The Speed of Light

by Elissa Grossell Dickey

  “Feels good to be out here, doesn’t it?” Nikki beams at me, and a grunt is all I can manage between heavy breaths.

  I shrug, huff out, “How far have we gone?”

  “Just passed a mile.”

  “Shit. This is demoralizing.”

  Nikki bursts out laughing. “That’s a pretty big word. You can’t be too tired.” I glare at her and she smiles wider. “Aw, come on. It’s tough, but trust me, your body will adjust. So will your mind—look around. The scenery’s actually changing. At least we’re going somewhere, you know? Moving forward. Not stuck on a treadmill.”

  Moving forward. I smile, pick up the pace as much as my knee will allow.

  Nikki matches me easily, her shrewd eyes narrowing. “Hey, how’s the knee?”

  I squint up into the sun so I don’t have to look at her, the pain throbbing now as if responding to being called out. “Fine.”

  She sighs, slows to a walk. “Let’s skip to the cooldown, okay?” I match her pace, grateful. She clears her throat. “What did the neurologist say?”

  I swallow. “Well . . .”

  “Simone.” Nikki throws her hands up, exasperated.

  “At my appointment, the nurse said to only let them know if a symptom persists, otherwise just work with my primary doctor.” Plus I didn’t feel comfortable calling the nurse who had brushed me aside and rushed me out the door back in December.

  “So define ‘persists.’ How long do you let it go before you call them?”

  The truth is, after months of vague symptoms that ebbed and flowed unpredictably until I questioned whether I was imagining them, having an answer was a goddamned victory. And afterward, when Dr. Montgomery said I didn’t have to go on treatment if I didn’t want to, it was like freedom, like I hadn’t lost control of my life after all.

  It was all a mirage.

  Because it turns out there is no way to go back to living your life the way it was before your diagnosis. Not with the albatross of chronic illness around your neck. I know that now.

  So I’ve gotten good at pretending.

  I glance at Nikki at last. “I don’t know.”

  She sighs. “Don’t you think you should feel comfortable asking your neurologist questions? Have you ever thought about going to someone else?”

  I have absolutely thought of that, and the idea is as frightening as it is exhausting. Pretending is easier. It’s less scary than making the effort to dig deeper into my illness, into what my uncertain future might bring.

  Like with Connor.

  Meeting him was like magic. With him, I can pretend there’s nothing wrong with me and there never will be. I can pretend everything is perfect.

  But searching for a new neurologist would mean once again gathering my medical records, scheduling appointments, going over the details of my history of symptoms. Starting over with someone new who might be just as distant as my current one.

  It would mean I couldn’t pretend anymore, and I’m not sure I’m ready for that. Not yet. I don’t respond, instead placing my hands on my hips as we walk, so Nikki presses on. “Mone, I know it’s hard, but you can’t keep putting things off forever.” Her voice is low, but her words sting. “You can’t keep burying your head in the sand. This is your life.”

  I wince, chest flaring its resistance. And yet I’m weakened from the run, from Nikki’s penetrating gaze. “Fine, I’ll call. And I’ve got my annual exam coming up soon with my primary doctor, too, so that covers all the bases.”

  Nikki eyes me for several more seconds before nodding. “Good. And you need to start stretching more after our runs. Come to yoga with Claudia and me like you used to.”

  I groan. “But my balance . . .”

  Nikki eyes me pointedly. “Just try. Okay? We’ll both be there with you.”

  I sigh in defeat, then smirk at her. “Damn, running and yoga? Our college selves would hate us so much right now. They’d tell us to get drunk and eat pizza instead.”

  Nikki laughs. “Growing up is a bitch, isn’t it?”

  It is indeed, I think the next day as I sit cross-legged on my couch, stomach rolling with nerves as I tap out the number for Dr. Montgomery’s office. I make my way through the automated menu, and the soothing-grating hold music kicks in.

  The music cuts off abruptly. “Hello, can I help you?”

