Beyond The Music (The Rock Gods Book 7) (3 page)

Larry was a bully that convinced Lincoln’s mom to marry him because he was the best she could expect to have in life, especially with a bastard kid in tow and no real education to her name. Soon after they married, Larry made it clear to Lincoln that he had no intention of playing daddy to some other man’s kid. That left Lincoln at permanent odds with his stepdad and Lincoln wore the bruises to show for it. The discord increased as Lincoln entered his rebellious teens and the old adage of being seen and not heard became more difficult as Lincoln went through his growth spurt at sixteen. By eighteen, Lincoln was over six feet tall and no longer afraid of his stepdad. He moved out after that to live with one of the guys in a band he’d joined the year before.

It wasn’t long after that when Lincoln’s mother called with news that Larry had been killed in an accident while driving his eighteen-wheeler on one of his long distance hauls. A year later, Lincoln’s mom was gone, too, from alcohol abuse. By the time Lincoln was twenty, he was completely on his own. He wore the plain gold band with tiny diamonds she’d given to him before her death on a chain around his neck that was handed down from his grandmother to his mom. His mother’s wish was that one day Lincoln might give the ring to his bride. At thirty-two, it seemed unlikely Lincoln would ever find someone to settle down with. For now, he was happy to wear the ring around his neck when he could remember to.

Lincoln stepped out of the shower and toyed with the necklace. Sometimes rubbing the ring gave him peace, but this time that feeling didn’t wash over him. The black spot in his vision was there everywhere he looked. He toweled off and fumbled his way back to his bedroom to dress.

Obviously, he was going to have to see a doctor now versus putting it off until he couldn’t see at all, but how could he get himself to the ER when he was having trouble seeing? Then he remembered Spumoni was on his way over with the dope. Maybe Spumoni could drive him. Spumoni would no doubt be pushing him to see a doctor anyway, so why not get it over with and have Spumoni do the driving. Knowing what he was dealing with had to be better than not knowing, because not knowing was no longer an option. It was eating at him like a disease and he had to face it once and for all.

Lincoln was almost finished pulling on clean clothes when he heard Spumoni call for him from downstairs. It seemed Spumoni was making good use of security pass code to Lincoln’s front gate and door and Lincoln wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Although it wasn’t as if Spumoni hadn’t given him a heads-up about his arrival. Even still, it was unnerving, but today he wasn’t going to complain because right about now having Spumoni downstairs waiting for him felt like a blessing.

Lincoln finger combed his long hair and clung to the banister as he eased himself down the stairs. He did his best to keep his weight off the foot that was numb and concentrated on each step he took with his impaired vision. Spumoni was waiting at the bottom of the stairs with his hands on his hips.

“You look like shit,” Spumoni grumbled.

“I just got out of the shower,” Lincoln replied thinking that was explanation enough.

“Okay, then you look like a caveman that just put on clean clothes,” Spumoni amended.

Lincoln moved around Spumoni careful not to misstep. “I didn’t feel like shaving, so sue me.”

“Who was the dude leaving your driveway when I got here?” Spumoni questioned. “Booty call?”

“You saw a dude leaving my property on foot?” Lincoln asked.

“Yeah, as your gate swung open for me to drive in, this guy was hurrying out,” Spumoni explained. “I thought maybe he was your fuck buddy or something.”

Lincoln shook his head. “I didn’t have anyone here,” he replied. “And, if I did, they would have left in a vehicle, not on foot.”

“Hmmm, not sure what to tell you, but there was definitely a dark-haired dude leaving your driveway when I arrived,” Spumoni added.

“Damn it. I’ll have to call my security company,” Lincoln grumbled. “We’ve all beefed up our security systems since Ashton was attacked inside his home. Mine has never given me a problem, but no one should be getting inside my gate without me knowing about it.”

“You should definitely give them a call,” Spumoni agreed. Lincoln took a step around Spumoni and staggered a bit and that’s when Spumoni asked, “What’s with the limp?”

