Paper Cranes (2 page)

What does that even fucking mean - abnormal EMG? Kat, do not Google search. Do. Not. Search.

I had a feeling it couldn’t be good when my scheduled exam for one appendage turned into two hours of poking and prodding. Needles the size of middle fingers, stabbed into my spine without warning. The electrical current thrust through my muscles forcing me to curl into the fetal position.

I clutched and clawed at my knees as the air in my lungs caught in my throat. The pain ripped through me like a thousand daggers. My face practically turned blue from the lack of oxygen. That’s what I did when I experienced pain - held my breath like a petulant child who couldn’t have her way. Call it a reflex or just plain anxiety, but it calmed me for some reason. The doctors and even my best friend, JoJo, scolded me for it.

“You’re going to pass out if you keep that up, Kat.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to. It’s involuntary.”

“Hold my hand,” she would say. Looking into her eyes she would mouth the encouragement I needed to hear. “Breathe, Kat. In. Out. Just like this,” she would coach as she inhaled and exhaled her cigarette breath.

“When are you going to quit that shit? I thought we were in this together?” I would joke, forcing myself to breathe and communicate at the same time.

“I’m just not ready, Kat. You know the hell I have to deal with concerning my boss. He drives me crazy. I need to find some way to take the edge off. Would you rather I had an addiction to alcohol like him?”

“No, never. I just wish you wouldn’t do it anymore. Perhaps you need to find a man as an addiction?” I laugh as my breathing begins to regulate. She brushes her thumb across the back of my hand, giving me her empathetic grin I’ve come to notice when she is nervous for me.

“We already know I’m addicted to men. How could I not be? Then again, who else could tolerate my ass like you?” she joked.

“Great point. Too bad you’re not my type. I’d go lesbian for you,” I chuckle as my heartbeats begin tapering off into a rhythmic chord of comfort.

Unlike my chocolate curls with streaks of red, JoJo had a beautiful mane of blonde locks. She was, by far, better looking than myself with her hourglass body and perfectly pouty lips. I was a little heavier than she was with typical features – full lips, nice rack, and average build. Just, ordinary I suppose. Not like Jo who came across as an amazonian goddess.

“J, I’m scared.”

“There is nothing to be scared about, babe. You’re going to be just fine. Watch, they’ll come in here and tell you, you have a severe case of carpel tunnel or a pinched nerve for fuck’s sake.” Although I could hear the encouragement within her voice, the trembling in her hands gave her away. She was just as terrified as I was.

So here I sit, alone, on my sixth appointment, hoping for a solid answer; hoping for some shred or insight as to why I’m going through this. It has to be something ridiculously simply and easy to fix. Quick, easy surgery and I’ll be good to go. I can’t imagine they would allow me to come here alone if it were something detrimental.
Surely they can’t be that cruel.

“Ms. Dove, lovely to see you again,” Dr. Mather states as he knocks while opening the door all at once.

“Hello,” I drag out each syllable. That’s all I could muster with my teeth chattering so loudly, even I thought it was making the table shake.

“Cold?”

“A little,” I half lie knowing that the real reason for my banging teeth lies within his charts propped neatly in his arms.

“I’m sorry I have to do this, but can I examine you for a moment?” he doesn’t wait for a response, as his cold, wrinkled hands take my own. Flipping my palms over in his, he tests each fingers elasticity and reflexes one by one. The delayed reactions or lack thereof painted a disturbing grimace across his brow.

Brow lifting, yes, not a good sign.

“Place your palms against mine and push really hard,” he instructs me.

Straining to flex my fingers out flat, I place my clammy palms on top of his. Pushing with all my might, my right arm and shoulder collapse easier than I had anticipated. My mind is telling me, “
You know how to do this, Kat, so do it!
” But I couldn’t.

Why couldn’t I?

“Okay. Okay. Now, with each hand, I want you to make an “OK” sign with each finger.”

Easy enough, right?

I fly through the exercise with my left hand with ease.

Easy enough.

I spoke too soon.

As I lifted my right hand, my digits began to shake uncontrollably.
How is it I just flew through it with one hand and now it feels like my other is rebelling from my subconscious?
Mentally I know what I am supposed to do and yet my hands are telling me to go fuck myself. The frustration and anguish singed across my face giving away my emotional struggle.

