My Life in Shambles(59)

Padraig just shakes his head and slumps over, putting his face in his hands.

The doctor looks at me. “Have you had any experience in dealing with someone with MS?”

I nod. “My aunt. I don’t see her often and I don’t know all her details but she’s had it for as long as I can remember.”

“Okay. I know you’re engaged to be married and that too is going to put a lot of stress on you, but right now I need you to understand that this is going to be a lot more difficult and a lot more intense than it is with your aunt. It will get very ugly before it gets better, and he’s going to need your help and support every single step of the way. I want you to be ready for that and for everything this disease is going to throw at him.”

I blink. Heart heavy. I feel sick.

Not at the thought of doing all of that for Padraig, because I would be there for him without question.

But that we’re not really engaged.

We’re not really together.

What happens to Padraig after I leave?

And how can I fucking leave him now?

The doctor goes on to tell us that his recent memory might start to be affected, especially when he’s under stress like he is right now. There could be more muscle spasms, weakness, and fatigue to the point where he can’t get out of bed, constant and specific types of pain that don’t go away even with painkillers…

“And sexual dysfunction,” he says, which captures Padraig’s attention. “This is a difficult one, and it’s very common so you have to understand that. Sexual desire begins in the central nervous system and that’s where MS likes to strike. You may lose your desire for sex entirely, you may have arousal problems, erectile dysfunction is extremely common, and you may not, well, feel things the way you used to.”

“I don’t fucking think so,” Padraig says, scoffing. He looks at me. “There is no bloody way that any of those things can happen around you.”

I give him a reassuring smile and selfishly hope that’s true, and yet I think we’re going to have to expect anything and everything at this point.

“Padraig, I know this is hard,” he says.

“Hard?” Padraig practically sneers. “Hard? This is going to ruin my whole life. All of it that I had worked so hard for. This is bloody devastating, Dr. Byrne. You have no idea! I feel like a fucking dead man walking.”

“Padraig,” I say softly, rubbing his shoulders, but he shrugs me off like a defensive wounded animal.

I know what the doctor means about how I’m going to have to be there for him, no matter what. I can imagine that it would be difficult even for married couples, let alone us who have only known each other for two weeks in whatever strange relationship we have with each other.

But I won’t give up on him.

“This is fucking shite, is what it is,” Padraig says, getting out of his chair. He’s clenching and unclenching his fist, and for a moment I think he’s going to hit the doctor. Then I notice that there’s a tremor in his hand, and he’s trying to keep it under control.

The doctor notices too. “Padraig, if you don’t mind, I’m going to do some tests on you.” He gets out of his seat and heads to the door. “Valerie, you can come take a quick look if you’d like. It’s just in the other room here. It’s called evoked potentials testing.”

The doctor takes us to a small room where he sits Padraig down and hooks up small electrodes to his head while putting a monitor in front of him. The doctor shows different images, many of them a flashing black and white chessboard pattern, and monitors the brainwaves on a separate screen.

I go back to the office and wait since the test is done alone.

Forty-five minutes later, Padraig is done.

He isn’t talking.

The doctor sends him off with anti-depressant and anti-inflammatory medications and says to come back next week again to go over the testing results.

Padraig looks so lost. I hold his hand and lead him out of the hospital, to the taxi I had called.

We don’t speak.

The car takes us to the hotel, and I see some paparazzi hanging around the front of it, so I make an executive decision to go around the block to the back of the hotel.

“Where are we going?” Padraig mumbles.

“Back door, baby,” I say, trying to keep my voice light. The door to the hotel’s kitchen is open so we walk on in there, getting some looks from the cooks as we pass through, but no one really says anything. I had assumed this was a common practice for the elite here. Then we sneak through the lobby halls to the elevator and get on without anyone being the wiser.

“How did ye figure this would work?” he asks.

“Hey, I was an entertainment reporter, you know. I learned some things from my job. Not that I ever stalked anyone, but people talk about what the celebs do to avoid being photographed. The last thing you need is for them to take a picture of us now, after all you’ve been through.”

We head down the hall to the room and step in.

Immediately it feels like we can breathe.

Padraig shucks off his coat and goes straight to the bed, falling on it like a tree, face first. “I guess I don’t look quite well at the moment,” he says, mumbling into the bed covers.

“I don’t know, your ass looks especially perky from this angle.”