On Loving a Flawed Creation

Despite having written a bunch of experimental stories, this is the first time I am trying writing in female first person, so kindly excuse me if I am terrified of how it turns out.

Votes and comments are welcome to let me know how well I did/spectacularly I failed.

Thanks to Eliya, who has made the medical jargon in the story authentic. Any further discrepancies are due to me taking undue liberties despite her better advice.

"You come to love not by finding the perfect person, but by seeing an imperfect person perfectly." - Sam Keen

* *

We sit on adjacent seats in the waiting room of Dr Li's office. The seats are comfortably padded for those awaiting their turn. A quick look around reveals more patients and would be patients. Over time, I have grown accustomed to seeing the same set of looks. Some resigned to their fates, others vaguely hopeful. I have spent much of the last few years in waiting rooms like this one.

It's not as bad today. I can almost walk unsupported. My limbs are weak , but not as much as other days. I like the padded armrest on the chairs here. Most doctors are satisfied by having minimal furniture and I have grown used to the cold metallic feeling of the cheap seats.

Not Dr Li. The waiting room is tastefully decorated. Art, photographs and the obligatory few drug adverts adorn his walls. Enya can be heard faintly in the background, a refreshing change from the irritating chimes in other such rooms.

A boy sits on the opposite side of the room. He looks no older than ten and is engrossed in the first comic he found on the rack beside him. I patiently wait for him to look up and meet my gaze. He smiles weakly.

Kids shouldn't have to be in rooms awaiting diagnoses, but they do lift some of the bleakness. I always try to make a young friend while waiting for yet another attempt to determine my fate.

A hand grips mine. I look to see Sloan has returned with coffee. She has her red hair tied neatly behind her head. It makes her look older than she is. I've occasionally teased her about how she has the fashion sense of my grandmother.

"The doctor will see you now," says the receptionist.

Not letting go of my hand, Sloan guides me inside the office. It is considerably smaller than I expected. Or maybe it looks smaller because of the deep brown walls which segue into mahogany carved shelves stacked to the brim with books. A man in a white coat with a receding hairline sits in a plush recliner behind an ornate desk.

"Have a seat," he says, rapidly entering keystrokes on his desktop.

"Doctor Montgomery, I presume," he asks looking up for the first time. She nods.

"Then this is..." he says, glancing back at the screen.

"Mia Soros," I squeeze out of my dry throat. "I'm the sick one. You can tell."

"Doctor Fraser called me up specifically about your case. I've known her for over thirty years and this is the first time I have seen her unable to come up with a diagnosis."

"Which is why we're here, aren't we?" says Sloan. "Did Dr Fraser send over all her test results from Johns Hopkins?"

"She did and I got your mail too. You've burnt through a truly impressive list of doctors before me."

"Well, you've seen the list of symptoms, the episodic nature of whatever this is. She's been diagnosed ten times with hardly a change. She's getting weaker, her immune system is all over the map, her liver panel is consistently inconsistent. No therapy has improved her condition for more than a few months."

Dr Li looks perplexed. He scans through the test results on his screen. Sloan takes out a binder and places it on his desk.

"The weakness is the most debilitating symptom but she's started getting fevers more often which are not connected to any focus infection we can identify. She's nauseated and exhausted more often than not. And I can't tell if her lack of focus is neurological or just a side effect of how weak she is. Here is my copy of her records. I've grouped them into separate files from Langone, Mount Sinai and Mass General. They detail her admission records, treatment plans and her symptoms at the time, as well as my notes from the interim."

He takes out one folder and browses the first few pages to get an idea of what he's up against.

"Most of this information is in her records but I appreciate the way you've organized this. Dr Fraser speaks highly of your practice."

"I haven't worked in some time, Doctor. I'm at home with Mia, where I should be."

There is a moment of silence.

"I'm begging you, please tell me what's wrong with my Mia."

Just for the briefest instance, I see Sloan crack. The weight of carrying around a polite façade finally proves to be too much and she lets a sliver of emotion creep through her defences. Her voice quivers slightly.

I find the strength to close my fingers around her palm. I'm grasp her as firmly as my tired muscles will allow and whisper "It's okay."

"I'm sorry," she says, regaining her composure.

