My poor arm. I want to cry when the nurse appears to do more bloodwork

As told to Rochel Samet

Sunday dawns clear and crisp.

“Oh, what a beautiful moooorning...” Henny sings, passing my door. She’s going wedding shopping.

I want to look for a gown too. I want to call Shana; I got a dozen missed calls last night. I want to catch up on my homework and help Ma and play games with Sara.

I flop back down. My head spins.

I may as well dream of flying to Israel for the day.

I sleep. I wake up. My eyes burn, my head aches. I sleep. My throat is sandpaper. I wake up. I need a drink. I crave food so badly, normal food, bread and cake and pasta with cheese. Then I feel nauseous and lose my appetite completely.

I wish Ma would come. I need a drink of water. My limbs are weighed down, a ton of bricks. I can’t get out of bed.

There’s a tap on my door. Finally.

“Yeah,” I say, too quietly. “Hi,” I call, a little louder. It takes effort.

It’s Ta.

“Libby, how are you?” He looks rushed. “Listen, I just got off the phone with Reuven Hartstein, you know, my friend who’s a doctor... I asked him about your symptoms, because the tests keep coming back negative. Anyway, he recommended a doctor who specializes in infectious diseases. He’s going to pull some strings, get you an appointment this week. Okay?”

I nod, trying to process. Infectious diseases. Doctor. Appointment. My heart lifts a little. Maybe he’ll know what’s wrong. Then it plunges. Maybe not. I can’t handle another disappointment.

Ta is still standing there, one foot out the door.

“Thanks for calling,” I manage. I should be grateful that he’s trying to help, not dismissing it and telling me to do homework. But I don’t feel grateful, I just feel terribly, achingly alone.