  “Uh, yes.” I clear my throat. “I have a question for Dr. Montgomery’s nurse.” I give her my name and date of birth, and her doubtful voice tells me she’ll check if the nurse is in, but I might have to leave a message. When the crooning saxophone blares into my ear again, I’m filled with relief—I tried. If I leave a message and she doesn’t get back to me, then I’ve done what I could.

  I’ve barely finished the thought before the hold music comes to another screeching halt. “Yes?”

  I blink, scramble for words. “Uh . . . is this . . . is this Dr. Montgomery’s nurse?”

  An impatient sigh, barely audible. “Yes, this is Kris. Can I help you, Miss Archer?”

  My moment has come—all the questions that have been rolling around in my head can finally come out. And yet I freeze, can barely manage the one reason I called. “Uh, yes. I . . . um . . . I started running—well, jogging, really. And my knee started hurting. So I thought I should check in . . . you know, to make sure it’s not the start of another attack?”

  Her voice is crisp. “How long did you say it’s been going on?”

  “A month or so, I guess?”

  “Is it constant, steadily worsening, or does it come and go?”

  “It comes and goes.” I swallow. “Depending on how long I run.”

  “Then it sounds like a running-related injury to me. Have you talked to your primary doctor about this?” I open my mouth, but she continues before I can answer. “Because we encourage patients to work with their primary doctor as much as possible on these sorts of questions.” She’s barely hiding her annoyance. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  “Well, um . . .” For a second I falter, regret and embarrassment flooding me. And yet I’ve finally made this damn call; I better make it count. “Well, I guess I was wondering about flu shots. I mean, I know it’s not until fall, but am I supposed to get one?”

  “Definitely. You need to avoid the live virus, though, so get the shot, not the nasal spray.”

  “So that is a question I should direct to you guys, then.” The triumphant words come out before I can stop them.

  She pauses again. “We encourage our patients to work with their primary doctors as much as possible when appropriate.”

  “But what if I don’t know when it’s appropriate?”

  “Start with your primary, and if they recommend you call us, then do so.” She sighs. “If that’s all, I can transfer you back to the scheduling desk if needed.”

  I pause. “No, thank you.”

  I end the call and throw my phone down onto the couch, punch a pillow, then look around my empty living room.

  The silence is suddenly all consuming, and I sit, frustrated.

  Alone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  May 24, seven months before

  The next week, I sit in the sterile exam room, my foot tapping to the rhythm of my nervous heartbeat as I wait. It’s not that I’ve ever loved going to the doctor—who does, honestly? But now, doctor visits will never be the same. I will always expect bad news or anticipate the need for a painful test of some sort.

  But the instant the thick door whooshes open and I’m greeted by Dr. Reynolds’s smiling face, my shoulders relax.

  “Ah, Simone, so good to see you.”

  “You too.” It’s not entirely a lie; I might hate coming in, but she’s been my doctor since I first moved to Sioux Falls, and her common sense and calm demeanor have been a blessing, especially during the months leading up to my diagnosis.

  She sits down and runs a hand through her graying brown hair, then folds her arms across her lap, leaning toward me. “Simone, I h
ave to say right away that I received the complete report from the neurologist’s office, and it’s very promising that they feel they can monitor your condition for now without treatment.”

  I nod, her validation washing over me like a cleansing bath.

  “Now, how are you?”

  I open my mouth to say something positive—I’m fine I’m great thank you very much—but instead I’m overcome, swiping at mascara-smudged eyes. Dr. Reynolds hands me a tissue, her kind smile not wavering. At last, I compose myself enough to take a deep breath. “Sorry, everything is okay, really; it’s just that I don’t know what I’m doing or what’s going to happen, and when I called the neurologist, they weren’t exactly helpful, and it’s just so frustrating.”

  She nods sagely. “Everything you’re feeling is completely normal.”

  More words I needed to hear. “But what do I do?”

  She glances at my chart. “You keep doing everything you’ve been doing. You get enough rest, you exercise, you try to avoid stress, keep your habits as healthy as possible.”

