The Healing (27 page)

Karen had a terrible feeling of foreboding as she and Mike were led into the neurologist's office. The uneasy silence fed her apprehension and created an atmosphere of discomfort for everyone involved. The nurse, who had greeted them with a fair amount of small talk on their first visit, smiled tensely and greeted them with a curt nod. “Have a seat,” she said without looking either of them in the eye. “Dr. Peterson will be with you in a few minutes.” She placed Mike's file on the large mahogany desk and left the room with swift but quiet footsteps.

Mike stared calmly at the manila folder, but Karen knew he was a wreck on the inside. In that file were the results of all the tests he had undergone the previous week, including the MRI that might possibly confirm their nagging fears. That small pile of papers would seal his fate. It was hard to ignore the ominous finality that loomed over their heads like the blade of a guillotine, threatening to end life as they knew it.

Karen glanced at Mike out of the corner of her eye, but he was cut off from the rest of the world. She had only seen him that disconnected once before, at his father's funeral. But when Karen placed her hand on top of his, Mike grasped it and held on with a fervency that almost frightened her. He didn't look at her, he just squeezed whatever strength he could from her fingers.

Dr. Peterson came in and closed the door. Karen looked at him over her shoulder, only to see the man's grim countenance. Suddenly she was certain the doctor was not setting the mood to tell them everything was fine. One glance at his face dispelled the hope that Mike's symptoms were due to muscle fatigue or job stress or too much salt in his diet.

Karen didn't realize she was holding her breath, but she was aware of the blood pounding in her ears. Dr. Peterson, a tall, graying figure in his white lab coat, sat in his chair across the desk and perched a studious pair of reading glasses on the bridge of his nose. When he looked at his patient over the gold wire-frames, the lines in his face seemed to deepen. “Mike, I'm afraid the news isn't good.”

She could hear Mike breathing evenly as he waited for the rest of his harsh sentence.

“You have multiple sclerosis,” the doctor announced reluctantly. “Sometimes a diagnosis like this is reached by a process of elimination, but some lesions showed up very clearly on your MRI.”

The suffocating silence seemed to swallow them up. Karen turned to Mike, but he was nodding as if the doctor had told him his cholesterol was a little too high. His grip on Karen's hand, however, had tightened considerably. And his palm was getting sweaty. He said nothing, so Karen felt compelled to ask a few questions.

“Can you give us a prognosis on the symptoms my husband has now?” she asked. Her voice sounded far away and unfamiliar in her own head. “Don't people with MS go through bouts and then get better?”

Dr. Peterson took off his reading glasses, tucked them in the breast pocket of his lab coat, and folded his hands on the desk in front of him. “The progression of the disease is unique to every patient, Mrs. Donnelly. Sometimes people have bad bouts and get better. Sometimes their function is slightly diminished. And sometimes the disease just progresses without remitting. Unfortunately, there's no way to predict what level of disability to expect and in what time frame.”

Now Karen was the one nodding, and Mike was staring blankly at the floor between his feet and the desk.

“What's the next step?” Karen asked. She couldn't believe she was able to think so clearly and behave so cordially while floating in a mindless limbo.

“The next step is to get Mike on a protocol of medicine as soon as possible and address the related medical difficulties he's having right now. An occupational therapist can help with quality-of-life issues and independence, and a social worker can help you figure out what your options are and what your insurance will cover.”

“And the symptoms?” she pressed.

“If poor balance and weakness in the legs remain an issue, then I strongly recommend using a cane to prevent any further falls. Hopefully the symptoms will lessen when we start aggressive treatment.”

She wanted to ask about Mike's recent struggle with sexual dysfunction, but she couldn't bring herself to talk about it in front of him. Some things he was going to have to ask the doctors himself once he was reconciled to the truths about his medical condition.

The next question was hard enough. “What about his job?” she asked. Dr. Peterson knew Mike was a firefighter.

“Right now we have to take one hurdle at a time,” the doctor replied. “But I'm afraid the most practical course of action would be to request desk duty until further notice.”

