Chapter Text
“Have you tried yoga?”
The doctor tells Stiles this with the kind of easy confidence that makes it sound less like a suggestion and more like a correction. Better posture, improved flexibility, stress relief, muscle balance. Stiles nods along because doctors are supposed to be the experts. Three weeks later he pulls something in his shoulder during a stretch an instructor had described as restorative, which feels a little like being hit by a car during a guided meditation.
The next doctor immediately tells him not to do yoga.
“No, yoga’s terrible for hypermobility. Pilates is usually better. You’re already too flexible.”
Which would have been useful information before Stiles accidentally turned himself into an overextended rubber band in a room that smelled like eucalyptus and expensive suffering.
So he tries Pilates instead. Pilates apparently operates under the assumption that human beings arrive preinstalled with functioning core muscles and stable joints. His hips click loud enough during one class that the instructor actually stops talking to stare at him with visible concern.
Each time.
This doctor.
That doctor.
The nurse practitioner.
Even the lady who is checking out his groceries at the store.
They deliver advice like they are offering Stiles the final missing puzzle piece instead of a coupon for a new problem.
“It’s just growing pains.”
It’s not. Stiles googled it afterwards. Growing pains are apparently mostly doctor-speak for ‘I don’t know.’
Somehow that feels less like medicine and more like humanity collectively shrugging with a stethoscope.
Another doctor tells him he’s probably just more aware of discomfort than most people.
Another suggests stress.
Another asks if he’s tried exercising more.
The next asks if maybe he’s overdoing it.
One says his labs look normal with the triumphant energy of someone announcing the building definitely isn’t on fire while smoke pours out of the windows behind them.
The recommendations just keep coming in.
Firmer mattress.
Softer mattress.
Arch support for his shoes.
Softer shoes.
“You should eliminate gluten.”
Stiles spends several days trying to figure out what gluten actually is before deciding gluten sounds fake. Like something medieval villagers blamed on witches.
You really shouldn’t rely on braces this much.
You need better joint support.
Everybody gets tired.
You’re too young to have this many complaints.
Some people are just naturally flexible.
That one almost makes him laugh.
Naturally flexible.
Like he’s a yoga mom who can touch his toes instead of someone whose knee gave out stepping off a curb last Thursday.
A neurologist recommends mindfulness.
A physical therapist recommends swimming.
“Chlorine makes me break out in hives,” Stiles says.
The physical therapist blinks.
“Then maybe not swimming.”
Like that settles literally anything.
The worst part is that none of them are meant to be cruel. Busy, maybe.
Mostly they sound like people digging blindly through a junk drawer for solutions because they’ve already decided the problem can’t possibly be as bad as he says it is.
Collectively it’s just a series of doctor’s who don’t talk to each other and confer about a body that needs a whole approach, an entire team.
Stiles snorts. That’s what he needs. A NASCAR pit crew.
Every appointment starts to feel the same after awhile.
Clipboard.
Scale.
Blood pressure cuff squeezing too tight around joints that already ache.
Rate your pain from one to ten.
That’s too high for someone your age.
Explain it again.
And Stiles gets used to giving the same answers on repeat.
No, it also happens there.
Yes, I’ve tried ibuprofen.
Yes, I drink water.
Yes, I sleep.
Badly, but technically yes.
By this point Stiles has accumulated enough contradictory advice that the real answer feels like a literal needle in a haystack.
Exercise more.
Rest more.
Strengthen the joints.
Stop guarding so much.
Use braces.
Don’t become dependent on support aids.
Push through discomfort.
Never ignore pain.
Stiles is starting to suspect modern medicine is just the Spider-Man meme, except none of them know they’re the same guy.