Page 13 of Rise Above

walked me to my car. That was probably the number one reason he reminded me of Texans—his kindness. People in Texas were kind but not always nice. Essentially, a Texan would change your tire while berating you for not knowing how to change your tire. A well placed ‘bless your heart’ would get me every time. I found the north to usually be the opposite: nice but not kind. It made me miss Houston.

“So, game will be at ten on Sunday. Same place as

before,” Davis said as we reached my car.

“Okay, sounds good.” I offered a smile. “You’ll let

me know when you’re home?”

Nodding, he headed off to his car. I jumped in mine

and took off to my place. My mentor had sent edits for my intro, and I would need to work on the edits and an additional section this weekend. I was meant to graduate in August which meant I’d have to defend my dissertation in July. My writing timeline was very strict. Thankfully, I loved to do it. Writing was my happy place.

Yawning, I entered my apartment. It was messy, in

the worst way. Papers, clothes, and old takeout covered nearly every surface. If I wasn’t so tired, my disgust would

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have forced me to clean. As it was 9PM though, a hot shower and my bed were the only things on my mind. Popping my neck, I stripped and entered my equally messy bedroom.

Without sparing a second glance, I turned on music

and began to scrub the day away. As I washed my hair, I let my brain wander. Some of my best writing came in the shower, and I knew ideas would be more frequent as I wrote more of my dissertation. The heavy drums burrowed into my head as I thought of the realities women faced in a medical setting. My entire social work career had been focused on this, and it was part of the reason I worked in a hospital. On average, it took women five years to achieve a diagnosis unless it was cancer. Frequently, women’s pain was chalked up to depression, hysteria, conversion disorder, or some other mental illness. At the same time, mental illness was often dismissed. It sickened me.

I turned the water off and reached for a towel. I

wanted my paper to cover several sections of common assigned female at birth illnesses: poly-cystic ovarian syndrome (PCOS), endometriosis, fibromyalgia, multiple sclerosis (MS), pineal cysts, and more. I wanted to talk more about women not being believed by medical professionals and how draining that could be, but I wanted to talk about solutions most of all. Pulling pajamas on, I climbed into my bed and flicked off my lights. The medical system needed an overhaul, and I was willing to do it, my mind running through a million more medical reasons.

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Time sailed by. It was already two on a Friday, and

I felt like I still had a billion things to do. Neurology was always like that though. Stroke patients were just like that; they needed so much attention. Brains were delicate. I didn’t mind usually, but I hadn’t even had lunch yet.

“Aife, honey, go eat,” Julia said, taking some

packets from me. “You cannot function without food.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I wouldn’t argue with her. I sat my

binder down and grabbed Nat, heading toward the cafeteria. Nat was already texting Dre to meet us there.

“Today’s been crazy.” Nat pushed the elevator

button harshly. “Like, good Lord. I’m so glad I’ve got the next three days off.”

I nodded. “Today’s trying to kill me. I love my

neuro patients, but sometimes their family members make me want to rip my hair out.” We entered the elevator. “Oh, I’m playing soccer on Sunday. Do you and Dre wanna come watch?”

“Will there be cute boys?” Nat asked. She brushed a

hand down her scrubs, smoothing out wrinkles that weren’t there. It was a nervous tick of hers; her anxiety masked on her face.