Karen saw Mike's face go taut. His mouth turned downward at the corners. Firefighters didn't do
desk duty.

The doctor wrote something in Mike's chart and then scribbled four prescriptions, handing them to Karen. All the while, the silence grew thicker and more oppressive. When he spoke again, his tone was fittingly quiet.

“Organizations like the Multiple Sclerosis Foundation and the National Multiple Sclerosis Society provide a wealth of information and entire networks of support. Use them. Their practical advice will be of great help to you.”

Karen nodded. She glanced at Mike. He was still staring at the floor.

The subdued conference went on for about fifteen minutes longer, and Mike didn't move or speak. Finally, when Karen ran out of things to say, the doctor reminded her that a whole medical team of professionals would be available to answer any questions or help with any problems that arose as time went on. The first thing she and Mike had to do was get the required medicine and see a social worker to get the ball rolling on home care. “You don't have to think of everything right now,” he said. “I know this must be very hard.”

Mike finally glanced up at the man in the white coat and then turned to Karen. “Let's go, babe,” he urged in a gritty voice.

In mechanical movements, they stood up and shook Dr. Peterson's hand. “I'm sorry I didn't have better news for you,” he told them.

Mike listed a little on his way out, but Karen steadied him. He didn't look at her or speak to her in the hallway, or in the elevator, or even in the car on the way home. She wanted to ask him if he was all right, or if he wanted to talk about it, but they sounded like such insipid questions in light of the millstone around his neck. She couldn't be the one to initiate any profound discussions. She had to take her cues from Mike.

But there weren't any.

Karen grew anxious as they walked into the house, afraid Mike would fall apart once they closed the door on the outside world. She mentally prepared herself to temper his anguish any way she could. But Mike just threw his keys on the kitchen counter, peeled his shirt off, and disappeared into the den, where he turned on the television and collapsed on the old sofa. Karen heard the quiet dialogue of a soap opera fill the ominous silence. She realized Mike had not even changed the channel. Leaning past the doorframe, she stole a quick look at him. He was sitting with his head back and his eyes closed.

She didn't know what to do. Did Mike want her to carry on like any other day? Did he think if they ignored the diagnosis long enough the illness would just go away? That was how he had dealt with it until now. He'd just pretended it wasn't really happening, until he had fallen on top of people and embarrassed himself in public.

Karen knew he was trying to spare her the pain. But how could he possibly think she could be spared from something like this? His stoicism was admirable, but it was frustrating, too. Didn't he realize she wanted to cry? She wanted to throw her arms around him and beat his chest with her fists at the same time. She wanted to tell him his stoicism was not helping anybody. It created an odd discomfort that had never existed between them before. It made her feel like she had to leave him alone when he needed her most.

The best way for Karen to channel her anxiety was to focus on the practical things that needed to get done. She made the necessary call to the social worker and made the appointment, marking it on the calendar along with Lori's softball games and Mike's work schedule. Somewhere deep inside, Karen felt the childish urge to charge into the den and tell Mike to make his own appointments. Maybe that would make him realize this was for real. Instead, she ventured in quietly and stopped a few feet away from the sofa.

Mike was still sitting with his eyes closed, but Karen knew he couldn't be sleeping. “Mike?” she called softly. “I made the appointment with the social worker. Is Tuesday at ten okay with you?”

“Sure,” Mike replied without moving or opening his eyes.

Karen didn't move from her spot. She peered at him with disbelief.

Finally, he opened his eyes and glanced her way. “You making dinner?”

Was he turning into his mother? For Nora, food was a weapon against chaos.

She played along for the moment. “What do you feel like having?”

His shoulders lifted indifferently. “Whatever's easy.”

Karen watched as his head fell back against the sofa once again. He flung an arm across his brow as if warding off the worst hangover he'd ever had. And her heart ached for him in a way it never had before. “Can I get you something?” she offered. Her voice sounded oddly calm.

“How about a vodka tonic?” he replied. “With very little tonic.”

