at least. I snuck in at six in the morning Sunday, and at least one girl on my floor saw me. And she knew. Oh, she knew.

I have a head of hair that tells no lies. When I'm confident, it rocks. When I'm sick, it looks lifeless. And when I've spent the night doing really naughty things with the guy I've imagined doing them with for years, well, my hair told the story.

An hour-long shower and a six-hour nap put me back together, and the rest of the day was spent catching up on assignments. I sent my movie score in early, accepting that Chris, our teacher's assistant, wouldn't lead me astray. I'm sure it sounds right if he says so. And the fact I can't tell for sure is why I'm here.

"Nicole Thomas?" A young physician assistant peeks her head out from behind the student health waiting room door. I gather up my backpack and the clipboard with my paperwork.

"Here," I say, rushing over to her.

I hand over my paperwork as she ushers me to the scale. I step on backward, a trick my mom taught me so I don't have to see the number. Numbers demand to be thought about and I'm happy with my body not knowing what number goes along with it. I hush the PA before she can tell me the result.

"I'm going to get some of your vitals really quick. Relax your arm," she says, hooking me up to take my blood pressure. That number, I'm all right knowing. Maybe because it's normal.

"You're here for an ear issue and headaches, is that right?" she says as she enters some of my stats into her computer.

"Mmm hmm. And I think maybe my hearing has been off."

She glances up at me but keeps typing.

"Okay. We'll take a look. Dr. Davis will be in shortly."

She tucks my folder in the basket on the door then leaves me alone in the tiny, sterile room. I swing my legs back and forth as I lean back on my palms, the paper sheet crinkling under my weight. I'm not good at waiting in places like this. My mind travels down its own path of worries. I don't even need the help of Google or WebMD to spiral. And I did a little looking on my own as it is, so those initial diagnoses are lodged in my head.

My body starts to warm, so I sit up straight and pull off my sweatshirt so I can pull the bottom of my T-shirt away from my body to fan myself. The fact I can feel my pulse in my right ear only helps eliminate some of my hypotheses while strengthening others. And when I hear the rapid knock on the door, I jump where I sit and clutch my chest.

"Sorry. There's really no easy way to surprise people like this," the doctor says.

I titter nervously.

"It's all right," I say.

She flips through my paperwork as she smiles, then slides over a stool so she can sit at the computer and review her assistant's notes. She's older, and somehow that puts me at ease—both that she's a woman and that she's hopefully seen whatever I have happening.

"When did the headaches and dizziness start?" She gets to her feet and moves to stand to my right.

"A week. Though, now that I think back, I have had a few over the last couple of months. They come and go."

She presses her scope into my right ear and it warms, from the light I presume.

"Okay," she says. Is that a good okay? An interesting okay?

She moves to my left and does the same. The scope feels hotter against my skin, but I think that's simply my nerves.

"And you mentioned that you're having some hearing issues. Have you had a hearing test done?" She still has the scope in my ear as she leans forward to look me in the eyes.

"No." I'm afraid to move my head.

"We can do one here. No problem." She pulls the scope out and moves back to her computer. A few seconds later her assistant pokes her head in.

"Can you bring in the audiometer?" Dr. Davis asks.

Her assistant nods and disappears back through the door. I feel like my world hit fast forward suddenly, my head swiveling as I try to keep up with the doctor's questions and now the equipment being set up in front of the chair. I move to the seat and put on the headphones, which are somehow nicer than mine. The assistant to my right and the doctor on my left, they run me through a series of tones, asking me to raise my corresponding hand when I hear something. It feels like a trick at times because they ask me where the sound is and I hear nothing, so I don't raise a hand.

My worry ramps up when her assistant wheels the system away and Dr. Davis scoots on her stool so we're sitting face-to-face.

"You have a slight infection, which is probably from your own investigations into your ear," she says in a kind way.

I nod because yeah, I went at both ears pretty good with the Q-tips. They did zero good, and apparently a lot of harm. My pulse slows because an infection is what I hoped for. Some antibiotics, drops likely. Maybe another hearing test.

"Nikki, you might also have a small acoustic neuroma in your left ear. That's probably what's causing the dizziness, and I would almost guarantee that's why you have trouble hearing midrange tones."

"I'm sorry, I . . . I'm what?"

I'm going to faint.

"Let me show you," she says, holding up a finger. She swivels the computer table so I can see the screen and the results from the audiometer. I'm not really hearing her, maybe because of the neuroma in my ear or maybe because I'm in a full-blown panic attack, but I'm able to somehow hold it together enough to visually understand the results. The red dots are all sounds I missed. Sounds like the ones I couldn't tune on my project. Like songs I've had trouble with lately on the mixer.

"I'm sorry, but . . . I'm really hot," I say. I lean my weight onto the right arm of the chair while the doctor pushes the computer out of the way so she can fill a cup with water.

"It's natural. It's a lot of medical jargon. I'm sorry," she says, handing me the cup. I take it with two hands, like a toddler. I bring it to my lips slowly and take small sips, focusing on my breathing. I haven't freaked out like this since we were in a minor car accident on our way home from the Iowa State football game when I was twelve.

I'm not sure when her assistant came back in, but I'm grateful for the cool pack she's put on my neck. And my pulse seems to be regulating.

"It isn't serious, and it is common, though not usually in women your age," Dr. Davis continues.

"Okay. What does that mean? For me, I mean. Are you saying it's not cancer?" This was my biggest fear. Stupid Google.

She shakes her head.

"It's a small noncancerous tumor. The usual course is to monitor it and make sure it doesn't change or grow. And if the vertigo gets worse, we can find ways to treat that, help with the symptoms."

"And the inability to hear midrange tones?" This. This is what I care about most. I would be fine falling over every other day if it meant I could hear everything as it should be.

She pulls her mouth into a tight line, and my chest collapses. I will not cry. Not here.

"There's surgery. It's an option, but I wouldn't recommend it with how small yours likely is. Surgery itself comes with risks, and?—"

"I'm a sound engineer," I blurt out.

She stops being a doctor then and there. Her expression softens, her eyes rounding. She looks down at her hands and nods.

"Before you do anything, you'll need to set up a CT with contrast to confirm the diagnosis. They'll be able to see the size and exactly where it's located. We don't have that here, but the main hospital does. I'll print your referral. You'll want to fast beforehand so I recommend scheduling it in the morning. I'll also print you some information on options for surgery. There's radiation, but . . ."

Her doctor persona is back. She moves her stool back to the monitor and types feverishly, the small printer whirling to life as it spits out page after page. She gathers them into a hefty stack and steps next to me so she can explain everything I'm going to obsess over for the next however many hours.

Surgery.

Risky.

Only improves hearing fifty percent of the time.

Minutes later, I drag my feet along the walkway from student health toward my dorm. I'm not going to accounting today. Oh, and my dream just blew up in my face.

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