The Final Diagnosis

It was November 14th, eight months since the onset of symptoms. My husband and I set out with my dearest friend, Nancy, in the back seat for company and support. We would arrive with ample time to register and find our way to the Neuroscience Unit. Along the highway we counted ten fatally wounded deer and discussed their plight due to the continuous construction of home developments. Childhood memories of Bambi flitted through my head as we neared our destination. I registered and a kindly nun found a wheelchair upon seeing me rise from a chair with great difficulty. I had flashbacks of the sixteen years spent in classrooms with the good Sisters. Her radiant smile lifted my spirits.

After filling out the necessary forms we were led to an examination room. A nurse and a tall handsome resident appeared and introduced themselves. Granted it was a teaching hospital but where was the physician I had Googled the previous evening? The resident proceeded to perform neurological testing on my arms, hands, legs, and feet. It felt like a game of "Simon Says". He wore a pleasant expression and seemed pleased with my responses. I smiled back. The nurse and resident left the room leaving us to wonder what would happen next. Was this it? An examination by a resident?

In answer to my question a distinguished looking gentleman appeared and introduced himself. The head honcho had arrived at last. This was more like it. I eagerly anticipated a diagnosis with a treatment plan to follow. He sat down facing me and asked me to perform a few more tests on my extremities. Just to be sure I thought. These completed, another five minute intermission followed. My nerves felt raw as we again waited.

At last I heard voices in the hall which sounded cheerful but they faded as nurse, resident, and doctor reappeared at the door. Was the answer hidden in plain view on their faces? I was able to read the faces of thousands of students over the years. Why couldn't I read theirs?

The kindly and gentle doctor sat before me on a small stool while I smiled and looked into his eyes. Time stood still as he took my hands into his own firmly. I couldn't breathe. He took a deep breath and asked if I had ever heard of ALS. Yes, I nodded, and asked quietly why he wanted to know. A short and simple answer came forth from his lips. You have it. I'm sorry. You have every symptom of Lou Gehrig's Disease. I held his eyes for what seemed like an eternity, lowered my eyes and allowed the tears to stream down my face. I slowly bowed my head in acceptance.

My friend sat silent. My beloved husband, who was unaware of the hours I spent researching motor neuron disease, viewed this scene with confusion in his eyes. His face turned deathly white as I tearfully explained that I was going to die. I had been unwilling to share my fears and vowed to protect him at all costs until this final diagnosis. Now I would need his strength as he would need mine. Silently, with his hands on my shoulders we cried and grieved the loss that was sure to come.