Page 118 of Changing the Playbook
“I don’t want coffee.” I yank away. “I want her chart. I want neuro protocols. I want?—”
“Control over something you can’t control.” The gentleness in his voice makes the truth sting worse. “Come on, Sophie…”
“That’s not—” The lie dies because that’s exactly what I want. To rewind. To fix. To matter. “I should have been there.”
We had plans. Morning run. I could’ve monitored her exertion, caught early symptoms?—
His hands find my shoulders, forcing eye contact. “MS doesn’t give a shit about your schedule.”
Movement behind him catches my eye, a mop of familiar blonde curls bouncing through the waiting room doors, gap-toothed grin intact despite everything.
“Hazel.” Dad stands as she approaches, our neighbor Patricia trailing behind, looking concerned. “Thanks for bringing her, Patricia.”
“Of course.” She squeezes Dad’s shoulder with practiced sympathy. “Call if you need anything.”
Hazel crashes into Dad’s legs. I brace for tears, for trauma, for the breakdown I’ve been dreading since she found Mom on the kitchen floor that day. Instead, she pulls back clutching a library book.
“I broughtThe Fantastic Guide to Beetles!” She beams. “Mom loves bug facts when she’s sick.”
My throat closes completely. Eight years old and already more functional than her twenty-three-year-old sister, who’s having a meltdown that would give Chernobyl a run for its money.
“That’s really thoughtful, Haze.” Dad’s voice cracks.
“Can I see her?”
“A few minutes.” Dad smiles at her. “She’s getting medicine.”
“OK.” She plops into a chair and cracks open her book. “Did you know?—”
As she chirps about insect superpowers and beetles being able to lift 850 times their body weight, I watch my baby sister treating this like any manageable Tuesday while I’m over here catastrophizing.
“Hey.” Mike’s breath tickles my ear again. “Ten minutes are almost up.”
I nod, not trusting my voice, following Dad toward the patient rooms with Hazel still chattering about beetle facts. Dad pauses at room 314, opens the door, and there she is.
My mom.
She’s pale against the white sheets, with an IV snaking into her left hand and monitors tracking her body’s rebellion in real time. But she’s awake, and searching for me first.
“Hi, sweetie.” Her voice floats thin but steady.
I cross the room in two strides, hands already reaching for her IV site. “Is the flow rate optimal? Any infiltration? Are you positional?”
“Sophie.” She catches my hands. “I’m fine.”
“You’re in the hospital.” My voice climbs. “Your myelin sheaths are under active attack. That’s literally the opposite of fine.”
“Sophie, please.” She glances at Hazel, who’s already settled with her beetle encyclopedia. “It was just a flare-up.”
“A preventable flare-up. If I’d been there?—”
“You couldn’t have prevented a cold, sweetheart.”
“But I could’ve noticed earlier symptoms instead of?—”
“Instead of living your life?” Her eyes see too much. “Sophie, stop.”
“Hi, Mrs. Pearson.” Mike steps forward, saving me.
