“And I’m basically a runaway.” She gives me a mischievous grin.
“What a pair we make.” I smile. “It is really good to see you.” But I’m not ready to talk about feelings, so I quickly segue to “So, how about chili?”
“Sure thing. Is there a Starlight near here?” She searches on her maps app to pull up an address to one of the franchise locations and hits the gas.
When we walk inside the bright blue fast-food chain with a painted night sky dotting the ceiling, I’m hyperalert, searching for anyone staring at me as I move with the cane. We get in line to place our order. It’s busy since it’s a Saturday night, but I eye an empty table in the corner.
When it’s our turn to order, Ellie goes first, and I immediately follow so it’ll all be on the same bill. She shakes her head, but I wave my hand. “You’re driving me around. I got this.” Gesturing back toward the spot I noticed earlier, I suggest, “Wanna grab that table?”
I meet her there with the order number, realizing I’m not stepping with the leg opposite my cane. This is still taking a while to understand how to best use it, especially because my dominant hand is weak right now. I switch the stick to the other side, and it seems to go a little more naturally.
Some kids at a nearby table are laughing about something. Is it me? Or are they looking at me now because I looked at them first?
Our food arrives quickly. Staring down at my cheese-covered bowl of chili, I realize my appetite may not be what I thought it would be. Eating a couple crackers on their own first, I try to coax my stomach into cooperating.
“My parents haven’t been that great, either,” Ellie says, trying to start up a conversation and probably wanting me to delve deeper into what’s going on.
A sip of soda is what finally convinces my stomach to let me take a bite. The food really hits the spot, especially because it’s the exact opposite of what I’m supposed to be eating these days. After taking another spoonful, I say, “My parents are stressed. And I get that. But they seem so concerned about their own fears that they haven’t even asked about mine.”
“Oh, Igetthat.” Ellie nods encouragingly.
I scrunch up my lips, trying to bring levity to what’s an unavoidably serious statement. “Well, it’s MS.”
She tilts her head, uncertain. She must not have heard me. “What?”
“M-S,” I sign, not wanting to voice it again.
“No, I heard that. It’s just that you have a look on your face.”
“It was the first time I’ve said it out loud.” It doesn’t roll off the tongue easily because it isn’t simple to say. It’s kind of a heavy thing to drop on someone. “You’re the first person I’ve told. I mean, my parents have shared it with everyone they know, but I personally haven’t told anyone.”
I realize I didn’t even say “I have MS,” just that “it’s MS,” adding a layer of distance to the whole situation. Like it’s something external happening and not a real condition creating lesions in my brain and on my spinal cord. I hope Ellie doesn’t ask too much about it, because I don’t think I’d know enough of the answers yet. It’s like I’ll need a whole medical degree just to confidently understand what’s going on with my own body.
I’m not ready for this lifelong thing. Stuck to me forever, for better or for worse. In sickness and in health. So far, as I understand it, there’s no guarantee how I’ll feel waking up on any given morning.Or what my ability will be. What Idoknow is that I want to tackle this disease. With the best treatments possible, regardless of what my parents think.
Ellie’s tilting her head. “Thank you for telling me.” She squints apologetically. “I’m afraid I don’t really know what it is, though.”
“That makes two of us.” I skirt around the question implied, ending up on a tangent. “All the answers I have come with more qu-questions,” I say, tripping over the word yet carrying on anyway. “I’m mostly relieved. But also anxious.”
“I’m sure. I’m glad you got some answers, though.” She is trying to be patient and takes a sip of her soda, but she can’t wait any longer. “I’m sorry, but what exactly is MS?”
“Um, well.”Questions. Great. Okay, I can do this.Everything the doctor tried to explain to me comes to mind at once but all out of order. “I’m toward the end of a relapse now. Then hopefully I’ll be in remission and kind of, I don’t know, be normal-ish? But bad symptoms could happen again at any time, except there’s these treatments that can try to prevent that. Though the treatments have somescarypotential side effects that I’m just choosing to ignore because that’s too much to wrap my head around.”
“Is it always vertigo?” Ellie asks, trying to follow along with my rambling.
“I went to the hospital ’cause I went numb all over and couldn’t really walk. It’s like fatigue, vision loss, pain, numbness,” I say, listing off the seemingly never-ending symptoms. “Tingling, spasms—um, I don’t know. And brain problems, not thinking as straightforward as I used to. And probably more stuff that I’m forgetting right now. Yeah, vertigo can be one of them.”
“Wow.” Her face scrunches up with concern. She’s receptive, open to whatever I have to say. “Has that all been going on for a while?”
I didn’t realize how much I needed someone who wanted to listen. The words come pouring out.
I tell her about the time in class when the answer just disappeared from my head. About the soccer match, after my leg had been numb for quite some time. About how the muscles in my legs sometimes twitch so bad I’m kicking at night and unable to fall asleep. About how the vision in my right eye is only now clearing up, the pain behind it subsiding.
“What causes it?”
“I don’t think they know exactly.” I clear my throat. “Which is why there isn’t a cure for it yet.”
“Oh.” Ellie is really concerned, and I can tell she’s holding back anI’m sorry, which I really appreciate that she doesn’t say. “That sucks.”