Lincoln turned to face Spumoni. The limp was the least of his worries. He opened up his mouth to speak and the words died on his tongue. How did he explain to Spumoni the cold fear he had pulsing through him? He grabbed on to his head and squeezed his eyes shut. Finally, he said, “Listen . . . I need your help.” As soon as the words left his throat, Lincoln wavered on his feet.

Spumoni reached for him and swore. “Fuck! What’s going on?”

Lincoln allowed Spumoni to steady him and hoped the man couldn’t feel the nervous jitter making his body shake. “Can you drive me to the ER?”

The ride to the hospital was silent. Spumoni didn’t push his questions on him—at first. Just before they pulled into the parking lot of the hospital, Lincoln grabbed Spumoni’s arm. “I’m trusting you to keep your word and not tell anyone about this,” Lincoln said. “Okay?”

Spumoni agreed and swallowed hard. “It’s worse than you’ve let on, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Yeah, it could be,” Lincoln’s voice was almost a whisper. “I’m losing sight in one eye and my feet and hands are all fucked up. It feels like I’m walking on glass.”

“Okay, let me help you inside,” Spumoni instructed. “Did you call ahead and let them know you were coming, you know, for security purposes?”

“No, I didn’t want any of these assholes having advanced time to alert the press,” Lincoln answered. “As it is, I’m taking a chance of this being front page news tomorrow.”

“I’ve got an idea,” Spumoni said. “I know a guard who works here. Let me check to see if he’s at the desk inside; he might be able to help us.”

It turned out Spumoni’s friend was on duty and he was able to usher Lincoln into a private exam room quickly before anyone noticed his presence. Lincoln felt like hugging Spumoni for that minor miracle. It was also an enormous relief to have Spumoni with him for the initial examination with the emergency room doctor and through all the subsequent tests they ran on him over the course of the next four hours.

Lincoln did his best to hold his tongue and not bite the head off every nurse or doctor that strolled into his private examination room. The beeping noises and chatter sounds along with the sterile stink of the hospital was enough to make Lincoln want to throw-up. Lincoln sat in the cold exam room with Spumoni trying to remain calm and not having much success.

One by one, Lincoln was dragged off for tests. A CT scan, an MRI, an x-ray, and even a neurological eye exam. You name it, and Lincoln had it done. With each new diagnostic test, Lincoln’s fear deepened. At the end of the process, it was a neurologist that came into the exam room to see Lincoln.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Stallworth, my name is Dr. Hardy,” the doctor said. “I’m Chief of the Neurology Department.”

Lincoln shook the doctor’s hand and allowed him to do another quick assessment. Dr. Hardy did a variety of neurological tests, with Lincoln touching his finger to his nose and Lincoln following the doctor’s finger with his eyes left to right and back again. It all seemed pointless, but Lincoln let him do his job. A few minutes later, the doctor finally took a seat on a stool with wheels on the legs. He positioned himself in front of where Lincoln was perched on top of an examination table.

Lincoln knew what happened now. His heart thudded so hard inside his chest, he thought he might pass-out. He watched the doctor study the information in the chart page by page. It seemed like an eternity before the doctor finally cleared his throat to speak.

“I can rule out a stroke, brain tumor, and an aneurism,” Doctor Hardy said.

Lincoln ran his sweaty palms down the length of his thighs. “Then, what do you think it is?”

The doctor pressed the chart to his chest and held it there with crossed arms. “Well, until I get all the information back from the testing, I can’t give you a hundred percent positive diagnosis.”

“Shit. I was afraid of that,” Lincoln grumbled. Spumoni stepped closer and squeezed his shoulder. Spumoni didn’t say anything, he didn’t need to, just having someone near him gave Lincoln some comfort.

“What I can tell you with certainty is you have optic neuritis in the left eye which is giving you the large black spot in your field of vision,” Doctor Hardy informed.

“What’s optic neuritis?” Lincoln asked.

