This isn’t about me. I know that. But I’d gone to the appointment with some hope that Vince would find what he needed and we’d be able to move forward. Instead, all we got was more questions. Sure, the doctor set us up with more resources and even gave us a general timeline, but he made it very clear that it’s all contingent on how Vince’s body responds to the medication. The most we can do ishope.
But how can we hope his illness will stabilize when there is still a chance it won’t? When his body could fail him faster than either of us are ready for?
I lean against the counter and let out a long, shaky exhale. I thought I was ready for all of this. I thought I was able to handle it—and I am. But I also just need a minute to sit with it.
Vince is sick. The man I love is truly sick, and he might not get better. How am I supposed to handle that?
Eventually, I force my feet forward, lock the door behind me, and head back out into a day I don’t have the energy for.
Six hours.
Six hours and I’ll be able to come home to him again.
I just hope he won’t be totally withdrawn by the time I get back.
23
VINCE
Silence echoes the moment I hear Fletcher’s truck leave. Not the peaceful kind—the kind that slices you open and reminds you how alone you are.
I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling, hands folded over my stomach, waiting for my body to feel like mine again. The MRI scans are burned into my memory, silent evidence of my body’s betrayal. The white spots had looked so alien, so wrong. So final.
Damning, almost.
Is this even real?
I thought I was prepared to see the truth, but now I’m just hollowed out. A weight has settled in me that’s threatening to pull me under, and everything is adrift in my head, like the thing I had been reaching for has disappeared.
I went to the doctor’s appointment looking for a lifeline, only to come out empty-handed. It’s gutting to realize there’s no helpwith this illness, no safety net. There are no guarantees. Even the medication—with its mile-long list of side effects—is a big fatmaybe.
So where do I go from here? How do I step forward with confidence when every step is, literally, on shaky legs?
Thank God Fletcher had the foresight to record everything. I’ll need to listen to it a few times to wrap my head around what the doctor was saying. Everything came to me in fragments, like my brain couldn’t hold the entire thing at once. Words likelesions, baseline,andprogressiontumble around in my head like a foreign language, stripped of meaning but heavy with consequence.
“No timeline.”
“The results vary.”
“Fatigue is inevitable.”
“Mobility is a gift.”
And then the one that nearly made me laugh:“What we know of the disease has come a long way.”
If they’ve come so far, why don’t I have any answers?
Rolling over, I shove a pillow under me and inhale the scent of Fletcher’s laundry soap. It’s grounding in the best way. Fletcher had been more prepared for the appointment than I was, and the thing is, I never even asked him to be.
I never once asked Fletcher for help. I never asked or wanted him to carry this burden, yet he stepped in and did it anyway…and he keeps doing it. For weeks now—months—Fletcher has made my life easier, almost without even trying.
Today is all I’ll ever need.
I let my forehead rest against the pillow, breathing him in as if I can anchor this moment in place. Like if I stay still enough—grateful enough—I won’t tip the balance.
Because that’s what this feels like. A balance.
And I keep failing to keep it even.