Why couldn’t I do this? This should be so easy, right?

“That’s good enough,” he clutched my hands, placing them into my lap as he patted them as if I were a child. “Hop down and get dressed while I go get your MRI charts from the other doctors.”

“Okay,” I mumble, hoping there will be some, small shred, of hope still left to be had. I wait again.

Will someone just tell me what the hell is going on already?

Slight tapping interrupts my thought as I now cradle my sweater, sitting in a chair opposite my doctor.

His expression. Oh, God, his expression.

I knew something was wrong the instant he sat down. Sheepishly avoiding eye contact, he flipped through my files purposely dragging out my fate. The tell tell signs that my life was about to be flipped upside down.

“Ms. Dove, what is your understanding of what is going on here?”

“Well, I’ve been told it could be Carpel Tunnel, Focal Dystonia, parathyroid disease…” I trail off because the next prognosis is the hardest to articulate.

“Are you familiar with Lou Gerig’s Disease?”

In that very moment, time stopped. He continued to speak as my mind tried to wrap itself around the magnitude of what he was saying. ALS. I have amyotrophic lateral sclerosis. Me, I’m the one he’s speaking to, not some pour schmuck behind me. I was going to die. I was going to wither away as the world around me continued. While the rest of the world debated over frivolous things such as the latest iPhone to get, or arguing with their parents about how “Bobby’s parents” let him go to that concert.

I was dying.

I will be gone in three-five years, maybe longer if I’m lucky. I quickly start to pray for any other disease, how pathetic is that? It’s horrible wishing for a brain tumor or even a thyroid problem compared to this.
I was dying.
There was no cure for ALS. There was no physical therapy or even transplant to save me.

I was dying.

Dr. Mather’s voice tunneled and buried itself deep within my unconscious as I thought of everything and everyone this could affect. I’m so young. Oh, God, I had so many things I wanted to do first. How was I going to tell my boss? How was I going to tell…?

“Ms. Dove, can I get you anything? Water? I know this is a lot to take in.”

“My best friend, JoJo. I need Jo. Now!” I screamed as the hot tears raced down my face, landing in my open palms. Riffling through my handbag to retrieve my phone, I unlocked my screen. Scrolling down the contact list, I immediately found “My Bitch”. Hearing the drawn out rings, only made my already impatient legs shake underneath me. Come on, come on, come on
. Answer the fucking phone!

“Hey, Babe. How did the appointment go?” she answers cheerfully. How can she be so cheery when my life just crumbled before me?

I am dying.

Under shaky breath, my throat gave way and tears began to fall freely. “I need you here. Now. Please come quick.”

“What’s going on? What’s wrong? Where are you?” the panic escalated in her voice as the urgency of the conversation quickly turned.

Barely choking out my sentences, I stumbled as I tried to respond, “Dr. Office. Come. Now. Please!”

“I’m on my way,” she screeched as you could audibly hear her racing to her car.

As I hung up the phone, I looked at the screen watching the “End Call” pulse red on the display.

“Can I get you anything?” the nurse asked as I turned in her direction. Dr. Mather must have slipped out during my call in order to give me some privacy.

“No. Thank you,” I hummed as I reached for the box of tissues. Dabbing my face free of makeup, my poor skin felt sensitive and raw. As I disposed of the tissue, I sat and waited. I was alone, scared, frightened and the only person I wanted and needed by my side just then was my best friend; she would make it better, she always made it better.

I sat in the cold, hard chair, trying to calm myself down when the examination door flies open. Standing before me was my childhood friend, partner in crime and sister for life. I jumped to my feet and ran into her warm embrace. Not saying one word she let me cry into her dress shirt, possibly smearing any remaining make-up on it while rubbing my back.

How was I supposed to tell my best friend I was dying?

“Honey, I need you to take a seat and tell me what’s going on. I can’t understand you right now.” Her expression was pained as I withdraw myself from her embrace.

“I. Have. ALS.” Now it was my turn to divert my eyes from her. The pain of seeing her reaction was far too much to bear. I was hardly keeping it together myself. My head and heart couldn’t take seeing her face drop with heaviness. The overwhelming burden and devastation would be smeared across her face. She was never one to hold back her facial expressions. I always gave her hell for her, “Resting Bitch Face.”

