I knock on Doctor Hendley’s door. Her muffled voice answers, and I open the handle with my elbow.

The gentle hum of the fluorescent lights and the subtle scent of antiseptic embrace me like an old friend. Except this friend could turn at any moment. The room radiates an air of anticipation, a silent witness to the countless stories of pain, acceptance, healing, and hope that have unfolded within its walls.

‘Hello, Mrs Braverman, what can I do for you today?’ Doctor Hendley finishes typing on her computer and swivels on her chair, sweeping her buttery-yellow hair behind her shoulders. Her tiny blue pebble eyes laser right through me. She wants to add again. We should be on a first-name basis by now. I know I’ve been in this room more times this month than a mum with a poorly newborn has, but this time is necessary. Absolutely necessary. I honestly believe I’m dying. 

‘I have these bruises,’ I explain, wondering again why I have to rehash everything I’ve written on the forms to book this appointment in the first place. Surely, she’s read everything. That’s why she wants to see me. Because she too believes I might be dying. 

My heart skips a beat at the thought, and I clutch the arm of the chair. These palpitations alone might kill me. The germs from the arm of this chair could be Covid-19, and that could be my ultimate death. Maybe I should have had the vaccine all those months ago. But I really thought the vaccine might kill me. A cough bursts out of me. I throw my hand to cover my mouth. ‘Sorry.’

‘Go on,’ Doctor Hendley ushers, pursing her nude lips. 

‘The bruises are on both my thighs, and I have a really big one on my right side. It’s huge. They just appeared,’ I exclaim, swallowing the fear that it could be all those illnesses Google listed out to me at 3 AM. ‘I don’t remember bumping into anything. And you would think I’d remember with it being so massive. I mean, could it be a blood clot or…’ Heat rises up my neck like climbing ivy. ‘Leukaemia…’ I whisper, closing my eyes.

Doctor Hendley blinks and paints on a smile. A sympathy smile. I don’t know why she isn’t looking more worried, why she isn’t taking this seriously. My life could be about to end. It’s alright for her; she’ll probably live on to the ripe old age of ninety, but I don’t have forever, and I would like to know just how short a time I do have. I want to know what plans I need to make for my children, how I’ll tell them, how I’ll prepare them, and what I’ll say to my husband. How will he cope?

‘Let’s take a look, shall we?’ she suggests, and after her examination and taking my blood pressure, which squeezes my arm so tight I almost keel over, she types something on her keyboard while I pull up my jeans and sit back down, awaiting the news. ‘It’s a pretty large bruise…’ she states.

‘I know, I know,’ I nod, biting my lip, praying there’s a cure. I will beat this for my family, whatever it takes. But what if that isn’t good enough?

‘You’ve got children, you said?’

‘Yes,’ I almost burst out crying. 

‘Are they quite a handful?’

‘Well, yes, I mean, no, I love them.’

‘Of course you do. Some people bruise very easily, so you may have knocked yourself without realising it. As a mum, you’re busy and don’t often notice. They look fine to me, but if they keep coming back, see us again, and we can refer you to a specialist. We’ll take a blood test to put your mind at ease.’

I sit back, the tension draining from my body like dirty bathwater. That’s it? She isn’t worried. Okay. Well. I mean, that’s good news. I suppose.

She frowns inquisitively. Her eyebrows are as short and pale as matchsticks. ‘Is there anything else you’d like to talk about?’

‘What do you mean?’ I ask. What if the bruises come back?

She bunches her hands up on her ironed black trousers. I haven’t ironed in decades. Most of my life, really. ‘You’ve seen us a lot in the last couple of months. I wondered if anything was going on at home?’

I grasp the Covid-19 arm again, staring at the polished phlegm-green linoleum floor and picture my husband at home, telling me I’m fine, making me cups of tea and telling me to relax, making me a charming window planter box overflowing with beautiful flowers to cheer me up, my children, running around, giggling, without a worry or care in the world other than what’s for dinner today, and feel a fool. No, nothing is going on at home. Nothing that should drive me to the doctor’s office to seek reassurance and comfort. I have that at home. Not everyone does. But I do. Except…I don’t have her anymore. I don’t have my friend. And neither do her children. 

‘Mrs Braverman?’

I hunch over, the barricade crumbling, tears gushing. 

‘Oh, love.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I choke. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Can you tell…’

‘My friend died.’ The shock strikes me again like a heart attack.

The chair wheels squeak as she moves closer to me. ‘I’m so sorry.’

I cry and sniff and shake with uncontrollable grief. ‘She died. Just like that. In a split second. Her children lost their mother. Just like that. In a split second. And I…’ 

Doctor Hendley’s blurry, kind face fixes on me. 

‘I didn’t want that to happen to me, to my children. I was terrified that my children would feel that same loss, and there would be nothing I could do about it. And these things kept happening to my body. The headaches every day, all day for weeks…’

She nods, leaning forward. ‘You’ve been under a lot of stress recently.’ The freckles on her nose soften her demeanour.

I laugh, wiping the puddles under my eyes. ‘I thought it was a brain tumour.’

Her matchstick eyebrows dip. She looks at me like I’m a puzzle and she can’t quite place the first piece.

‘The brown spots on my breasts…’  

‘The freckles,’ she confirms.

‘I know, I know, but they were pretty big for freckles, and I hadn’t noticed them before. It was stupid to think they were cancerous.’

‘It’s important to have any new or changing spots on the skin examined.’

‘Then the tingling in my legs and the heart palpitations. And then the bruises.’

She hands me a tissue, and I blow my nose and rub my eyes. Her clean, organised office, bathed in that clinical light, comes into focus. The shelves behind her hold medical instruments, gleaming silver under the fluorescent lights, each meticulously arranged in its designated spot. But there isn’t an instrument in here to help me, to tell me when this heartache will fade, or to bring my friend back. A photo of Doctor Hendley and a little blonde-haired boy stands near her purple water bottle. As though he’s the only one in her life. I wonder if she has a husband who makes her cups of tea and tells her it will be okay.

‘It’s difficult as a mum, feeling that great responsibility for your children,’ she says. ‘You’ve been through a lot. I think it would be best for you to talk to someone and get some support.’

I take a deep breath, staring at the examination bed, its white paper sheet awaiting its next patient. It’s seen far too much of me recently. ‘Maybe I should,’ I say.

She smiles. ‘Okay, good.’ She types away on her keyboard, and I know then that I’m only just another patient to her, another hypochondriac who is in desperate need of counselling, but in that moment, in her smile, I can see that she does care, and I truly am grateful. 

I don’t think I’ll mention the tiny red dots covering my arms because it’s probably nothing. One of those things. Although maybe I should book an appointment in the next couple of months. Perhaps after some counselling. Just to be safe.