Page 44 of The Pursuit of Her Happiness

Quinn 23.

I do not enjoy feeling like an idiot. And talking about something over and over again is like my own version of hell. Yet, my mind and body war accepting my current situation…accepting that Bently is truly mine and he won’t leave me just like everyone else. Since my diagnosis, I’ve been forced to reexamine not just my past but how it has molded me as I’ve grown.

Introspection is a bitch.

After my sister died, I slowly became someone who did not let emotions rule their actions. In any given situation, I am levelheaded and rational. My parents checked out completely, I accepted that and moved on. Each labor and delivery of my boys, my OBGYN was fascinated by my relaxed demeanor. Joe began withdrawing day after day, I picked up the slack where needed. My in-laws respond to me with detachment and obligatory concern. Joe asked for a divorce, I gave it to him. Even listened to his mother rant about how I am the only one who could have prevented the divorce, like she’s theSmokey the Bearof marital strife. Ford viciously turned me down, and I shrugged it off and started internet dating.

But since the moment Polk sat down across from me all those weeks ago…my mind has been in chaos no matter how many times I remind myself to roll with it. If he leaves, he leaves, right?

WRONG!

I’ve always prided myself on never needing anyone. I’m capable of handling anything, I am woman and mother, hear me roar!

Sitting in that restaurant, it’s as if my body reset. Like Polk restarted my system and since then I’ve craved him more than chocolatey goodness. My world was rocked with the Multiple Sclerosis diagnosis, and he’s right there, every step of the way and I haven’t stopped spinning, desperately trying to find purchase anywhere to give me a moment of stillness.

All I have to do is reach out and touch him and I know,I know, everything will still. It will calm. But reaching out is accepting my weakness and I honestly think that’s the worst of it all. I am my own worst enemy. I’m the only roadblock to a happy life. It isn’t the hits that keep you down, it’s your reaction to them. And I’ve reacted poorly. Probably justifiable, but poorly, nonetheless.

He's patient. And affectionate. And steady. And generous. And so damn good, my mind insists he won’t stay. But my heart, my soul, knows he will. Bently Walker is mine. I need to get out of my own way and reach out.

This is the last time I will feel like this. This is the last time I will allow fear to dictate my life. This is the last time Polk will ever question my commitment. I love him and loving someone means being vulnerable. It won’t kill me, it’ll make me stronger.

And God knows I need some strength right now.

We’re sitting in the exam room of a neuro-ophthalmologist my neurologist recommended. I stand from the exam chair and walk over to Bently seated in the only chair in the room, besides the doctor’s rolling stool. He jolts in surprise as I straddle his lap and plop down. I bury my face in his neck, sucking in his comforting scent. His arms come around me, holding me to him, chest to chest.

“I love you.”

I hear the smile in his voice. “I love you too, darlin’.”

He holds me while we wait, his heartbeat lulling me into a pleasantly hazy state. The door eventually opens, and someone sucks in breath, then chuckles. “Not sure if I can examine you properly from that position, but I’ll do my best.” Polk and I laugh, and he helps me stand up and guides me back to the exam chair.

“Needed a hug,” I admit with no shame.

“Don’t we all?” Dr. Pflug sounds nice enough, her voice reassuring. “Before we get into the nitty gritty, may I examine you first?”

“Sure,” I reply easily.

“Excellent.” For the next while, Dr. Pflug uses several contraptions, and eye drops to look inside my eyes. She hums here and there and gives me instructions but otherwise doesn’t say much. When she’s done, I hear her stool slide backward, and the snap of her removing her gloves. “How long have you been on the Cymbalta?”

“About a week.”

“It’ll take another couple of weeks for you to feel its effects.”

I hold up my hand to stop her. “Are you saying there’s nothing physically wrong? It’s all in my head?” I can’t keep the disgust from my voice, I’ve heard this before, and it doesn’t suck less with each doctor’s explanation. Polk growls low in his throat, I hear him shift as if to stand.

“Oh, there’s something wrong.” I’m not sure if that is reassuring or not. All I’ve wanted is an explanation, a reason, and preferably a cure. Though, hearing it confirmed is unsettling in its own way. “I ask because the Cymbalta will help immenselywith any nerve discomfort you’re experiencing; it will improve your mood and regulate your stress response.”

“Ok.” Polk’s hand brushes against mine, and I turn my hand to entwine our fingers.

“I’m not sure how much you know about stress and the effects it has on the body. While optic disruption is not uncommon with MS patients, in your case, your optic nerves are irritated and inflamed due to an influx of stress hormones.”

“I’m stressed out?”

Dr. Pflug doesn’t seem offended by my tone. “Essentially. Though it’s more complicated than that.”

Polk asks, “Is the blindness permanent?”

“No.” She’s confident and it goes a long way to ease some of my concern. “When you leave here today, the girls up front will give you the name and number of a therapist that deals with patients who are navigating difficult diseases. They will also give you the contact info for a support group.”

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