I stare at him. “What do you mean by ‘difficulty walking’?”
“Given the cases I’ve seen,” he says, “I’d be very surprised if you’re still able to walk in five years from now.”
Great job, Dr. Dunne. You have succeeded in absolutely terrifying me.
I just stare at him for a minute. There’s this awful tight feeling in my chest, like I’m having a heart attack. I’d be very surprised if you’re still able to walk in five years from now. Is this some kind of joke? How could there be so much fuss over a stupid ankle injury?
I wish I’d never gone to a doctor in the first place.
“I know this is a lot to absorb,” Dr. Dunne says.
Gee, you think?
“There are support groups for patients with MS,” he continues.
Now it’s MS. Like some buddy I call by his initials. Hey, MS, how’s it hanging? Have you crippled me yet? No? How about next year?
“So how do we treat this?” I ask him. “Do I go on a medication or something?”
Dr. Dunne shakes his head. “The medications for multiple sclerosis are aimed at treating the inflammatory component. But the primary progressive form of the disease doesn’t respond to any of the usual medications. We can try them, of course, but they all have a lot of side effects.”
“Well, great,” I mutter.
I look down at my right ankle again. I know what Dr. Dunne is telling me. I mean, I get it. But it’s incredibly hard to believe. Patients get misdiagnosed all the time, and I feel convinced that Dr. Dunne must be wrong. I can’t possibly have multiple sclerosis. I’m completely healthy. This is insane.
And that part about not walking in five years from now? That’s really ridiculous.
Man, I can’t wait to walk in here five years from now and show Dr. Dunne how wrong he was.
Year Two
Chapter 15: Matt
“So what’s the deal, Matt?” Calvin asks me. “Are you celibate now or what?”
Calvin and I are at our usual after-work bar, getting drinks. Calvin is looking around the dark room, rating girls on a scale of one to ten, trying to figure out what lucky ten is going to be the object of his affections tonight. I’m mostly focusing on my beer, which has been the case more and more lately.
I have multiple sclerosis. Officially. Dr. Dunne diagnosed it a few months ago and now it’s all over my chart. It’s that primary progressive type, which means that the symptoms I’ve been having are going to get progressively worse over time. In the last year, walking has gone from something I hardly thought about to something that is becoming more and more of a challenge. I broke down and let Kelly fit me for a brace for my left ankle too and I had to swap out the right AFO for one that’s more supportive, but lately, I’ve found it’s not enough. I’m holding onto furniture when I walk and I took a bad spill at home a week ago.
Kelly’s advice? Get a cane. You know, a walking stick like old men use. That’s not going to happen though. I’m not using a cane. No. Way. Nobody knows I’ve got these braces on my ankles, but a cane would take things to a whole new level. I’m not going there.
If you think it’s easy to go out there and hit on girls when you’ve got braces on both ankles, you’re wrong. All I can think about when I talk to the opposite sex is what they’ll think when they see those very unsexy plastic braces strapped to my ankles. Or shit, I don’t know, what if I fall right in front of her? That’s definitely not out of the realm of possibility.
Talk about confidence killers.
“I don’t know,” I mumble. “I’m just not interested in anything right now.”
“I’m not talking about meeting the love of your life,” Calvin snorts. “I’m talking about a little pussy for a night. You used to like pussy, didn’t you, Matt?”
Yeah. I did. I still do. It just seems a lot more evasive than it used to be.
Calvin nudges me. “What about those two?”
I look where he’s pointing. There are two girls sitting two tables over, a blonde and a brunette, both of them in tight little dresses that ride up nearly to their thongs. The blonde is a ten, easy. The brunette is a seven. An eight, at best. She’s the kind of girl who wouldn’t have even been a challenge one year ago. Now looking at her makes my palms sweaty.
“I’ll pass,” I say.
“No,” Calvin says. “We are not passing. Seriously, Matt. You are getting laid tonight. Whether you like it or not.” He winks at me. “But I think you’ll like it.”
