Chapter Fourteen #3
“I haven’t had a seizure in almost two years,” she says firmly.
She finally stops massaging her temples.
“Ever since I started seeing the new neurologist, I’ve been monitored closely.
The mass hasn’t grown, and my symptoms have been manageable.
I have time, and I’m going to use that time to make sure I help as many people as I possibly can before I need more help myself. ”
Time is relative, but I’m not the person to tell her how to spend it. “I worry about you a lot. With you working so much, and Ronnie being gone a lot too, it concerns me when you look so exhausted. That can’t be good for you.”
“Says the man who used to only sleep for three hours a night,” she muses.
I crack a small smile. “Only in the offseason. Trust me, the game wipes you out. I pass right out depending on how much ice time I get.”
And if I play my cards right, it’ll be a lot during our first game. Hoffman seemed impressed when I practiced our drills. There’s still work to be done, but I’ve proven my asset to the team. As long as Mikhail doesn’t get in the way, I should be golden.
“I’m sleeping plenty,” is what she tells me.
“You’re way too stubborn,” I grumble, not believing her for a second.
Does she pretend her diagnosis doesn’t exist?
Is she pushing it away as if it won’t be there for tomorrow?
“I’m glad your neurologist is on top of it, but that doesn’t change things.
Being stubborn isn’t going to alleviate the problem.
Your form of MS is rare, and I feel like you refuse to acknowledge that. ”
Her laugh is bubbled with surprise. “You’re one to talk about stubbornness. You refuse to even say Winter’s name when we both know she’s always on your mind. Is avoiding her helping you any?”
I don’t refute it. She’s deflecting again. “Not the point, Em.”
“Does she like cats?” my wife asks knowingly.
I glare at her but say, “Yes.”
A victorious smile brightens her face. “It’ll be good to have someone who can come over and help take care of Oreo when you’re playing away games then, huh?”
My lips flatten. “Don’t get any ideas.”
“Too late. I have so many ideas,” she chirps far too enthusiastically.
An evil grin splices her face. “With my very functionable brain. Because, despite what you think, I know that I was graced by the gods with a rare form of multiple sclerosis. And I know that makes it harder to treat. And I know my life is going to get harder.” She gives me a pinned look.
“But I can’t stop living my life. I can’t put everything I’ve worked for on the back burner.
I’m not going to let this disease win. I’m going to be successful and happy and proud until the day this stupid tumor tells me I can’t.
Until I need more intense medication to alleviate symptoms. Until my hands shake too much to do surgeries.
Dammit, Thomas. That day isn’t here, so let me live my life for a little longer. ”
I swallow at the elephant in the room she’s finally addressing.
The elephant shaped like a large lesion in her brain that resembles a tumor.
After years of medical problems that were ignored, she’d finally found out she had tumefactive multiple sclerosis.
It’s not a common form of the autoimmune disease that causes breakdown of the protective covering of the nerves.
Which means it’s harder for doctors to treat.
When they determined the tumor wasn’t cancerous, it was simply a monitoring game to make sure it didn’t grow and impact her.
It explained the seizures she’d had in the past. The struggle she had with coordination as a child. The back pain. The headaches. It all made sense. Every reason that she couldn’t be the athlete her parents wanted her to be wasn’t because she lacked motivation or skill, it’s because she’s sick.
And having that answer changed her for the better. She stopped blaming herself for not being the daughter of her parents’ dreams and chose to move forward with her schooling to prove to herself she could.
“I just don’t want you to forget to take care of yourself,” I explain. “I love you, Em. I want to make sure you’re going to be okay.”
Because I can’t be there.
Because I wish I could be.
Because she won’t let me be.
“I am,” she reassures me. “I promise.”
We’re quiet for a second.
Her smile grows again. “Is now a good time to tell you that Winter and I talk?”
They what? “What do you talk about?”
Is it about me? It’s got to be about me.
She grins. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“I would. That’s why I’m ask—”
“Oh, shoot. Look at the time. I should get going,” she says, glancing at her wrist that’s void of a watch. “It was great talking to you, but I really need to sleep. Love you, bye!”
She hangs up the video call before I can respond, making me glare at the screensaver of her in that stupid chicken onesie. “Why are the women in my life such pains?” I ask Oreo, watching her stretch out her leg and knead her claws into my shirt.
Why am I talking to a fucking cat?
Maybe I need my head scanned.
Setting my phone down, I stare at the ceiling. I really should get up. Work out. Cook something for dinner.
But I find myself closing my eyes and letting myself melt into the couch cushions. This time tomorrow, I’ll be wiped out from practice. The only plus side of the sore muscles I’ll undoubtedly have is that they’ll be a welcome distraction from the girl I can’t stop thinking about.
Especially now that I know she still talks to my wife.