Page 117 of Changing the Playbook
SOPHIE
Mike’s handpresses warm against my lower back, steady and grounding, as we head through the automatic doors. And, once inside, that particular hospital blend of industrial cleaning solution and human fear makes my nursing brain snap awake even as my daughter brain spirals into useless what-ifs.
If I’d gone running with her this morning.
If I’d noticed the infection brewing.
If I’d pushed harder about the flu shot.
“Sophie.” Dad’s voice slices through my mental flagellation.
He’s folded into one of those plastic chairs designed by someone who clearly hates the human spine. His Pine Barren hockey polo has a coffee stain spreading across the collar in a dark bloom, which Mom would normally attack with a Tide pen before he made it to the car.
“How is she?” My voice emerges steady, a small miracle courtesy of Mike’s silent presence.
“Stable. They’re running tests.” He drags a hand through his hair, leaving it in exhausted spikes. “Her legs just… quit.”
My stomach drops. Classic relapse presentation. Not pseudo-exacerbation from heat or stress but genuine inflammation, genuine damage, genuine disease marching forward.
I snap into machine-gun question mode. “When did symptoms start? Any warning signs? Fever? Numbness? Visual disturbances?”
Dad’s eyes widen at my rapid-fire interrogation. “Sophie?—”
“I need the timeline. If we can pinpoint onset, assess progression patterns, determine if this correlates with her last MRI findings?—”
His coach voice kicks in, gentle but immovable. “The doctor has it covered, Sophie.”
Right. Because other people’s hands are so much more capable than mine. Other people he hasn’t ordered to ‘back off’ when they got too invested. Other people who weren’t tangled up in Mike’s sheets while their mother collapsed.
“Her chart,” I say. “I should review the labs, make sure they’re checking JCV antibodies before any new immunosuppressants, and?—”
“Sophie.” Mike’s breath warms my ear. “Let’s sit for a minute.”
“I don’t need to sit.” I pull away, already moving toward the nurses’ station where answers live. “I need to see the doctor, because last time the steroid was?—”
“Sophie?”
I whirl to find Dr. Breene herself, silver hair twisted into her signature bun, radiating that particular calm that comes from decades of delivering devastating news with professional detachment. Though her expression suggests today’s news might not be completely catastrophic.
I’m in her space before my brain catches up with my feet. “How is she? Full panel? CSF analysis? MRI with gadolinium?”
“Your mother is stable and comfortable.” Each word measured, professional. “We believe a respiratory infection triggered this relapse. We’re starting high-dose corticosteroids—five-day course, then taper—and we think that’ll get her where she needs to go.”
My brain races through treatment algorithms. “What about plasma exchange? Recent studies show PLEX can be beneficial for?—”
“Let’s see how she responds to steroids first.” Her eyebrows lift a fraction. “Your mother has always been steroid-responsive.”
“But what if this time?—”
“Sophie.” Dad’s using his make-grown-men-cry voice now. “Dr. Breene knows her job.”
Heat floods my face but I can’t stop. “I’m considering all options, because the latest research from Johns Hopkins suggests early intervention with?—”
“Your concern is natural.” Dr. Breene’s smooth interruption saves me from myself. “But your mother needs rest. Ten minutes, then you can see her.”
She glides away before I can launch into my memorized citations, leaving me standing there with my fists clenched and my chest so tight I might crack, feeling utterlyfuckinguseless.
“Come on.” Mike captures my hand, and I realize then that I’m so agitated I’m shaking. “Coffee.”