I probably would. I mean, I’m about to get carpal tunnel from all the jerking off I do. (Or go blind. Is that a real thing? I’ve never been completely sure.)
So I let Calvin buy the girls drinks and they come over to our table. They’re Lily and Sue. Lily is the gorgeous blond who is model hot up close, and Sue is the brunette, who is only a seven up close. She’s got a bit too much double chin and her lips are too thin—not that I mind any of that. Calvin doesn’t waste any time in getting his arm around Lily to claim her as his own, as if I could manage to string two words together around a woman who looks like Lily. That leaves me and Sue looking at each other awkwardly.
“How are you doing?” I finally say.
Wow. I’m really a Casanova tonight.
“Good,” Sue says.
“Is that your first drink?” I ask, nodding at her beer.
“Second,” Sue says.
Let’s make it three.
Two beers later, Sue and I are making out. I love the taste of beer and buffalo sauce on her breath. And I don’t give a shit that she’s a seven or a two or a million, because I haven’t kissed a girl in six months. And she’s drunk enough that she won’t give a shit or even notice my AFOs. I can do this. I really want this to happen.
“Hey,” Sue murmurs in my ear. “You wanna get out of here, Matt-Matt?”
That’s become my nickname during the course of our one-hour whirlwind romance. It’s fucking annoying, but whatever. Like Calvin said, I’m not looking for love. Just a little pussy.
“Sure,” I say.
Sue grabs my hand and pulls me to my feet, which is actually helpful. The bar is crowded, which is helpful and not helpful. My trick for walking is to grab on to tables and chairs as much as possible, so the fact that there’s lots of both around makes me feel confident and stable in my walking. However, I know that a foot sticking out just a bit too much could easily trip me up. I have to be careful. Always.
“Ummm,” Sue says as we get outside. “I prooooobly shouldn’t drive. I’m just a wee bit tipsy. Wanna get a cab, Matt-Matt?”
“I can drive,” I say. I mean it. I’ve only had that one beer the whole night. Because when I get “tipsy,” I get tipsy. Literally. If staying on my feet is the goal, I can’t get shitfaced anymore.
Sue is too drunk to even question me. She tells me her address and I plug it in to my GPS with shaking fingers. I may not be drunk, but I’m horny as all hell—my boner is almost painful. I can’t wait to get to her place.
Sue explains during the drive that she’s sharing a small house with friends. Then she starts babbling something about how her roommate always eats all the frosted flakes, and I zone out. I don’t care what she’s talking about. I don’t like this girl, but I want her. All I can think about is what’s between her legs.
When I get to the end of her driveway, I see she’s got three steps to get to the front door. No railing. Stairs—they are the death of me. I actually had to move from the apartment I used to live in, because there were two flights of stairs to get there, and it was taking me nearly half an hour every day. Sue only has three steps, but there’s no railing. I hate to admit it, but a cane would be awesome right now.
“What are you doing?” Sue laughs as she sees me carefully making my way up the steps. “You want to come in, don’t you?”
“Of course,” I say.
I get up the stairs without falling and it’s a miracle. She fumbles with her keys for so long that I finally take them from her and open the door
for her. The door sticks slightly before it swings open.
“Welcome to Casa Suzanne!” she proclaims, spreading her arms out in front of her.
Oh Christ, this place is a dump. I thought guys were slobs, but the women who live here are disgusting. There’s garbage all over the floor and random clothing slung over the furniture. Their coffee table has two open pizza boxes on top of it with congealing cheese in the center.
“You can take off your shoes,” Sue tells me.
I’m not taking off my shoes. First of all, there are so many identifiable stains and spills and garbage on the ground that I’d never want to be in my bare feet. But also, I need my shoes to hold my AFOs in place. Without my AFOs, I can walk, but barely. I can’t even make it to the bathroom in the middle of the night if I need to take a piss, which is why I keep a jug next to my bed, just in case. I need my braces and I need to keep my shoes on. Luckily, she’s too drunk to notice.