“Do you think that's a good idea since—”

It finally erupted. Mike sat up with a jolt. “Since what?” he asked, his eyes blazing at her.

Karen had seen Mike angry before, but this was a face she had never seen. She knew enough to remember who was behind the demon. “Since we haven't eaten anything since breakfast.”

Mike's face grew dangerously flushed. “Well, I don't know about you, but I could use a goddamn drink!” His volume rose until he was shouting at her. “As a matter of fact, I don't think I ever needed a drink more than I do right now! Is that so unreasonable? Do you want to tell me I might get
sick
or something?”

Karen steeled herself. She wasn't about to react with anything that would feed the demon. “Maybe we should just talk about this calmly,” she said, even though her heart was pounding and her knees started to shake.

Mike's pent-up emotion kept spewing out as anger. “Talk about what? How I shouldn't drink when I'm upset? I'll make the goddamn drink myself!”

He bolted from the sofa and flew past her. Karen was tempted to reach out and grab his arm, but she knew he would shrug her off like an insect. Even with all the symptoms Mike had been experiencing, Karen was no match for his extraordinary strength.

She stayed glued to her spot and listened as he opened the liquor cabinet in the dining room. She heard the clinking of the bottle against the glass. Silence. The bottle against the glass again.

Karen willed her feet to move. She trembled as she made her way to the dining room doorway. Mike was downing his second drink like a glass of milk. He caught sight of himself in the mirror over the liquor cabinet and froze. Very slowly, he put the glass and the bottle down. He leaned toward his reflection. Karen put a quaking hand over her mouth and hung back in the darkened hallway, not wishing to intrude on his thoughts. She continued to watch him with a deep ache of emotion twisting her insides.

Mike was focused on the chain that hung around his neck, hypnotized by the gold medal that rested in the cleft of his massive chest. It was a medal of Saint Florian, the patron saint of firefighters in the Catholic tradition, set in the symmetrical fireman's cross. His father had given it to him on the day he graduated from the academy.

Karen recalled those cherished moments in vivid detail. Father and son in full dress uniform . . . Chief Frank Donnelly's twinkling blue eyes filled with paternal pride . . . Mike looking like he could conquer the world. When he had opened the small package and seen the gleaming medal—identical to the one his father wore around his neck—his Adam's apple did a restricted slide against his tight collar.

“You know I'm not a breast-beating religious man,” his father had confessed. “But in my book, that medal is an important part of a fireman's gear. So I had it blessed, and I want you to promise me you'll never take it off, as long as you're on active duty.”

Mike had squeezed the words past his vocal cords. “I promise.”

His father had made a point of ceremoniously perching his reading glasses on his nose so he could take the medal out of the box and clasp it on his son's neck. Nora, standing by next to Karen, had offered to help when she thought her husband was fumbling. But he hadn't been fumbling. He had just been savoring the moment.

Karen knew Mike was reliving that moment as he looked at that very same Saint Florian medal in the mirror. He had kept his promise. He had never taken it off except to go swimming in the ocean.

She saw his expression change when the heartache hit him like a punch in the stomach. He leaned on the liquor cabinet with both hands, breathless with the impact.

Karen moved forward without hesitation. She came up behind Mike, making herself available but not foisting her consolation on him. He looked at her in the mirror's reflection, his face a mask of anguish. The subject of his father was always a sore spot for him—the only emotional catalyst that reached beyond his brave exterior.

Here it comes,
Karen thought.

“I never thought the day would come when I'd be glad my father's in his grave,” Mike said. His voice was strangled, as Karen remembered it had been when he had made the promise to his father. Tears filled his eyes, and he trembled with the effort to utter the simple explanation. “At least he won't have to see what's happening to me.”

A single sob exploded out of him, and Karen rushed to embrace him. His powerful arms wrapped around her and crushed her so tightly to his body that she could hardly breathe. He composed himself quickly, but he didn't let go of Karen. He loosened his hold, his head bent down to hers, and he swayed with her for a long time.