I leaned backwards slowly and stared at the generic ceiling tiling. My doctor prodded my stomach gently, talking to me about fluid intake and her own mono experience, when suddenly her brows furrowed deeply. “Have you ever been pregnant, Lola?” I laughed. “No.” (Sidenote: why do doctors never read charts?)

“Do you know what I think I’m feeling?” Her fingers, cold and clinical and dry as if they were themselves instruments, had stopped prodding, had come to rest. “My enlarged spleen?” I whispered hopefully. She shook her head. “No, not that. I think you have . . . I think you’re . . . ” she bit her lip, and looked at me, worried.


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