Cass
“Oh my god. You literally brought your entire life from Burbank to Oklahoma, didn’t you?” I huff, dragging two extra bags, as well as my own trunk, along the walkway toward our dorm.
“That was the deal. I would come here, but I still get to be me—and I like to have my things,” my sister Paige says, prancing ahead of me with the lighter bags. She’s a full minute older, but you’d think years separated us with the authority she holds over my head.
When it came time to decide on a college, Paige’s choices narrowed down to Berkley and McConnell, and Berkley was definitely her preference. But for me, it was always McConnell, and only McConnell. They had the best sports and rehab-medicine program in the country, and that’s what I wanted to do—what I was destined to do. But my parents wouldn’t support me moving thousands of miles away without someone around to keep an eye on me. Supervision—the word made my skin crawl, I had heard it so often. Supervision and monitoring were words bandied about so often—in conversations about me, but never in conversations with me. God, how I wished just once someone threw in the word normal.
So, as much of a pain-in-the-ass as my sister is, she’s also a saint, because she picked McConnell…and I’m the only reason for that. I owe her—I owe her my life.
“Okay, so here’s the deal,” Paige starts as soon as we get our bags, mostly hers, loaded into our dorm room. “I want this bed. And I’m still going to rush a sorority. Mom and Dad don’t need to know that I won’t technically be living with you.”
“Works for me,” I say, already unzipping my bag and flipping open the lid on my trunk. I feel Paige’s purse abruptly slam into my back. “Ouch! What the hell?” I say, rubbing the spot where the leather strap smacked my bare skin.
“The least you could do is pretend to miss living with me,” she says, her eyes squinting, her frown showing she’s a little hurt.
“Oh, Paigey, I’ll miss you. I just hate that you have to be my babysitter—still!” And I do hate it. I think that’s the worst part about being a teenager with multiple sclerosis—everyone’s always waiting for something to go wrong.
It started in the middle of my freshman year. I would get this pain in my eye. It would come and go, weeks between each occurrence. When I couldn’t ignore it any longer, I told my parents, and we went to the eye doctor. My vision was fine. He told them it was probably stress from school, or the running in soccer leaving me dehydrated. What a simple and succinct diagnosis. It was also complete crap.
The fatigue hit next. Again, easily summed up with too much soccer practice, which, of course, led to truly uncomfortable fights between my parents—my mom wanting me to quit completely, my father saying I just “need more conditioning.” It was because of these fights that I hid the tingling from them. That went on for months, until it was summer. Then one day, I couldn’t walk.
I could stand from my bed, get to my feet, but that was it. The second I attempted to move toward my door or drag my feet toward my closet to get dressed I wobbled and fell. I felt like the town drunk without the benefit of the booze in a paper bag. I screamed for Paige and my parents, and I knew by the look on their faces that my life as I knew it was done.
After my first steroid IV treatment, I was able to walk again—all of my symptoms gone, like the round ball the magician waves in front of your eyes until it isn’t there. Only, just like that magician who secretly tucks the ball behind his hand, my MS isn’t really gone either. It’s…hiding.
The fights continued, and my parents separated for a while. After the MS diagnosis, my mom insisted I quit soccer. I got depressed. My dad supported my wishes to play again—of course, under strict circumstances, and with limited workouts. Everything pretty much sucked for the next year.
It was a series of med trials, seeing how certain drugs affected me, then finding out what side effects I could handle. I also got really good at giving myself a shot—three times a week, for three years, until they came out with the pill version last year. I didn’t mind the shots, though. What I minded were the constant questions and lectures from my parents: “How are you feeling? Are you fatigued? You should rest; stop working so hard.”
Paige never lectured. Through it all, she just stayed the same. True, she’s terribly self-absorbed—there were moments that she resented the attention I got because of my disease—but it was more about the attention and the fact that it wasn’t on her. And I liked that.
We made a deal with my parents, coming here as a package. We fought for it for months—my mom really wanted to keep me at home. But that’s the thing about MS. It never goes away; it’s always with me. The shots, drug trials, therapies—they can’t cure the disease; they can only slow it down. Like the front line of the Pittsburgh Steelers—except nowhere near as effective. Maybe more like the front line of the Miami Dolphins. So in the end, I got my way. Now that I’m here, I’m not going to let MS be a part of any conversation. I’m just Cass Owens, and my story ends there.