Dark Hollow Road (Taryn's Camera Book 3) (23 page)

T
here was no way anyone could sleep in a hospital. Between the noise in the hallway and the fact that someone was always coming in to adjust something, check on her, or take her blood pressure and temperature it was like living in the middle of Grand Central Station.

“I’m ready to go home,” Taryn grumbled.

Matt looked up from his laptop and sighed. “You are the worst patient ever.”

“Yeah, well, I feel better. And this IV hurts,” she complained. “All this fluid they keep pumping into me just keeps making me want to pee.”

She’d been there for twenty-four hours and in that time they’d run a brain MRI, abdominal CT scan, and taken so much blood she suspected they might just be vampires masquerading as nurses. So far, nobody had come back with any results other than the fact that her heart rate bad been extremely high, but her blood pressure very low.

“Can’t I just go home and let them call me when they know something?” she asked for the millionth time.

“No,” Matt replied without looking up. “There might be something seriously wrong and, if there is, this is the best place for you.”

Thelma had already been in to see her and brought a vase of flowers. Taryn wasn’t sure what they were, but they were an unnatural shade of purple and smelled like honey. Both Emma and Lindy had texted her. Since it was impossible to sleep she’d watched every single trashy reality show she could find on television. Normally, that would make her happy. But since she was confined to a bed by wires and unable to even go to the bathroom without help it just pissed her off.

Finally, the doctor she’d seen the day before entered the room, two nurses or residents or whatever, scampering behind him. He was young, probably fresh out of med school, and carried a clipboard. It didn’t look like it had anything on it, making her wonder if he just carried it to look official.

“So am I going to live?” she joked.

“It looks like it,” he frowned. “We got your results back and, for the most part, they’re okay.”

“Well, I like the ‘okay’ part but the other is a little concerning. What’s up?” Suddenly, she felt dread form in her stomach. What if she did have something awful, like brain cancer? What if she were dying?

“Your bloodwork looks fine. A little low on potassium but we pumped that into you,” he smiled.

Taryn frowned. The potassium bit had burned. She hadn’t liked that at all. Her arm was still sore.

“And your vitals look good now, although they were all over the place when the paramedics brought you in.”

Taryn had no recollection of being carried off in the ambulance. The first thing she remembered was flying down the hallway on a stretcher, her first thought, “Wee! This is fun!” followed shortly by, “What the hell is going on?”

“You do have something called an aortic aneurism in your abdomen,” he continued without expression.

“Well, I don’t like the word ‘aneurism,’” she said. “What does it mean?”

“There’s no sign of rupture or that it’s doing anything at the moment,” he replied, again with an expressionless face. “I’m going to give you an information sheet about it, with signs to watch for. If it does rupture, it’s very serious,” he stressed at last. “As in life or death. So you’ll need to get to a hospital immediately.”

“Well, hell,” Taryn snapped. “How long have I had this thing?”

“It’s hard to say,” he answered. “You probably haven’t even noticed it, except for the occasional feeling like your heart is beating in your stomach.”

“Yeah, I get that sometimes,” she conceded. “So is that the bad news?”

“The CT scan included your chest, and we did an echo when you first came in. Has anyone ever told you that you have mitral valve prolapse?”

“No, what’s that?”

The doctor briefly went over the condition, explaining that it could account for her dizziness, fatigue, and other symptoms she’d been experiencing.

Sighing, Taryn leaned back in her bed. “Well, that’s something then.”

“There’s still something else,” the doctor murmured. “The women on either side of him were stoic, motionless.

“What?” In frustration, Taryn began popping her knuckles, a nervous habit she’d had seen she was a child. “Now you’re going to tell me about the brain cancer?”

“No, but…” he trailed off, watching her hands. “Do that again.”

“Do what?” she asked.

“Your hands. Let me see you bend your fingers like that.”

Taryn laughed. “You mean this?” With ease, she bent her pinkie backwards until it was touching her wrist. “It’s my party trick.” One of the women cringed slightly.

Setting his clipboard down, he walked over to her. “Can you do that with any other fingers?”

“Sure.” While he watched, she bent her other pinkie back and then her thumbs.

“Let me see your legs,” he commanded.

Taryn uncovered them and watched as he lifted one, bent it, and then maneuvered the other one in the same way. He then, to her surprise, came closer and gently rubbed his hand down her forearm, studying it intently. “Can you open your mouth real wide now?” he asked, pulling out a little flashlight.

Having no idea where this was going, Taryn opened her mouth and let out a long “ahhh” while he searched for whatever it was he was looking for.

Finished now, the doctor stepped back and studied her. “Have you been having any other symptoms? I mean, other than the ones that brought you in here?”

“Well, my hips and legs hurt a lot, and I get this tingling in my arms sometimes,” she admitted. “But I just figured that’s because I’m out of shape and getting older.”

“Would you call it joint pain?”

“Yeah, maybe,” she shrugged. “Sometimes it’s my joints that hurt; other times it feels like the bone–like my shin. But then things will hurt and no matter how Matt rubs it we can’t really find the source.”

“I’m not one-hundred percent positive,” the doctor began slowly, “but you exhibit signs of something called Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome. Has anyone ever brought that up to you?”

“Um, no, not that I can remember. What is it?”