"No problem. Is she still on the regiment Dr Fraser prescribed?"

"Yes," replies Sloan. "I administer her IV's and other medications myself. In addition, we do have a nurse and a physiotherapist."

"I'm a doctor myself," she goes on. "But of course I can't treat Mia. She's my wife. It's frustrating, Dr Li, watching her suffer and being powerless to do anything. So I'm her primary caregiver, but not her doctor. You come up with the treatment plan and I'll make sure she follows it."

"That's not a problem, Doctor Montgomery. You're here because Doctor Fraser believes this is an autoimmune reaction we haven't seen before. We have to do a more thorough investigation of her antibody titers."

"You believe that? Her white blood cell count dips every few months and it doesn't correspond to a worsening of her condition, just leaves her open to infection. She's been hospitalized thrice with pneumonia just the last twelve months."

"I can't say for certain yet, but I've spoken with Doctor Fraser and I agree that we must exhaust any genetic abnormality before we consider other possibilities."

"And what possibilities might those be?"

"That is not for me to posit just yet." He looks at me uneasily. "I know this is difficult. Is it possible to speak with you alone, Doctor Montgomery?"

"Mia knows all about caregiver burnout, Doctor. As do I. But I am determined and I expect the same from you."

"You are an example to us all, Doctor," he says, looking over her notes. "Her white cell count has been stable for a few weeks now. You are following Doctor Fraser's regiment?"

"Yes," replies Sloan. "Though I'm concerned about boosting her immune system if what you are suggesting might be true."

"It is a fine balance, but as you've noted, the lack of one can be equally devastating on her health. We will take blood today and I will be in touch next week if any of the labs show promise of a diagnosis. I'd also like to present her case to some of my team. If things are inconclusive then I will be in Manhattan next month and we can do a bone marrow biopsy there so that you don't have to bring Mia all the way back up here.

"She'll be a challenge," Dr Li concludes. "But her case is complex and I plan to devote much of my attention to it, I can promise you that."

"Thank you, Doctor," she says. "Before we go, I wanted to speak with you about neoplastic possibilities as well."

It takes only a minute or so of the nitty-gritty of my condition for me to zone out. I've already heard enough polysyllabic medical terms to last me a lifetime.

My hand stays firmly clasped in hers. It's important.

* *

There is a moist freshness in the air. It's a good sign that I can walk unassisted today. Even so, Sloan and one of the assistants at the clinic help me into the backseat of the car. The headrest folds out and I can lie on my side. It's most comfortable for me that way.

It's almost dark when Sloan starts the drive back. Before long, we're on the interstate. Droplets of water tenaciously cling to the window pane. They glint in the light of each passing street lamp. The alternating glow and fade of the specks keeps me entertained for a while.

"So what did you make of him?"

The question doesn't register immediately. I raise my head and look at her quizzically.

"Dr Li. What do you think of him?"

"You tell me. I spent the meeting counting the books on his shelf."

"I think he's good," Sloan nods. "He certainly has great recommendations. The New England Journal of Medicine names him as one of the top five immunologists in the north-east."

"We've been to the other four on that list, you know?"

There is silence in the car. Sloan focuses on the road. I shift closer to the rear windscreen so I can look up at the night sky. The recent rain has cleared the clouds, leaving an unobstructed view of the stars.

"Sloan. Will anyone ever find out what is wrong with me? And if they do, what happens next?"

"Shh... don't talk," she reassures me. "Just relax back there. Your body has been through a lot today."

"Your father has a fund-raiser tomorrow, doesn't he?"

"Yes, but we don't have to go."

"No," I squeeze out. "I want to. I know how long he will be on your case if we didn't make an appearance. It might be fun to dress up. "

"I'm serious, Mia. Fuck him and his fund-raiser. If you're not feeling up to it, it's not even worth discussing."

"I know that," I say, turning my body so I'm facing the front now. "But you even said my white cell count is good enough to go out, and it would mean a lot to him."

"Since when has that concerned me in the least," she snorts. "You and I both know why he wants us there."

The tiredness is getting to me now. I close my eyes and try to get some sleep. It will take a few hours to get back home.

* *

"Last chance to back out."

"No," I reiterate, applying the last touches of mascara.