“We’re okay. We’re going to get through this.” Jo drew me into her arms as I began to weep again. Drawing circles into my back, we just sat. We weren’t being escorted out to fend for ourselves, or disregarded for our emotions, but left alone for a while to digest the news.

“Are we, because I do not see a silver lining here?” My words came across as callous as the anger started to fester inside my belly. “I’m sorry, I just can’t understand this right now. Why? Why me?”

“Ms. Dove… Ms. Clare, I’m so glad you made it,” Dr. Mather stated with a somber expression laced across his face.

“Hey, Doc. Can you explain this to me, please?” Jo stated in a calm voice, as she continued to stroke my back.

“Your friend has what we call amyotrophic lateral sclerosis or Lou Gerig’s disease.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Well, when we did the initial E.M.G. we noticed extensive abnormalities within her muscular tissue. Their reactions to the electrical simulations were off the charts. We were pretty confident then that she had it.”

“Why the hell would you let her come here alone then? She needed support and you essentially baited her like a lion. You know what; I don’t even want to know the answer. What are we up against?”

“This is going to be a battle…”

“You act like this is something curable, where I can take a few meds and be done with it. Battle doesn’t even begin to describe this,” I stated defensively.

“I can understand your frustration. This is a horrible disease and I wish things were different. I wish this wasn’t happening to you at all.”

His response was rehearsed. I suppose that’s what neurologists do; deliver bad news on a daily basis. Why should my situation phase him at all? It’s not him. He doesn’t have to deal with this once he leaves for the day. I’m just another file folder ready to be color categorized at the end of his day.

“So what’s the game plan? What can we do?” Jo tried to help.

“Unfortunately, there isn’t a whole lot that we can do. There is no rhyme or reason to ALS. There is no progressive treatment. It is its own beast. It looks like the muscle deterioration is centralized to her right arm. It will gradually increase to zero mobility along with the rest of her body. Slowly, her body will begin to shut down.”

“Is there any sort of medication she can take to help?” Jo pleaded.

“There is only one drug currently – Riluzole. It can extend life expectancy for two to three months. Sadly, pharmaceutical companies don’t exactly focus on drugs for ALS because…”

“It’s terminal, so who cares, right? That’s what you’re saying, correct? My life doesn’t matter enough for companies to work on a cure for someone who is terminal,” I barked angrily.

“I…” the Doctor was rendered speechless for once.

“It’s okay. I get it, Doc,” I interrupted.

“May we seek another opinion, no offense?” JoJo finally spoke up.

“Certainly, in situations such as these, we encourage our patients to seek another opinion.”

Hearing JoJo and the Doc converse helped, considering I was an empty vessel at this point. The muffling sounds of static electricity between the two numbed me from the inside out. Nothing made sense, I doubted anything ever would make sense again… I just, needed out of that room.

“I think we are done here for the day. Thank you, Doc.” I finally spoke.

“Oh…okay,” Jo stood as she shook the Doctor’s hand.

I ignored the Doc’s handshake as I made my way through office. Nearly hyperventilating as I got to the front doors, I push them aside, allowing the crisp January morning air to hit me in the face. I tried to keep it together as I heard the doors behind me swing open.

“Kat, were you not going to wait for me?” Jo struggles to catch her breath as she clutched the mounds of paperwork I forgot.

“I had to get out of there. It felt like I was suffocating.”

Jo immediately lit a cigarette, letting the smoke and hot breath circulate around her head.

“Why don’t we go home and I’ll make us some warm cocoa and we can build a fire. I’ll call out of work for us and we can binge watch Matthew McConaughy movies. Sound good?”

“Sure, Jo. Sounds great,” was all I could articulate. Really, I just wanted to be alone. To cry and scream and wallow in my misery like any other person who had just been told they have a terminal illness. But Jo, Jo wouldn’t let me. That’s not the type of person she was. She would never willingly let me drown in my sorrows or make enemies with a brick wall. She’d say my knuckles were too pretty, or I was being ridiculous. That’s the kind of friend she was; selfless, relentless, and a downright pain in my ass sometimes. But I loved her deeply. Oh boy, did I love her.