So Much More(22)

He’s pale, washed out with worry. His eyes look like they’ve been open for days and seen nothing but disappointment. His hair is rumpled and in disarray. He looks older, defeated, though the sparkle that only the boys can bring to his eyes is there behind it all. Today, he’s a shell, no longer vibrant. It plunges me back into the nightmare with my grandmother. My nightmare. I can’t do this. I can’t take this. Whatever it is, I can’t deal.

I turn to walk out of the room, and he calls my name, “Miranda.” It sounds like please, and help, and I need you. All the things I would usually run away from.

But I hear my grandmother in her last days, so I turn around and walk to his bedside. When he takes my hand, I ask, “What’s wrong?” Tears are threatening. I haven’t cried since my grandmother’s funeral.

He shrugs. “They’re not sure yet. They took blood, ran an MRI, and performed a spinal tap to try to narrow it down.” He glances at the boys like he’s not sure he should be talking in front of them and then swallows hard and shakes his head. “I can’t feel my legs, Miranda. They’re numb. I sat at my desk all day trying to figure out what was going on and trying not to panic, but it didn’t pass.” A tear escapes and he swipes it away. “I didn’t know what else to do. I tried calling you.” He swallows again. “I asked one of the teachers to bring me here. I had trouble walking. I didn’t feel safe driving.” He closes his eyes and turns his head away from me and tears seep through his pinched lids.

Just then a doctor walks in. He introduces himself and asks that Seamus spend the night for observation until all of the test results can be reviewed, interpreted, and corroborated.



We spend the night in the room with Seamus because I can’t persuade the boys to leave him and come home with me. I work through the night on my laptop in the corner of the room while they all sleep in the twin bed.





Daybreak brings a diagnosis—Multiple Sclerosis.

A neurological disease.

No cure.

I was right, he’s not perfect anymore.





My body was busy deconstructing itself





present





I silence the alarm on my phone by feel, unwilling to open my eyes just yet and give in to the dawn of a new day.

But when I do it’s darker than usual.

Something in the pit of my stomach tells me it shouldn’t be this dark.

My thoughts are stirring.

It shouldn’t be this dark.

As I stare at the ceiling and then track my eyes from one side of the room to the other, I feel icy terror rise in me.

I close my eyes and try to push the terror down, but it’s lodged in my throat behind my Adam’s apple and threatens to cut off my breathing as if my lack of confrontation and acknowledgment is being punished and bullied. My body was busy last night deconstructing itself; it wants to be noticed for its efforts.

When I realize the dread isn’t going to pass, I open my right eye. Everything looks normal. Which should calm me, but it doesn’t, because I know when I close it and open my left eye…

Nothing.

I see nothing.

Just the blackest darkness I can imagine.

If nightmares have a color it’s this, darkness so black it blots out everything until there’s…nothing.

And then I start whispering to myself, “Why me? Why me? Why me?” I repeat it and repeat it until I’m crying, unable to speak. Until the words are choked off by silent sobs into my pillow. I’ve perfected crying silently, keeping it all to myself. And when words become impossible my mind starts racing. Why does my body hate me? What have I done to deserve this? When do I get a break? I just want a f*cking break! I can’t do this!

When the tears stop, my mind goes into Dad mode. Even in the midst of health crisis, it’s in Dad mode—problem-solving mode. I need to get in the shower and wake the kids up and figure out how to get them to school so I can deal with this.

After I’m showered and dressed, I wake the kids and set bowls, spoons, a box of cereal, and the gallon of milk on the counter. When I return to their bedroom Rory is already in the shower, Kai is dressed, and Kira is sitting on the edge of her bed with Pickles the cat under one arm and her eyes closed. She looks like she might be sleeping sitting up.

“Kai, I need to run next door to talk to Mrs. Lipokowski. I’ll be back in a minute, but please make sure everyone starts eating breakfast. It’s on the counter.”

Kai nods. He’s not a talker in the morning.

As soon as I step outside on the W…E mat I feel like a failure. Like I’ve failed at life. Being out in the open, out in the world, is scary. This is the place people label others. This is the place people notice when you’re different.

Walking next door is hard. I don’t know if it’s my imagination and my legs are even less cooperative today, or if seeing the world through off-kilter eyes is throwing me off, but I feel drunk. Oh, how I wish I were drunk. Drunk out of my f*cking mind would be preferable to this any day.

The knock on the Lipokowski’s door goes unanswered. I’m sure they’re down at the deli getting ready for the day’s business.

Shit.

What the hell am I going to do?

Faith. I’ll try Faith.

The walk down the stairs isn’t really walking. My equilibrium is off, an unwelcome side effect of the nightmare in my left eye, and I don’t trust myself, so I sit and inch my way down the stairs like a toddler. I’m beyond humiliated by the time I knock on Faith’s door, and if it weren’t for my kids I would probably lock myself away in my apartment and never come out.