"One hour at best. Then we're leaving."

The event itself is at an upscale hotel. The banquet hall has been decked out with banners showing the charity's work.

"Sloan. Mia," I hear the familiar, booming voice. The hulking frame of Carson Montgomery the third comes over to greet his daughter and me.

"I'm so happy the two of you made it. I'd like you to meet some people."

"Mia's not feeling very well, Dad," Sloan says apologetically. "We'll be sitting over here if you'd like to bring someone to meet us."

Carson looks mortally wounded as Sloan sets me down on a chair and sits down beside me. He soon disappears into the crowd to greet new guests.

"Good save there," I whisper.

"He makes me sick. There's something wrong with the Montgomery Y chromosome. Three generations of Montgomery men and they can't come up with a better name than Carson. If I had been a boy, I would have died of shame having to live with the name Carson Montgomery the fourth."

I almost choke on the water. Sloan cares little for her father's philanthropic endeavours. Carson the first and second were the real business brains who turned a small town hardware store into a retail chain spanning forty five states. They flew coach and burnt the midnight oil to push their business to new heights.

Carson the third has his own private jet and lets the enterprise run with minimal interference. He's happy as long as the shares he inherited keep bringing him money. He does not understand, nor care for, the difference between a spanner and a wrench.

"The only reason he has accepted us into his family is to get the liberal vote. If this was fifty years ago, he'd have disowned and crucified me on his front lawn for his constituents' viewing pleasure."

"Constituents?" I ask. "Don't tell me he's thinking of running again."

She glances towards the front row of seats. I follow her gaze and sure enough, there are two faces I recognize from television close to the stage.

"This is not a fund-raiser, it's an audition. We're only here to emphasize how deeply my father cares about the plight of us same-sex couples."

I elbow Sloan in the ribs as I spot Carson the third approach us from my side.

"Mia, dear. How are you? Hope you're feeling better."

"I am," I nod politely. "Thank you."

"Did you look into that favour I asked?" he asks Sloan.

After a deep sigh, she responds. "No, I could not get Valerie Cole to come to this event."

"Did you ask her?"

"Yes. I tried the lesbian hotline and she didn't pick up. What more can I say?"

Carson's peeved response is cut short when a group of his friends approach the table.

"Barry, Stan," he beams. "This is my daughter and my daughter-in-law."

They sit down across from us and Carson draws up a chair as well.

"Are you Mia?" one of them asks and I nod politely.

"We've heard about you. I'm sorry about your illness. You're lucky to have someone like Sloan in your life to take care of you."

"I know that."

Sloan spares me the effort of talking any more. They empathize with us and what we're going through. It's the same words and the same expressions wherever we go. Just when I think that time has frozen, I feel the all too familiar unease.

"Sloan," I mutter weakly after a while.

"What's wrong, honey?" she asks, suddenly looking concerned.

"I don't feel well. Could we go back home?"

The weakness in my limbs means I can barely stand without support. I lean on Sloan who wraps my arm around her shoulder. She beckons two waiters over who prop me up on either side.

Some of the guests converge on us. The room tilts and quakes. I can barely make out Carson the third on stage, looking clearly unhappy that my condition is stealing his thunder.

As my limp body is hauled towards the elevator, I hear the same voices and whispers as I have heard so many times.

"It's so sad. I heard she was responding to her new treatment plan."

"Sloan is still committed to her. So many people would have left her and moved on by now, but not her. It's amazing."

"I'm worried about Sloan too. She never gets out of the house these days. Her whole life has become taking care of Mia."

"I've told her to ease off in the past. Maybe Mia should be admitted in a hospital full time and Sloan can have a life outside her wife. She needs to be around others more often."

"Even Mia can see how much of a burden she is to Sloan. I just hope Sloan doesn't grow bitter and resent her for it."

"How can you even say that?!"

"Caretaker burnout is a real thing."

"Poor Sloan. First with her Mom and now with Mia. She can't catch a break."

A small crowd of well-wishers flank our path and let us know I'll be in their thoughts and prayers.

* *

"That was torture," says Sloan, hooking up the IV bag to my bedside stand. "If I have to hear one more time how sorry people are. I'd like to see one of Dad's friends, just one, make an appearance here."

