Saving Meghan(14)

“I’ve been unfair,” he said, his voice raspy from drink. “I’ve judged you, harshly at times, over Meghan, for thinking that you’re the reason she can’t get well.”

This was not exactly breaking news. Carl had made his position clear. If Becky just backed off, pushed Meghan a bit harder, did not hover and worry so much, stopped trying all sorts of new treatments and doctors, their daughter would eventually get well.

At first, he’d been a champion runner, going stride for stride with Becky as they chased down answers. But as the pace and length of this particular race endured, Carl’s stamina faded and eventually gave out. Now he’s apologizing? Why? He had good reason to doubt her—Becky had plenty of experience faking an illness. Her mother was an expert at it, using deception to get her disability benefits. Cora’s face flashed in Becky’s mind, but faded as she focused on Carl.

“I’ve left you alone in this fight, and that’s not fair. So for the past few weeks, I’ve been online myself, doing a lot of research, looking for solutions, and I think I may have found one.”

“How?” Becky found it difficult to believe Carl had discovered a rock she’d yet to turn over.

“We’ve seen a dozen doctors at least, but all of them have focused on their specialty,” Carl said. “So if they don’t see her issues fitting into their respective boxes, they can’t see the problem properly. I just focused on the symptoms.”

Becky almost laughed. She had been living with Meghan’s health crisis for years. Did Carl think she hadn’t already plugged their daughter’s symptoms into Google, hadn’t scoured WebMD, didn’t have a warrior army of virtual friends doing the same elsewhere on her behalf?

“You don’t think I’ve done that?” she asked, trying not to sound too annoyed.

“Well, I didn’t get anywhere. If anything, it made me appreciate what you’re going through. The internet is pretty overwhelming.

“So, I reached out to a doctor friend of mine whose home I renovated. He thinks outside his specialty, and wondered if it could be mitochondrial disease.”

Becky squinted, as if that would squeeze out a bit of recognition. For all her scouring and searching, Carl had managed to dig up a disease that was entirely new to her.

“It’s more commonly called ‘mito,’ and it’s very difficult to diagnose because it affects each person differently.”

“What is it?” Becky asked.

Turning back to her computer, Becky googled the disease, and quickly found the answer to her question.

Mitochondrial diseases represented failures of the mitochondria, which are found in every cell and create the energy needed to support organ function. When there is a mitochondrial deficiency, there’s less energy in the cell, which causes cells to function incorrectly, even die.

Becky had learned enough medicine to infer what a system meltdown like that could mean for Meghan. It would cause a host of symptoms, depending on how much energy was being depleted from the cells. With so many bodily systems potentially affected, it was easy to see how so many specialists had failed to connect the dots.

“I’ve found a doctor who specializes in this disease that might be able to help us,” Carl said. “He works at White Memorial in Boston.”

Becky was elated.

They had a new doctor to try.





CHAPTER 7





ZACH


The sunshine was bright. Overhead, the cloudless sky was a special hue of cobalt. The air held no humidity. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the trees in the verdant park where Dr. Zachary Fisher sat on a bench with his son, William, at his side.

William scraped the final remnants of his chocolate ice cream from a cup into his mouth. Zach could see big changes in his only child. With each passing day, he was becoming more capable, more independent, and that much closer to moving on with his life.

Zach slid his arm around the back of the bench, but soon enough it was around his boy’s shoulders. William slid over, not too old to snuggle up against his father, still working at that ice cream.

“How’s the knee?”

William extended and retracted his leg with ease. A few hours ago, that would not have been so easy. Baseballs don’t hurt dirt, but they sure can do a number on a kneecap. There were plenty of tears at first, but after an inning on the bench, William was back on the field playing the game he loved. And Zach loved him—his boy, his son, the person who shaped his life and gave it meaning.

Zach had never spent much time with his dad, who owned a hardware store that only partially covered the bills. To manage the income gap, Zach’s father moonlighted as a home inspector, leaving little time for family but plenty of angst as he incessantly pinched pennies. Early in life, Zach had vowed to pick a career that paid well and afforded him plenty of time with his future family.

His choice to follow his heart and not his head into pediatrics—knowing full well the low pay and high demands on his time—had the full-circle inevitability of a Shakespearean prophecy. Zach found himself scraping by as more and more of his money went to insurance companies and taking extra shifts at the hospital to cover the bills. A few years back, Zach ran a semi-successful private practice, but he’d closed it down when it became more economical to take a full-time job at White Memorial in Boston.