Dakota didn’t take his eyes off Tank when he gave his slight nod.
“You had a rush of thinking, ‘What would I do if anything were to ever happen to Tank?’”
Dakota turned back and smoothed a hand protectively over her hair.
“I get it. It’s terrible to think of something happening to someone. It’s worse if you’re in a position where you have vowed care and safety. It’s almost unbearable when they’re suffering, and there is shit-all that you can do about it.”
“Who are you thinking about right now?” Dakota asked.
“My dad. He’s had MS since I was a kid. You saw him, he’s in a wheelchair now.”
“I’m sorry that’s happening.”
“Yeah. I’m the medical person in the family. I’ve made a second career of poring over the scientific studies and trying to get him into trials.”
“No success?” He smoothed his hand down her arm, then pulled her hips so he could wrap himself protectively around her.
“Not for him.”
“But someone?” There was a niggle of danger that prickled Dakota’s scalp.
“As of yesterday? Me.”
“You.” His heart slammed into his ribs. “Why you?” His voice had deepened and grown husky, rumbling from his chest. “Why you, Rylee?”
“I went through testing this week. And I got my results. It’s MS. But—” She patted his arm. “Squeezing, too tight.”
Dakota had to force himself to soften.
“I am all set up for a really promising experiment. A guy with the British Army that I knew in Afghanistan is now working on experimental CAR T-cell therapies in London. And he knew I was looking for a trial for Dad. He clued me in that a group in his building was looking for volunteers.”
“For your dad, though.”
“He was too advanced,” Rylee said.
“But you’re not? This might work for you, right?”
“Fingers crossed. Over the last year, I’ve had mild symptoms that come and go, pins and needles, and numbness in my hands and feet. I was pretty sure that I knew what it was. It was harder to convince a doctor to take a closer look. They thought I should take up yoga.”
“Yoga. Does that help MS symptoms?”
“Not at all, but you know, it should calm a hysterical woman suffering from the ravages of anxiety.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Having never lived a woman’s life, you wouldn’t,” Rylee said, gently. “Doctors know very little about women’s bodies. Science was done on men for men up until the last couple of decades. So when women show up with symptoms that don’t immediately ring a bell because the symptoms are different from men’s with the same condition—”
“Like Neesa was saying, a heart attack was felt differently?”
“Exactly. So women show up and say, ‘Hey, here is a list of my symptoms I’m experiencing.’ and the doctor writes ‘whiney woman’ or ‘difficult’ on the chart, notes the issues, and they do absolutely nothing to fix the situation.”
Dakota was mystified by what Rylee was saying. He believed her. He’d heard his friends complain about the frustration of medical care. Nothing this bad, though. You don’t mess around with something as degenerative as MS. You treat it ASAP.
“Cut out caffeine and take up yoga?” Dakota tried to match her matter-of-fact delivery. But inside, his body was in full protective mode. He’d move mountains to help her get better.
“Cure all. Panacea for all that ails us, sad, weak females.” He felt her grimace against his arm, then she said, “Sorry that sounded—”
“Like it should, dripping with disdain and frustration. I can’t imagine how you deal with the gaslighting.”