“It is the swelling of the optic nerve at the back of the eye, which is the major nerve running between your eye and your brain. We’ve ruled out anything inside your brain pushing against the optic nerve to cause the swelling, like a tumor or an aneurysm. The other most likely reason behind the swelling is multiple sclerosis.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Lincoln barked. “There’s no cure for that!”

“That is correct,” the doctor added. “There is no cure, but the disease can be managed.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Lincoln mumbled. “This can’t be happening. I’ll end up a cripple in a wheelchair!”

“Lincoln, most MS patients never have the need for a wheelchair,” Dr. Hardy explained. “You’re young, healthy, and I feel we’ve caught this early enough that we can manage the disease without you needing assistance getting around.” Lincoln grabbed on to his head in disbelief and the doctor continued to speak. “Because of the optic neuritis and your other symptoms, I feel confident to treat you for MS without all the test results in hand. That being said, I’d like to have you admitted to the hospital tonight and start a course of intravenous steroid infusion on you,” the doctor stated. “It might help reduce your symptoms and lessen the chance of any permanent nerve damage.”

“Permanent damage? What the hell does that mean?” Lincoln questioned.

“Your symptoms suggest you have a form of multiple sclerosis called relapsing-remitting,” the doctor said. “You are currently experiencing what is called an exacerbation of the disease. With a flare—or exacerbation, your central nervous system is attacking itself and the nerves. If the myelin coating of a nerve is breached, it can lead to permanent damage of that nerve. It’s sort of like an electrical cord with the outside plastic coating being broken. The break in the coating then exposes the wires beneath and allows for the possibility of the wires breaking permanently.”

Lincoln leaned over his thighs and rested his elbows on his knees. “Oh, my God. I’m screwed.”

“I’d like to get you started on that course of steroids as soon as possible,” the doctor added. “The intravenous steroids can get the disease into remission quicker by shrinking the swollen nerves, but we would need to observe you while you are infused in case of a negative reaction. We can have you moved into a private room upstairs right now and get that started for you.”

“So, that’s it?” Lincoln asked. “You put me in a room and start pumping drugs into me in the hopes no permanent damage is done?”

Doctor Hardy stood up and leaned against the wall by the door. “How long have you been symptomatic?”

“I don’t know, maybe a couple of years,” Lincoln answered.

“Each time you had a flare the symptoms have become worse or stayed the same?” the doctor asked.

Lincoln felt like he could throw up. He took a few seconds to answer that question, partly because he didn’t like the truth in his answer. “It’s been getting worse.”

The doctor nodded. “I’m advising the steroids, Lincoln. The sooner we hit this relapse with the drugs, the quicker we can get you to remission.”

“What if I don’t want the steroids?” Lincoln pushed. The doctor made a humming sound. It was obvious to Lincoln the doctor wanted him on these drugs, but Lincoln wasn’t convinced he needed them.

“If you don’t want to be admitted to the hospital now, we can set you up with an appointment to discuss your options for managing the disease,” Doctor Hardy offered. “There are several disease modifying drug options, Lincoln. Some are interferon injection drugs given subcutaneously beneath the skin, and there are also some promising oral pills newly approved by the FDA that could keep you stable and in remission. The point is you have options. We just need to decide which option is best for you and your lifestyle.”

There was a pause in the conversation and Lincoln wanted to scream or cry. It was frustrating beyond belief to know there was nothing anyone could do to get rid of this. “You said you wouldn’t have a one hundred percent diagnosis until you got all the test results back,” Lincoln said. He knew he was grasping at straws, but he had to ask. “What if you’re wrong and this isn’t multiple sclerosis?”

Doctor Hardy sighed. “I’ve seen enough of your test results to give you a fairly accurate diagnosis based on what I do know.”

“Shit,” Lincoln said in a hushed tone while he rubbed at the stress in his forehead. “This can’t be real.”

“Can I start the paperwork to get you admitted?” the doctor asked.

“I . . . I need time to think,” Lincoln said. “I can’t just tell you right now on the spot what I want to do about this. I need time to absorb what you’ve said for fuck’s sake.”