“Are you okay?” Dr. Benson asks.
Vince doesn’t reply, attention on his hand, which is shaking against his leg. “Y-yeah,” he says. “It’s just a lot.”
Dr. Benson leans forward. “I know. I wish I could sugarcoat some of this, but it wouldn’t help you.”
His tone isn’t rude—not even a little. He’s patient and kind.
Vince answers every question, nodding like he’s grasping what the doctor is saying, but I can see he’s half checked out—his mind protecting him from all the awful scenarios.
There are some things that even hit me like a sledgehammer, no matter how much I’d prepared myself to hear them.
“There’s no clear timeline.”
“Everyone’s MS progresses differently.”
“We’ll monitor things closely and adjust medications as needed.”
“Wait and see.”
Vince visibly flinches at that one.Wait and see.
As if waiting all these months hasn’t been torture enough!
The walls of the room seem to close in. I flatten a hand on my stomach, feeling a little sick. Not for me—for Vince. For the weight settling into his future.
This was supposed to give him answers, and it’s not.
I shift a little closer to Vince. He’s staring at his hands, rubbing his thumb into his palm. I can tell from his expression that they’re tingling. How badly I want to take it away… take all of this away so he doesn’t have to suffer.
“There are some other tests we need to discuss, and as I already mentioned we’ll need to schedule another MRI in six months. We’ll continue this for two years,” the doctor continues. “It’ll make it clear how fast the multiple sclerosis is progressing.”
“Actually.” I sit up. “I might be able to help with that too.” Pulling my phone out, I swipe to the Notes app. “I’ve been keeping track of some of his symptoms since his hospital stay. These are from December 10th until now.”
Vince blinks at me. “You… what?”
“Yeah, I made a log of them. Dates and any details I could think of. When you’re sore. When you’re more tired than usual.” I hesitate, then add, “Even… other stuff. How things have been between us, um, physically. Anything I noticed, I tried to write down.”
His breath catches.
For one horrifying second, I can’t tell if he’s relieved or angry.
I show him the list. “It’s not everything of course, and I know it’s kind of messy because I mostly logged them in a rush. But I tried to be thorough, especially on your harder days.”
Vince skims the notes about how his mornings are harder, how his legs cramp more in the evenings, and then the half-dozen entries about the nights our sex was cut short, or nights when he wanted to participate but couldn’t. I’d even mentioned his need for additional stimulation.
For a long moment, he just stares at the screen. Unblinking, unmoving. “You did all this?”
I shrug. “I figured if you’re living with this every day, the least I can do is help carry it.”
His eyes shine, and he looks away fast, like he doesn’t trust himself to speak. Finally, he hands the list off to the doctor.
Dr. Benson is very impressed, taking his time to read each line or ask questions about certain events. “This is helpful. Very helpful, in fact. I wish everyone had a partner as attentive as you. Would you mind emailing this to me? I’ll add it to his file.”
“Sure.”
I watch Vince swallow, overwhelmed—but not in the way he usually is. He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand before reaching for me, finally threading our fingers together. It’s the first chance I’ve had to breathe all morning.
The rest of the visit passes in a rush. The doctor goes over some medication, how soon he’ll start, and what kind of side effects he can expect—each one is terrifying. But if the medicine works? If there is any chance it can slow the progression down and give him—us—more time? It’s all I can hope for.