  I nod, wiping at my eyes again. “I started running. But, well, my knee has been bothering me. I think it’s related to that, but I do worry it could be MS related.”

  “Hmm. How long has it been going on?”

  “A month or so, I suppose? Maybe longer.”

  “And it seems to happen only when you run—it doesn’t happen at other times, or steadily worsen?”

  “No, just with running.”

  She narrows her eyes, assessing. “Sounds like it’s running related to me, but I’ll take a closer look during your exam today, and I definitely want you to keep me posted—start logging any symptoms and how long they last.”

  I nod, soaking in her advice like a plant facing the sun, and she cocks her head to the side. “Simone, did you ask the neurologist’s office these questions?”

  My stomach twists. “Yes, but it didn’t go very well.”

  “It might take a while to develop a rapport with the nurses.”

  “How long?”

  “It depends.” She narrows her eyes. “But honestly, if you feel uncomfortable at any point and decide to follow up with someone else, we’ll gladly refer you. Just say the word.”

  I could hug her—I want to, but that might be a step too far in the doctor-patient relationship. Instead I beam my gratitude, and she turns back to my chart. “Now, anything else to update since last time? Anything new?”

  The blush comes without warning. “Well, I mean, I don’t know if this is relevant, but . . . I met someone.”

  Her eyebrows raise. “Oh, that’s wonderful!”

  “Thanks.” My blush deepens. “He’s pretty great.”

  “How long?”

  “Almost five months now.”

  Another sage nod. “Do we need to discuss any birth control changes?”

  I giggle like a teenager—God, I’m a dork. “Uh, nope. Same old pill is working fine.”

  She smiles. “I have to ask.” Then she clears her throat. “I also should ask, since it’s been five months: Does he know about your MS?”

  My giddiness fades. “Um, yes.”

  “Good. Does he have any questions?”

  I blink. “Uh, I guess I don’t know. I mean, we haven’t really talked about it much. I did tell him, though.” A defensive edge creeps into my voice.

  She leans forward. “That’s okay, Simone. There’s no right or wrong way to do any of this. I just thought I’d bring it up. If you two are getting serious, he might want to learn how best he can partner in your diagnosis long term. It might be something to discuss at some point.”

  I bristle. The image of Connor partnering in my diagnosis is a hell of a buzzkill after the sexy scenes that flashed through my mind after the birth control question. I force a smile and nod, and Dr. Reynolds moves on to more mundane questions—how I’ve been sleeping, when I last performed a self–breast exam—but I’m fixated on her earlier words, now blending with Nikki’s in my mind.

  Maybe I shouldn’t bury my head in the sand. Maybe I should talk to Connor.

  But doubts swim through my mind. He and I talked, back when I told him I wasn’t starting treatment. That was enough.

  Wasn’t it?

  The truth is, I’m not sure I want to talk with him about it. The only time I’m not thinking about having MS is when I’m with him. And I don’t want to risk shattering this perfect distraction.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  May 25, seven months before

  My doubts followed me home from the doctor’s appointment, stinging like a wound that wouldn’t scab over, and they continued to fester that evening and as I got ready for work the next morning.

  And they continued earlier today, while I sat at my desk going through morning emails. The sting has only now finally faded to the background during our staff meeting as we sit around Stan’s conference table.

  “Okay.” He claps his hands, then rests them on the faux-cherrywood table. “What do we have this week?”

  I flip open my yellow-lined notebook and consult my list. “Let’s see. I’m finishing up the story about the alum who biked across the country to raise money for cancer research. That should be good for our next issue of the alumni magazine. For social, there’s a vocal-jazz camp for high school students on campus this week.”

  Stan nods. “Were you thinking Facebook?”

  “Yeah, a few pictures that their parents can like. But it also might be fun for Snapchat.”

  “That is where the kids are these days, huh?” Stan chuckles. “Make sure you bring release forms.”

