—Oh. That’s good news, then.
She’s always had this way of pressing her lips together whenever she’s lying or getting annoyed. There’s no doubt about it. It’s her. It’s Lovi. But I don’t know why she won’t look at me. Maybe she hasn’t recognized me yet.
—Do you play any sports?
—Not regularly enough, I guess.
—Do you do any high-impact sports, or anything that requires quick pivots—basketball, volleyball, handball?
—No.
—And when you were younger?
—Hm… no. Not really.
—What do you mean, “not really”?
—I was in a handball club, but I didn’t really play. I just ran with the team and sometimes did the warm-ups. Does that count?
That confirms it. She hasn’t recognized me at all. I keep examining her ankle as I apply the cream. The scar is still visible on her inner malleolus.
—Any previous problems with this ankle—sprain, surgery, trauma?
—No.
But there is. She’d rather not say. Or not remember. What matters is that I know. I don’t push it. I grab a soft ankle brace from the cabinet and fit it onto her foot.
—This will help compress the area and support you when you put weight on it.
I put her sock back on, loosen the laces of her shoe, and slip it onto her foot.
—I’ll let you tie your laces. Don’t over-tighten across the middle of your foot.
Lovi does it, head down. I return to my desk and dictate my notes in a measured voice.
—Mrs. Fulido, consultation for a mild sprain. The area shows some laxity, suggesting residual instability. The periarticular muscles appear deficient, which could compromise joint stability. Plan for strengthening exercises to improve ankle support.
I grab my pad and start writing the prescription. She eases off the table, testing her weight with the brace.
—Can I have a crutch?
—No. You need to keep walking a little, but above all, rest for the first three days.
—But it hurts when I walk.
—Pain is your body’s way of telling you something’s wrong—you need time to heal. I’ll prescribe a painkiller to help.
—That’s not necessary. I won’t take it.
—There are more natural alternatives if you prefer. You can ask your pharmacist.
—I don’t really have a pharmacist… “of my own.”
I nod and tuck that phrase away in my mind. Not trivial, that kind of wording. Not a rejection, not a complaint. Just a way of saying you don’t let yourself be helped. That you learned to manage without. I grab a painkiller and a glass of water, then get up to bring them over to her. She looks at my hands for a moment, not moving.
—I won’t force you, but since I don’t like seeing you suffer… at least take this one.
When she finally looks up at me, I instinctively turn my head and pretend to look somewhere else. I feel her take the pill from my palm, then the glass from my hand. I couldn’t bring myself to look her in the eye, but at least I managed to convince her to take the painkiller.
Then I head back to my desk and dictate the prescription out loud.
—Painkiller, or a natural equivalent if needed. Maximum three per day. Anti-inflammatory cream, to apply several times a day as directed.
Now’s the moment. I take off my glasses in a gesture I’ve repeated a thousand times and give her my full attention.
—Here’s the plan you’ll follow: strict rest for the foot. Ice, twenty minutes, several times a day. Protection and compression with the brace, even at night in bed. Elevate your foot whenever possible, seated or lying down. I’ve written it all on the prescription. You’ve got my email and the clinic number if needed. Any questions?
—No.
She’s nodded the whole time while staring at my wooden handball trophy. She hasn’t paid attention to a word. I get up to hand her the prescription. She takes it, then folds it once, twice, three… then four times and stuffs it in her pocket. Someone who crumples a prescription like that probably doesn’t plan to take it to a pharmacist. She won’t use it. She’d rather heal without help.
—Take the rest of the cream with you. I’ll walk you back to the waiting room.
I hold out my arm to her, but she doesn’t want to lean on me. She limps away. It breaks my heart to see her like that. I don’t feel like I was much help.
—Is someone coming to pick you up?
—Yes, yes.
I grab a business card behind the desk and slip it in front of her. She pinches it, barely interested. I don’t let go right away, make her pull for it. I want her to look at me, at least once.
Noticing something’s off, she finally lifts her head. I expect to see surprise on her face, but not at all. She shoots me a defiant look, like I just insulted her. My nice smile twists instantly, and I let go of the card.
—I’ll make sure to repair and… strengthen your support. Soon it’ll be even better than before. I promise.
Her gaze dropped back to her thighs the second I opened my mouth. Now she’s hunching her shoulders and fidgeting with her hands, like a child embarrassed at being noticed.
—Today’s Monday, September first. I want you to come back and see me in three days. Thursday the fourth, at the same time. Does that work for you?
The assistant immediately clears his throat.
—Thursday, at 4:20 p.m. Ms. Fulido?
—Hm… yeah.
—Depending on how you feel, we’ll start a strengthening program.
Lovi won’t look at me. I don’t know what else to do. Beside her, my next patient is starting to get impatient. I motion for them to follow me and walk them to my office door.
Before stepping inside, I look back at Lovi one last time. She’s still sitting in her chair, her head tipped back toward the ceiling. Her breathing is locked up, and she’s clenching her teeth. She’s in pain, but that’s not all. She’s trying to keep something under control, and it’s completely slipping away from her.
—Hey, Lovi?
She finally looks up at me. I give her my warmest smile.
—You’re fine! Breathe, Lovi Chan!
…
I leave before all those memories come rushing back.
*Note: “Chan”: affectionate Japanese suffix. English pronunciation: “chahn,” with a soft “ch” as in “cheese.”*
📖 Next chapter: Lovi’s point of view! 🔥
