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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 and foot while he lay in a hospital bed caused bile to rise up his throat.
“What about my job? My career? I’m a surgeon with MS.” He laughed with ill humor.
He felt like he’d made an admission much as an alcoholic would at an AA meeting. Hi, my name is Dr Adam Cline, and I’m a surgeon with MS. Only with alcoholism a person could fight. How did one fight one’s own haywire immune system?
“Am I medically clear to perform surgeries? To pilot my plane?”
“For now,” the neurologist said. “As long as you’re physically and mentally capable. However, you should check with your airport on any regulatory guidelines that would restrict you from flying. But if your symptoms worsen, I’d have no choice but to put you on medical leave.”