"I'm sure they mean well," I groan. The familiar ache is back. Any significant movement of my limbs take effort. If I lay still, it's a dull weighted sensation on my limbs.

Sloan sets the drip rate on the touchscreen beside me and sits down.

"You'll feel drowsy soon. That's perfectly normal. If your body wants to relax, let it. You need as much rest as you can get."

"So you've said a thousand times before," I turn on my side and grin at her. "I know the drill by now."

"Oh, Mia."

Her hand strokes my hair. I had done it up for the party. Now it lay in a fanned out mess on my pillow. She runs her fingers through it and a few black strands come loose in her palm. She looks at them with a melancholy gaze.

"I love you so much."

Her lips are on mine now. They taste of the strawberry lipstick she put on. Her soft full lips press into my skin, daring a response. It takes a few seconds for my lips to open and invite her tongue in.

We kiss slowly. It's no longer the wild and torrid passion of before. I know every curve and contour of Sloan's body by now as she knows mine. She lies down and embraces me. Her kisses trail down my neck and reach my chest.

Her busy hands undo my buttons and feel the swell of my breasts. They aren't big but she loves them all the same. A confirmed breast woman. My Sloan. She kneads and teases them, softly rolling each nipple between her fingers.

"Mmmm. Keep doing that."

Sloan obliges and traces long spirals over my breasts. They centre inward on my nipples which she gently pinches with both hands. Her mouth finds my right nipple and sucks and pulls at the hardening nub. Her tongue swirls around it.

I close my eyes and surrender myself to the currents of pleasure blossoming from my twin nipples. She keeps her attention on one before changing to the other for a short while and back again. Her free hand draws a long, lazy ellipse across my torso, barely grazing my clit at the lowest point.

She repeats her shape, this time tracing it with her tongue. If I felt better, I would probably be writhing and squirming now. Her tongue comes to a stop just above my inflamed lower lips. I peer downwards to see her looking at me with a mischievous glint in her eye.

"What do you want, Mia?"

"You know what I want."

"I've forgotten. Refresh my memory."

"I want your tongue and your fingers... inside me."

"Grab a hold of the rail. I don't want your IV line being ripped out."

Her hands are everywhere, followed by her mouth. She leaves a trail of kisses across each clavicle and criss crosses my torso. I let it happen. Her hands caress my skin and she bites down on my areola. Slightly harder this time, making me yelp in pain.

I part my legs invitingly, but she pays no heed. My body is an instrument she has played too often for me to dictate terms to her. There are erogenous zones she knows that even I'm not aware of - behind the kneecap, the crest of my ear, where my last rib gives way to my stomach. A barrage of pleasurable sensations flood my system. It drives me mad with desire.

Every action is measured and intentional. There is no hesitation. When she brushes against my clit once more, I bite down on my scream.

Sloan kisses the inside of my thigh. Her lips and tongue take an agonisingly slow trip up towards my pussy but then divert down my other thigh at the last moment. The exquisite torture continues and each time I think she is going after my heated core, she skips over the engorged lips.

I am about to scream in frustration when it finally happens. Her tongue touches the inside of my wet lips. Gently, she probes deeper. She adds her finger and pushes into me. It feels like every nerve ending between my legs has come alive at once. Despite my state, I squeeze out a throaty moan.

The simultaneous feeling of her lapping at my clit and her fingers moving in and out of me at a brisk pace keeps me on edge. I teeter precipitously. She brings me to the brink and eases off just as I'm about to explode.

Sloan pushes my legs further apart. Her already slick finger knows exactly where to go. She can find my G spot in one go. I shudder the first time she rubs against it. Knowing what is to come, the anticipation is too much to bear.

Once more, her fingers find that magic place, sending a fresh jolt through my overworked nervous system. Once, twice, three times. Her fingers rub long enough to get me close and then pull out at the climax. She clambers up my body and teases a hardened nipple with her tongue while her fingers rub harder.

"Cum for me. Now."

That's all it takes. It's all I can do not to scream. My IV impaired hand grips the rail so tightly my knuckles go white. A riptide of orgasm knocks me into orbit. Soon, the feeling comes back to me in parts of my body. I feel weaker than before and covered in sweat.