Surgeon Boss, Surprise Dad. Janice Lynn

Liz, but I’ve got to go.” He hung up before she could say anything more.

      But mostly before he could say anything more.

      The next morning Adam sat in a Jackson Neurology Clinic exam room, staring at a framed Norman Rockwell print that hung on the wall opposite him.

      Too bad real life wasn’t as idyllic as Norman Rockwell presented it.

      When the neurologist walked into the room, Adam knew by the expression Dr Winters wore that the test results hadn’t been good.

      By now he should be used to that expression. Hadn’t every bit of news he’d gotten thus far been bad?

      The neurologist pulled up his stool, glanced down at the piece of paper containing words that would forever change Adam’s life, and then glanced up. “There’s no good way to put this and we pretty much already knew what the conclusions of the tests were going to be, so I’m going to be blunt. You have MS.”

      Adam’s ears roared. His blood boiled. His skin crawled. He gritted his teeth. He clenched his tingling fingers. Still his body threatened to explode from the impact of those words.

      He had MS.

      “You’re sure?”

      “Yes. The analysis of the cerebral spinal fluid shows protein, cells, and increased antibody production. Antibodies containing oglioclonal bands. Unfortunately, that in combination with the demyelization revealed on the MRI are conclusive even if the evoked potential testing hadn’t been positive.”

      There was that damned expression again.

      “But they were positive, too, weren’t they?” Because all his tests pointed in one direction. A direction he didn’t want to go, but had no choice but to take.

      He had MS.

      The specialist nodded. “I’m sorry.”

      All night he’d lain in bed preparing himself for this, preparing to hear that his body was attacking itself. Yet he shook. Any moment he expected the earth to open, for lightning to strike, for a tornado to rip him from the ground. Because any of those things were possible and expected in this horrible nightmare.

      This had to be a nightmare.

      God, he hoped it was only a nightmare.

      He couldn’t have a debilitating disease. Not him. Not when he had so much to live for. So much he wanted to do with and give to Liz.

      MS.

      He shuddered. His stomach churned. His heart sank.

      Fate couldn’t be this cruel.

       Could it?

      He closed his eyes and forced himself together. Forced his emotions under control. Well, not control, but the closest he could manage. He doubted he’d ever feel in control of his body, his life, again.

      Steeling himself for the worst, he met the specialist’s gaze. “What does this mean, exactly? What should I expect?”

      Did he even want to know? With the way things had gone thus far, perhaps he shouldn’t ask. Perhaps ignorance was bliss. Before seeing Larry, he’d known something was wrong but hadn’t felt this heavy sense of impending doom.

      “Since this is your first known exacerbation, it’s difficult to say. As you probably already know, symptoms vary from individual to individual just as the course of the disease varies. It’s possible this exacerbation could go away tomorrow and you won’t have another episode for decades.” Dr Winters shrugged. “Maybe never.”

      “It’s also possible that this is only the tip of the iceberg, that what I’m experiencing is mild and will get much worse before going into remission—if I go into remission at all.”

      “That’s true. There’s no way of knowing the course of your individual disease, or how progressive your case will be,” Dr Winters agreed. “Generally there are considered to be four classifications of MS, each a different level of progression of the disease.”

      “There’s no way to know which type I have, is there? No test or study that can be done to determine which one?”

      “With time we’ll know, but as far as a test I can run…” the doctor shook his head “…there’s not. The best we can hope for is that this will be your only exacerbation and that you’ve already experienced the worst of your symptoms.”

      “But that’s not what you expect?”

      Dr Winters frowned. “You know I can’t predict the future. Anything I said would only be a guess.”

      “I could lose control of my body functions, go paralyzed, even die from this.”

      “That type of progression is rare, Adam. The majority of MS cases fall into the category where the person only has a few exacerbations throughout his or her lifetime.” Dr Winters gave a stern look. “You can’t go into this thinking the worst. You have to fight, keep a positive outlook.”

      But no matter how Adam tried to focus on the positive, on the fact that this might go away, the stark reality wouldn’t let up.

      “I could end up in a wheelchair. Crippled.” He winced. “Bedridden.”

      Just like Gramps.

      The thought of Liz putting her life on hold to wait on him hand and foot while he lay in a hospital bed caused bile to rise up his throat.

      “What about my job? My career? I’m a surgeon with MS.” He laughed with ill humor.

      He felt like he’d made an admission much as an alcoholic would at an AA meeting. Hi, my name is Dr Adam Cline, and I’m a surgeon with MS. Only with alcoholism a person could fight. How did one fight one’s own haywire immune system?

      “Am I medically clear to perform surgeries? To pilot my plane?”

      “For now,” the neurologist said. “As long as you’re physically and mentally capable. However, you should check with your airport on any regulatory guidelines that would restrict you from flying. But if your symptoms worsen, I’d have no choice but to put you on medical leave.”

      Adam liked his life. He had a great job, a hobby he loved, financial freedom, and Liz. Now all the best parts were slipping through his fingers like loose grains of sand. He wanted to grasp each bit, hold it all in place, but doing so was futile.

      “Adam?” Dr Winters touched his forearm. “I’m concerned about you. You’re not suicidal?”

      His life might be over in many ways, but he wasn’t a murderer and in his eyes suicide was a form of murder. He laughed with a bitterness he wasn’t sure had ever come from his lips before. “Suicidal? No, I’m not suicidal.”

      Although he’d rather die than burden Liz with taking care of him for years on end.

      “You know…” Dr Winters studied him “…there are lots of people who have MS who live fairly normal lives.”

      Adam nodded. There were, but he had to face facts. His life would never be the same. He had MS and no way of knowing that the future wouldn’t leave him an encumbrance.

      How could he do that to Liz? How could he put her in the position of having to take care of him that way? It would be like starting all over with her grandfather. Each day Liz would have to care for him, wonder if he’d be able to do anything for himself, if he’d know who she was, as memory issues occasionally went along with MS.

      She’d lose all possibility of having a normal life.

      They had to end. Continuing their relationship was condemning Liz to a life sentence.

      He wouldn’t be able to tell her why. She’d never let him walk away if she knew about his MS. Not his Liz. No, she’d insist on staying by his side, caring for him despite him trying to push her away so she wouldn’t carry this burden.

      He