“It’s a connective tissue disorder,” he explained, “that has to do with the way your body creates collagen. It can cause a lot of the issues you’re having, including the pain and tingling. You have characteristics of the hypermobility type, what with you being extremely flexible, having soft skin, and a high palate.”

“Yeah, my skin has always been pretty soft,” Taryn agree proudly. “So this syndrome, is it serious?”

“Yes and no,” he replied. “Some patients experience early onset osteoarthritis and rheumatoid arthritis. Others, like you, have seemingly unexplainable pain. It can also cause brain fog, digestive issues, vision trouble, hearing loss…”

He continued talking but Taryn tuned him out. Brain fog? As in, there might be something weird going on inside her brain to cause it to malfunction?

“With your flexibility, I would venture to say that you have the hypermobility type,” he finished. “That’s the most common. However, with the aneurism I am slightly worried about the vascular form.”

“What’s wrong with it?” Taryn asked, trying not to completely freak out.

“That can cause a whole host of problems, including ruptures of major blood vessels and organs. You’ll need to see a geneticist to completely rule that out, although even with the hypermobility type you can still have crossover symptoms of vascular. In the meantime, I can write you a prescription to help you with the pain. That can greatly improve your quality of life. And when you get home you should check in with your primary care doctor to get that referral to the geneticist. It wouldn’t hurt to get a good cardiologist on your team, too.”

Once he was gone, Taryn turned to Matt, feeling defeated. “Well,” she sighed. “That sucked.”

“Are you okay?” There was concern written all over his face.

“Did you hear him say ‘brain fog’?”

Matt nodded.

“Matt?” Taryn bit her lip and started up at the mindless television show she’d muted. “What if the things I see, the stuff I pick up on…”

“Yeah?”

“What if it’s not really there? What if it’s just my brain short-circuiting and I’m not really seeing anything at all?”

Matt was quiet. Not even he had an answer for that.

T
aryn couldn’t bring herself to open her laptop and check any of her emails or even check her social media pages, something she was usually obsessive about. She could feel the tinglings of depression, despite the fact that everyone swore the narcotics she was now taking offered a euphoric high like nothing else. So far, all they’d done was make her sick to her stomach, although her pain level was better than it had been in years.

“You okay?” Matt asked for the fifth time in an hour.

“Yeah, fine.” She was pretending to read a book, but the truth was she’d read the same page at least a dozen times and still had no idea what it said.

“You need to make that appointment with your doctor in Nashville,” he lectured her. Matt, ever organized and on the ball.

“Yeah.”

Little by little it was all making sense–the headaches she’d had off and on for years, the body pain she’d chalked up to poor posture and laziness, even the pain she had after eating. She never realized they were all connected. After a long search on the Internet, though, she’d walked away with more information than she’d wanted. It seemed there was no “cure” or even a standard treatment procedure. The few online support groups she’d found listed the number one complaint as being finding a doctor who actually understood it–it was that rare.

“Taryn, I don’t think your medical condition is what’s causing your sightings, or what you’re hearing,” Matt said gently. “I don’t. If it were, then how would I be able to see things in your pictures?”

What he said made logical sense to her, but she was still uncertain. The noises she heard at night? What if those were simply her ears playing tricks on her? Some EDS patients, she’d read, had hearing problems, including tinnitus. And when she saw things? Maybe it was vision issues or even a mini seizure? So many of her issues, like fatigue, she’d blamed on working too hard, on her grief. And that was even okay because it meant one day it would get better–when her grief improved, when she learned to handle her workload better… she wouldn’t sleep as much. It was a temporary problem. But now that it was tied to an actual medical condition, it was possible she might be like that for the rest of her life–never having the energy or stamina to do the things she truly wanted to do. And then, of course, there was the fact that she could
die
.

Taryn was depressed.

“You want to go out somewhere? Go to the movies?”

“You think I feel like going out?” Taryn shouted. “I feel like I can’t even get up from this damn chair without passing out.”

She immediately burst into tears.

Matt, who’d likely been expecting that anyway, sprinted over to her and picked her up like she was a baby. “Oh, sweetie, it’s okay. We’ll figure this out. I’ve been researching, too, and if we have to fly to Baltimore or Chicago we’ll find you the best doctor out there. We’re going to get through this together.”

But they couldn’t, not really. He could lend her moral support but she was completely on her own in the way she felt.

Hours later, while she was dozing on the couch and staring at the television, the phone rang. It was Thelma.

“How ya’ doin, honey?” she cooed into the phone, concern in her voice.

“Hanging in there, you know?” Taryn replied, not feeling too bad now. The pain meds seemed to be doing their job at least.

“Listen, I know you don’t feel up to it, but there’s someone I’d like you to meet, to talk to,” Thelma said hesitantly. “She was a friend of Cheyenne’s. I–I didn’t mention her before because, well, I don’t exactly
like her
,” Thelma said these last two words in a whisper, like God himself might overhear her.

“Yeah? Why not?” Taryn’s curiosity was piqued now and despite the fact she didn’t feel like getting off the couch to do anything but pee, she briefly forgot about her earlier meltdown.

“She’s a little loose, a little rough,” Thelma explained. “Her mother works at a questionable establishment, a place no honorable person would step foot in.”