He should have told her the moment he’d started having the blurred vision, the pinpricks in his fingers, the tiredness. He should have told her the night her grandfather had died. Before then.
Instead, he’d pretended that everything was fine, not letting on that he was having symptoms of any kind.
He’d thought he was saving her pain by delaying, but the more time that went by the more he wondered if he wasn’t making things more difficult by keeping his symptoms, his fears to himself.
He should tell her now.
He opened his mouth, intent on telling her the truth. “I’m just busy.”
That wasn’t what he’d meant to say. Not even close.
“OK.” She didn’t sound convinced. He didn’t blame her. His unusual behavior confused her. Hell, he was pretty confused himself.
Silence buzzed over the line, acutely broadcasting that change was eminent whether he wanted it or not.
“I looked for you after I finished my shift. They told me you’d already left for the day. Are you coming over? I could order take-out.” Her voice held hopefulness.
“Not tonight,” he managed to say. What if he had another episode of pain? How would he explain it to her? “I had a long day and am tired.” True. He seemed to always be tired these days. “I’m flying to Alpharetta in the morning and want an early start.”
A lame excuse and they both knew it. An avid pilot of his own Cessna, a scheduled trip had never stopped him in the past. And why had he lied to her? He was going to Jackson, to see the specialist, to find out the truth behind his symptoms.
Which was why he’d lied to her.
He didn’t want her to worry, didn’t want her sympathy, didn’t want her to possibly be tied to another invalid. Liz deserved a life.
“If you’re sure, then…” She hesitated, making him want to tell her how much he needed her, just to have her wrap her arms around him and tell him everything would be OK, that she’d be there for him no matter what those damned tests showed.
The crux of it was Liz would be there for him in a heartbeat. If he let her. But he wanted better than that for her. Lots better.
Be strong, man. You’ve got to see this through, find out for sure what’s going on before involving Liz.
“Sorry, Liz, but I’ve got to go.” He hung up before she could say anything more.
But mostly before he could say anything more.
The next morning Adam sat in a Jackson Neurology Clinic exam room, staring at a framed Norman Rockwell print that hung on the wall opposite him.
Too bad real life wasn’t as idyllic as Norman Rockwell presented it.
When the neurologist walked into the room, Adam knew by the expression Dr Winters wore that the test results hadn’t been good.
By now he should be used to that expression. Hadn’t every bit of news he’d gotten thus far been bad?
The neurologist pulled up his stool, glanced down at the piece of paper containing words that would forever change Adam’s life, and then glanced up. “There’s no good way to put this and we pretty much already knew what the conclusions of the tests were going to be, so I’m going to be blunt. You have MS.”
Adam’s ears roared. His blood boiled. His skin crawled. He gritted his teeth. He clenched his tingling fingers. Still his body threatened to explode from the impact of those words.
He had MS.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. The analysis of the cerebral spinal fluid shows protein, cells, and increased antibody production. Antibodies containing oglioclonal bands. Unfortunately, that in combination with the demyelization revealed on the MRI are conclusive even if the evoked potential testing hadn’t been positive.”
There was that damned expression again.
“But they were positive, too, weren’t they?” Because all his tests pointed in one direction. A direction he didn’t want to go, but had no choice but to take.
He had MS.
The specialist nodded. “I’m sorry.”
All night he’d lain in bed preparing himself for this, preparing to hear that his body was attacking itself. Yet he shook. Any moment he expected the earth to open, for lightning to strike, for a tornado to rip him from the ground. Because any of those things were possible and expected in this horrible nightmare.
This had to be a nightmare.
God, he hoped it was only a nightmare.
He couldn’t have a debilitating disease. Not him. Not when he had so much to live for. So much he wanted to do with and give to Liz.
MS.
He shuddered. His stomach churned. His heart sank.
Fate couldn’t be this cruel.
Could it?
He closed his eyes and forced himself together. Forced his emotions under control. Well, not control, but the closest he could manage. He doubted he’d ever feel in control of his body, his life, again.
Steeling himself for the worst, he met the specialist’s gaze. “What does this mean, exactly? What should I expect?”
Did he even want to know? With the way things had gone thus far, perhaps he shouldn’t ask. Perhaps ignorance was bliss. Before seeing Larry, he’d known something was wrong but hadn’t felt this heavy sense of impending doom.
“Since this is your first known exacerbation, it’s difficult to say. As you probably already know, symptoms vary from individual to individual just as the course of the disease varies. It’s possible this exacerbation could go away tomorrow and you won’t have another episode for decades.” Dr Winters shrugged. “Maybe never.”
“It’s also possible that this is only the tip of the iceberg, that what I’m experiencing is mild and will get much worse before going into remission—if I go into remission at all.”
“That’s true. There’s no way of knowing the course of your individual disease, or how progressive your case will be,” Dr Winters agreed. “Generally there are considered to be four classifications of MS, each a different level of progression of the disease.”
“There’s no way to know which type I have, is there? No test or study that can be done to determine which one?”
“With time we’ll know, but as far as a test I can run…” the doctor shook his head “…there’s not. The best we can hope for is that this will be your only exacerbation and that you’ve already experienced the worst of your symptoms.”
“But that’s not what you expect?”
Dr Winters frowned. “You know I can’t predict the future. Anything I said would only be a guess.”
“I could lose control of my body functions, go paralyzed, even die from this.”
“That type of progression is rare, Adam. The majority of MS cases fall into the category where the person only has a few exacerbations throughout his or her lifetime.” Dr Winters gave a stern look. “You can’t go into this thinking the worst. You have to fight, keep a positive outlook.”
But no matter how Adam tried to focus on the positive, on the fact that this might go away, the stark reality wouldn’t let up.
“I could end up in a wheelchair. Crippled.” He winced. “Bedridden.”
Just like Gramps.
The thought of Liz putting her life on hold to wait on him hand