  I jot down a note as he turns to Nikki, who launches into an update about the graduate-studies brochure, a seemingly never-ending project already on round seven of revisions. Poor Nik. But I’ve heard this story before, so as she speaks I let my eyes gaze out the window, let my mind wander, and let my doubts creep back in.

  “Sounds like you need a plan.”

  Stan’s voice catches me off guard, and I turn to him in surprise. “What?”

  His brow furrows. “Oh, I was just saying to Nikki that it might help next time when working with difficult departments to discuss a plan up front.” He turns back to Nikki. “And I can help facilitate a meeting, if needed.”

  They continue talking, but my mind is buzzing now. A plan. Of course.

  I’ll make a plan of my own. I will pay attention to how my knee reacts to outdoor running and log my symptoms, as Dr. Reynolds suggested. I’ll also start researching different neurologists. My one-year follow-up MRI is this fall, and Dr. Reynolds’s office will send the results—and all my medical records—to whichever neurologist I choose to follow up with. So I really just need to make a decision before I get the MRI results. That means I have plenty of time, considering I don’t even need to think about getting the MRI scheduled until summer is over.

  Come to think of it, end of summer would also be a great deadline to give myself to have a talk with Connor about my illness. If we’re getting serious, I should be able to talk to him—about my frustrations with my neurologist, my fears regarding my illness long term. End of summer will put us well past the six-month mark, which somehow seems like a big deal and is not at all a stalling tactic.

  I’m satisfied now with my successful adulting, and when the meeting ends, I bounce back to my office and throw my focus into the story about the bicycling alum—hmm, better ask her to email me a high-res picture. My fingers fly over the keys, and I don’t notice the figure lurking in my office doorway until a throat clears. I look up in surprise. “Oh. Hi, Louise.”

  “Hello, Simone. How are you?”

  The tone, the emphasis—they’re nails on a chalkboard, and yet I keep my smile. “I’m fine, thanks.” Stan’s wife is a nice lady—she is—and yet there’s something about her that’s hard to pinpoint. It’s like she goes through the motions of being friendly, checks off all the boxes required to be a polite person, but it seems false somehow, like the boxes are empty. “How
are you?”

  She sighs, tucks a lock of her graying blonde hair behind her ear. “Can’t complain.” Her eyes dart back and forth across the office before resting on me again. “Is Stan around, by any chance? He’s not answering his cell, so maybe he’s in a meeting?”

  I click over to our shared calendars, scan his column. “Hmm . . . nothing scheduled, but something might’ve come up. Do you want me to try emailing him? Sometimes it’s easier to respond to emails in a meeting than a phone call.”

  “No,” she says quickly, then pauses, composes herself. “It’s not important. You don’t even need to tell him I was here.”

  There’s a twinge to her voice now, a crack in her smile, but I nod. “Okay.”

  She smiles a moment longer. “Stan said you’ve started dating someone?”

  I blush, silently cursing myself for not just ignoring Stan last week when he asked, Say, whatever happened to that young man from the construction tour? “Um, yeah,” I say now to Louise. “A few months ago.”

  There’s no denying the sadness in her smile. “Ah, so new. Enjoy it.” Then she’s gone, as if she were an apparition I’d simply imagined.

  I shake my head, pop back into Microsoft Word, and try to type again, but my fingers lag and I stare at the doorway where Louise had stood. There’s something strange going on with those two. Distracted now, I click open Facebook for some good old-fashioned social media stalking.

  I’m a week back on Stan’s profile page when another figure looms, clears his throat. I look up, automatically clicking back into Word.

  Chet raises his eyebrows. “Didn’t mean to interrupt your busy schedule.”

  My face blazes, but I straighten my shoulders, trying to hide my embarrassment from the admissions director. “Uh, hi. Can I help you with something?”

  A smile slides across Chet’s face, and yet somehow that only makes me more uneasy. “Do you know where Stan is?” His voice is quiet, yet there’s a heaviness behind it, like something’s simmering beneath the surface.

  “His wife was just here looking for him, too. He must be out, because I just checked for her, and there’s nothing on his calendar this afternoon.”