“My bedroom is this way,” Sue tells me with a wink.
I have to follow her through the living room, which is treacherous at best. I hold onto her couch to make it without falling, because there is crap all over the floor. There’s a moment when part of me wants to say the hell with it, but then I look up and see her sexy little body moving in front of me, and I instantly forget all my reservations.
Holy shit, I want her. I want her so bad. I would do literally anything right now to fuck this girl, even though she’s only a seven. It’s been that long. She’s on the heavy side, but it suits her. She’s got a great ass and big breasts that are straining against her tank top. I want this so much. If someone told me I couldn’t have her, I’d probably cry.
Sue has been drinking enough that I don’t have to overthink things too much. The second we get in her bedroom, she starts kissing me, and I guide us to her bed before I lose my balance and she has to pick me up off the floor. She never turned the lights on, which is a good thing. I can get my shoes and my braces off without her seeing anything.
And then I get the release I’ve been waiting for. Entirely worth it.
Chapter 16: Anna
It may or may not surprise you to learn that I have never kissed a boy.
I don’t want to kiss anyone. It’s distasteful. I think the Eskimos had the right idea with rubbing noses. The mouth is arguably the dirtiest part of the human body, and the idea of exchanging all those colonies of germs with another person makes my physically ill.
I don’t know when this realization occurred to me. I remember my parents kissing me when I was a child and finding it not unpleasant. I suppose it was around the same point that I stopped buying food from the high school cafeteria.
Nobody asked me out in high school. I suspect the boys knew that anyone who asked me on a date would be teased mercilessly. It was a relief not to receive any invitations to prom or otherwise. I was only too happy to stay home and study.
In college, I went on a few dates here and there. During my sophomore year, I agreed to a date with Rob Nichols in my Compilers class, because he seemed intelligent and well-spoken although short. He took me to an Italian restaurant, which was the first restaurant I had been to in two years.
The moment we walked into the restaurant, I told Rob that I was going to go wash my hands. He nodded while I went to find the bathroom. The soap in the bathroom was running low, which made me very nervous—why hadn’t I anticipated this problem and brought my own soap with me? And then after washing my hands for 121 seconds, I touched the door to the bathroom, which felt sticky, and then I had to wash my hands again.
“Where were you?” Rob demanded to know when I finally emerged from the bathroom.
“Washing my hands,” I said. I looked down at his hands, which suddenly seemed to be swirling with bacteria. “Aren’t you going to wash yours?”
“They’re clean,” he said.
“I highly doubt that,” I told him. “When is the last time you washed them?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Probably the last time I used the bathroom.”
“And when was that?”
Rob didn’t seem to enjoy my grilling him on the cleanliness of his hands, and he changed the subject, but by that point, I had become convinced that his hands were contaminated. I also noticed the greasy pores at his hairline, which were undoubtedly teeming with bacteria. Every time I looked at them, I had to excuse myself to wash my hands.
I ordered baked ziti and he ordered chicken picata. When our food arrived and I picked up my fork to eat, I found myself unable to actually eat. I held my fork up to the candlelight and noticed a little smudge on it. I knew it—the fork hadn’t been properly cleaned.
“What’s wrong?” Rob asked me.
“My fork is dirty,” I told him.
“Oh.” He squinted at the fork. “Do you want to ask the waiter for another fork?”
Except if this fork wasn’t clean, then how could I be certain that any other fork was properly cleaned? I couldn’t be. I suppose I could have gone to the bathroom to clean it myself, but the soap was nearly used up by my frequent trips to wash my hands. I should have brought my own silverware.
“Do you want a new fork or not?” Rob asked me.
I shook my head. And refused to eat any of my meal.
When the check came later, Rob reached for it, but I quickly reached into my purse for my wallet. “I want to pay for half,” I told him.
Rob flashed me what was the only smile he’d given me since we entered the restaurant. “No, that’s okay. I’ll pay.”
