The Runaway Professor

26. The Wolf in Sheep's Clothing

"Give me a second to take a look," Dr. Palmer smiled with positivity radiating off her skin. Her pink polo shirt smooth as she walked up to gather a set of gloves.

A conflicted expression formed on my face, yet a steady hand did not dare to let go of my hand. Cate intertwined our fingers, her index brushing over my knuckles making my desperate clinging to her seem almost silly.

"How's the pain?" She asked gently, lips pressing against the back of my hand.

"Okay," my mumbled phrase whisked over dry lips, carrying little conviction. "A scratch at best." I was the worst liar.

She placed her free hand onto my forehead, chuckling with her well needed love. My chest burst with adoration at the sound of her. "You're clammy," she whispered softly. "It's okay to be afraid, but it will be fine." She knew my clues for anxiety and just then the water broke and spilled down my cheeks. Nose against nose. Breath hitting breath mid-way. "Cordelia Serena Clark, you are the bravest, strongest woman I ever came across. This will be fine, you'll see. Have some faith—if not in the doctor, then in my word."

Dr. Palmer cleared her voice and announced her proceeding. Gingerly she slid her hands over my ankle, calve and up my knee. My knuckles tightened around Cate's. "I'm sorry," I cooed into the crook of her neck. Sharp breaths blown through my lips, my teeth ground against one another. "It's not even that bad..." Jaw setting after the last syllable slipped over my tongue. Maybe it really wasn't— "Holy shit!?" I squealed and squeezed Cate's hand at once.

"Your kneecap is quite mobile, huh?" The doctor grinned, the vast amount of freckles on her creamy skin did miracles to my inner child. Ginger hair in a playful ponytail. She must be specialized in children. If not the hair style or the overall joyful demeanor, then it was the panda clip on the pocket of her white coat giving it all away. Great. Cate called a kids doc to make sure I was calm. Her daughter's doctor, I assumed. Dr. Palmer took hold of my ankle and stabilized my lower leg before very gently bring my leg closer to my middle. "Tell me about the pain."

"Scream when it's unbearable. Got it," I hissed softly and bit my lip.

She chuckled. "Just keep me updated, and perhaps elaborate on the type of pain?"

Squeezing—more like crushing—Cate's fingers, her sharp breath against my forehead was indication enough. "We've been experiencing burning pain so far." She replied in my stead.

Once I was on the verge of tears, Dr. Palmer stopped on her own record, sensing I would rather eat dirt than admit I was in pain. Not uncommon, I was informed by her, when it came to athletes. Weirdly enough a mood killer for some reason. I wonder why...

Despite the fact I was in a thong and sweatshirt, now standing—clinging to Cate's arm for dear life, too afraid to let go—in an office, my eyes caught on to the scale of about one hundred and twenty centimeters neatly plastered on a wall. Wildlife animals in an adorable cartoon style littered the scale's sides. How did I manage to ignore those? Anxiety. Lovely thing that is.

"Alright," the ginger woman kneeled before me and proceeded to instruct me. "Put your weight on your left knee—slowly."

I went spiraling. The last time I stood in front of a doc doing this, my life took a downward turn. My hobby, my friends, my girlfriend. My life did a one-eighty.

"Sweetheart," Cate caressed the sides of my ribs underneath my sweater, knowing physical touch was getting through to me. "Focus for a moment. It'll be over before you know it. You got this."

I followed the lead of Dr. Palmer's guiding words and helping hands.

***

Tugging myself into bed after a rough game, or relapse was the worst. It was evidence enough for me that I was always going to be on my own. Taking care of my own wounds, those inflicted by myself in particular, was an act of bittersweetness. Being tender to myself, because the person I craved it from did not offer it willingly. Dear mom, I love you, but what the fuck?