Wrecked (Forever 4)
Page 81A violent shiver ran through my body, and my mouth opened in horror. I’d never seen Hunter like this before. I’d never seen someone so broken.
Finally, the other fighter managed to push Hunter away. The two began circling each other again. Hunter’s hands were down by his stomach and his legs wobbled with the effort to remain standing. My heart squeezed in my throat as I watched him struggle.
Something was horribly wrong.
Chapter Twenty-eight
SECRET
Hunter
Three years ago
I’d always hated the doctor’s office. The chemical smell reminded me of the cleaner we used on the wrestling mats after practice. We used it for the same reason they used it in a hospital: to kill things. Sure, they were microscopic things, but still, it wasn’t a healthy smell.
I was just halfway through my freshman year at Arrowhart. I’d gotten a scholarship to be in the Reserve Officer Training Program—something I’d wanted to do ever since I met an Air Force recruiter in high school. I was going to be a pilot. I was going to fly. But first I had to get through this doctor’s visit.
When I first came in, the doctor had been worried I might have a neurological issue. I’d been fighting and getting bumps and bruises my whole life, but this was different. This was my brain.
Just as I was about to get up and check on the doc, the door opened, and the doctor came in with his clipboard. I studied his expression, trying to get a read on what the news was, but he was poker-faced.
“Hello, Hunter,” the doctor said, carefully neutral. He was gray around the temples and wore silver-rimmed glasses. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine,” I answered. “Did you find out what’s wrong with me?”
Taking a seat on a stool by the counter, he double-checked the chart, flipping carefully through to the last page. Then he removed his glasses, placed them in his coat pocket, and looked at me. I swallowed and gritted my teeth but said nothing.
He paused for a moment to take a deep breath. “Looking at the MRI, we have all the data we need. It appears you have suffered exacerbations from a condition called relapsing-remitting multiple sclerosis, or RRMS.”
My pulse leaped and my stomach churned. Did he just say multiple sclerosis? I’d heard about the condition before but all I knew was it was a neurological condition and it wasn’t something to f**k with.
I exhaled heavily and looked back up at the doctor. “How did I get it?”
The doctor shook his head, “You didn’t catch it from anyone else if that’s what you’re asking. MS isn’t contagious. As for the cause, even the best researchers don’t know yet.”
The doctor continued. “We found two lesions on your brain in the MRI. At this point it looks like it’s RRMS because you’ve recovered pretty well. You’re on the young side to be diagnosed with this, but at this point we’ve ruled out everything else.”
“So what happens now? You write me some drugs and it’s back to action, right?”
He looked at me seriously for a moment before continuing, “Not exactly. It’s not curable. But we can manage it with treatment. What you had recently was a flare-up, after the treatment starts your symptoms will likely get better; they might not even be noticeable. In between flare-ups you’ll likely only have minimal symptoms.”
“So, my vision will be a bit fuzzy but I’ll be okay?” I asked. That didn’t sound so bad. I could live with that. But a sinking sensation in my stomach told me that I wouldn’t get off the hook that easily.
He frowned. “The nature of the disease is that it’s progressive. It will gradually get worse and worse. You’ll lose your sense of touch first, then your sense of balance, then you might start losing control of your muscles. Eventually your brain stops telling your heart to beat, or your lungs to breathe. We can slow it down, but we can’t stop it.”
Growing up like I did, not much fazed me, but right now I could feel a cold sweat on my forehead and a helpless fury expanding in my chest. “How long have I got?”
He sighed. “Hard to say, but with proper management and modern treatment, some patients live full productive lives.”
“In the most severe cases, hospice care is required within a couple of years, maybe months.”
“Jesus Christ, months? In a few months I’ll be waiting to die?” I felt hollow, like I should vomit but there was nothing inside of me. I’d faced difficulties before but this thing was different. This thing wasn’t real. It came out of nowhere. It wasn’t something I could grab, punch, or knockout. I had no idea how to fight this.
The doctor shook his head. “The prognosis largely depends on how severe of a case you have. As for you, it’s too early to tell how aggressively the disease will progress. The good news is that we caught it fairly early, so we can plan a course of treatment. ”
I clenched my fists, my insides roiling. Fuck this shit. Why did this have to happen to me? I thought I had done it. I’d finally gotten away from the drugs, the filth, and the petty crimes that were forced on my childhood. Even though I still got in trouble sometimes, I busted my ass in school so that I could get into college and go somewhere far far away from the negativity and bullshit of my parents. School, wrestling team, boxing club—that was my routine throughout high school. My life was f**ked up, but at least there were things that I could control.
But now this. Now I had a death sentence hanging over my head, just waiting to crush me.
Two and a half years ago
After receiving my diagnosis, I threw myself one-hundred percent into ROTC. The doctor couldn’t tell me how quickly my MS would progress, but from what he said, I figured worst case scenario was I would still have a few years. Maybe ten, definitely five at least. I was young, and other than the MS, pretty healthy. I could still do it, I could still get into the Air Force.
I’d work my ass off even if I could only fly one mission. I just wanted to fly, to be up in the air, free and away from it all. That was all I needed, all I asked for.