“No, I don’t want you to pay for me,” I said. “Because if you do, you’ll expect me to kiss you at the end of the night.”
Rob stared at me, open-mouthed. It was true though. And I was grateful when he let me pay for my uneaten baked ziti, and in turn, did not attempt to kiss me. It was worth the price of the meal.
I went on a few other dates after that, but each one was increasingly unpleasant. During my senior year, I made the decision not to date anymore. Ever.
I can’t say it’s impacted my life in any negative way, especially considering my dates were always few and far between. My parents aren’t thrilled about this, unfortunately. They can’t understand why I don’t want to be in a relationship like “every other woman on the planet.” They tell me not infrequently that I should see a psychiatrist.
Of course, my parents have already forced me to see a psychiatrist in the past. The experience was enough for me to recognize that a psychiatrist could not help me, and would only tell me terrible things about myself.
In any case, from what I can see, relationships aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. For example, I overheard that Heidi in reception caught her longtime boyfriend cheating on her and she spent the better half of a week sobbing. Richard down the row from us recently went through a very messy divorce. And those are only the ones that I know about from what I’ve overheard. And I can’t even imagine what it’s like to have another person living in my home, touching and contaminating everything. For these reasons, I have very little desire to subject myself to a relationship.
When I’m driving down the block as I leave work today, I see Matt stumbling out of a bar with some girl, his hand resting on the small of her back. I used to sometimes overhear him and Calvin Fitzgerald discussing their conquests in Matt’s cubicle, but I haven’t heard anything like that in a while. Months, maybe.
I slow down my speed to a crawl, carefully observing the girl that Matt has chosen to be his conquest of the night. I do not know what Matt’s “type” is, but I suppose this woman is somewhat attractive. If you like a girl with black makeup all over her eyes and bright red lipstick. Or a girl who is wearing a skirt that’s at least two sizes too tight for her, resulting in the proverbial “muffin top.” I wouldn’t, but I suppose I’m not Matt.
They pause for a second, exchange drunken smiles, and the girl shoves Matt against the wall of a building so that she can kiss him. She’s all over him, her chubby body pressed against his, her a
rms flung around his neck. Even from my car, I can tell how much she’s enjoying kissing him.
I don’t know why he’s kissing her. Does he actually like this horrible girl? Does he feel sexual attraction toward her? The way he’s kissing her back would indicate that yes, he does. But he’s likely been drinking and that might explain his choice. I’m sure they have nothing in common. I’m sure she doesn’t know how sweet he is and what a brilliant programmer he is.
For a split second, I wonder what it must be like to be that girl. I wonder what it would feel like if Matt had me pushed against a building and lowered his lips onto mine. Strangely enough, I don’t feel panicked at the thought of it. I imagine that his lips would be soft, his breath would be sweet, and his mouth would be warm. My body tingles at the fantasy.
Of course, in reality, I don’t know if I could do it. If Matt ever leaned in for a kiss, I would probably fly into a panic. Good thing I’ll never have the chance to find out.
Chapter 17: Matt
Usually, when I’m at a girl’s place, I make a quiet exit while she’s asleep. Staying through the night is a dumb thing to do if you don’t intend to see a girl ever again. It makes her expect things. Like breakfast. Plus the girl never looks anywhere as good as she looked the night before and we don’t have anything in common when we’re sober, and it’s all just depressing.
Dr. Dunne warned me that fatigue is a symptom of multiple sclerosis. It’s definitely one I’ve been noticing more and more lately. Last weekend, I spent practically the whole day in bed on Sunday—I just couldn’t make myself get up. In any case, without meaning to, I spend the whole goddamn night at Sue’s place, and next thing I know, she’s rubbing my arm and saying, “Wake up, sleepyhead.”
All I can think is, Oh shit.
“Hey,” I say carefully. I wince at the sight of Sue’s puffy face and smeared mascara. Now that I’m not horny, I’d say she’s more of a six, at best. Not that it would have mattered in the slightest last night. She could have literally been a dog.
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