Although maybe if I had pushed a little more, none of this would’ve happened. Maybe if I’d confronted him right away and ended a relationship that ran its course long before that night, the anger, hurt, and anxiety over what came after a break-up at thirty-four years old wouldn’t have bottled up so much.
Maybe it wouldn’t have triggered my immune system to attack itself, eating away at the protective layer around the neurons in my brain.
Maybe it wouldn’t have caused me to wake up two mornings ago after three grueling days of networking at a conference, only to find the hotel room slowly spinning around me.
I’d had a pretty low-key evening the night before, choosing to grab a couple of po'boys—when in New Orleans—to eat alone in the room rather than suffering through another group dinner. I’d washed them down with a Coke and a bottle of water.
Blearily rubbing my eyes the next morning, I’d blinked, only for the hotel furniture to stubbornly remain in duplicate.
Chalking it up to stress from travel and the conference—my two graduating master's students had given great talks on their thesis research—I’d fumbled through packing and arranged transportation to the airport, hoping the double vision would go away on its own.
It only grew more intense.
By the time I’d landed back home in Missoula, Montana, the spinning made me nauseated. I’d stumbled around the small terminal—decorated more like a Great Wolf Lodge than an airport—and did my best to avoid looking like a fucking security threat, sat down, and called Josh.
Over and over. He never answered.
Panicked, I’d called my dad. When he picked up, I’d shut my eyes, pressed the heels of my palms into my sockets, and cried.
“Reece? Reece! What’s wrong? What happened?” he’d asked, frantic. Something shuffled around in the background, like he’d tossed aside whatever he was doing.
Through shallow inhales, I asked, “Will—you—come—get—me?”
“Where are you? Do you need to call an ambulance?”
“No.” I heaved a deep breath and collected myself enough to speak in full sentences. “No, I don’t need an ambulance. I’m at the airport. Josh was supposed to come and get me, but he’s not answering. I just can’tsee, Dad. Everything’s double. Spinning. I don’t know what’s wrong. I don’t know what’s happening to me.”
“I’m on my way.”
My father, Michael West, the law-abiding, Eagle Scout troop leader, never drove above the speed limit. It’d made me want to claw my face off as a teenager. Still did, on occasion. But he’d sped through the mountain pass that morning, trekking north from his house three hours over the Idaho-Montana state line in record time.
The rest of the day was a blur of panic, a small emergency room filled with too many healthcare workers all at once, an MRI, a rushed spinal tap, more needles in my arm than I could count, and finally, a hospital bed.
By the time the neurologist strode into my room later that evening, I was exhausted and had forgotten all about Josh leaving me stranded at the airport.
Dad held my hand when she’d told me I had multiple sclerosis.
“This isn’t the typical pathway to diagnosis,” she’d said gently. “Usually, people wait weeks to see a specialist, and even longer for insurance to approve the diagnostic tests. I won’t tell you you’re lucky—but at least we were able to spot it quickly.”
I’d just stared at her.
I knew people with MS. It was one of those words people said with a grimace, a whisper. Like they’d catch it if they spoke too loudly.
Did you hear Jerry has MS now? So sad.
That was it.
The beginning of the end.
You’re on the prayer list now. Only the first of a tragic series of updates until people you used to know merely smiled at you in passing because they didn’t know what to say anymore.
“But… Like, are there more tests? Could this be something else?” I’d asked, stunned.
Dad wrapped his arm across my wide shoulders. He was stony-faced.
The neurologist gave me a sympathetic look and pointed at the pictures of my brain up on the computer screen. “We can see lesions here, here, and here. Different areas of the brain. These two are active, increasing. We’re starting you on a course of IV steroids immediately to knock them back. This one, here,” she’d pointed to a vague blotch on the screen toward the center, “could be what’s causing your diplopia. The steroids will help. You’ll be protected from further relapses—flare-ups—for a month or so. You should schedule an appointment with the treating neurologist right away to figure out what course of treatment is best for you moving forward.”
I didn’t remember much of the conversation after that. I cried, too, once she’d left. Holding on to my dad like I hadn’t since I was a boy, we both wept.
