Page 50 of All Bets are Off

I worry the entire weekend. West keeps trying to reassure me, but I can feel in my bones that the doctor’s going to tell us something really bad. It’s tempting to search the internet for my mother’s symptoms, but I resist, afraid of what I’ll find.

On my request, West goes with me to the appointment on Monday. He almost didn’t get to due to a job that came up, but he was able to swap with Hawk.

Sitting in Dr. Bridges comfortable office, staring at the numerous diplomas and certificates proclaiming him an expert in his field, I’m extremely glad West is with me.

“It’s going to be okay,” he tells me, patting my thigh.

“I don’t think it is,” I say. “I’ve known for a while now that something is very wrong.” I look at him. “Thank you for coming with me.”

“I wouldn’t be anywhere else,” he tells me.

The door opens and the doctor breezes in. I can tell just looking at him that the news is bad.

Taking a seat at his desk, he looks at me levelly. “Mr. Fields, I’m ninety-eight percent certain your mother has Creutzfelt-Jacob Disease, an extremely rare neurodegenerative disorder that’s rapidly progressive and invariably fatal. I’m sorry.”

Stunned, I can only stare at the doctor as West’s arm curls around my back. I expected something bad, but now that he’s said it, I can’t seem to digest it.

“Take your time. I have the next hour cleared to answer your questions,” Dr. Bridges says kindly.

After a moment, the buzzing in my head begins to fade and I become aware of West gently rubbing my back with his palm.

“Okay?” he asks softly.

I swallow and nod, but I can’t seem to get my thoughts together.

“Where would she have gotten this disease? I’ve never heard of it before,” West asks the doctor.

“It’s caused by the prion protein—that’s a cellular glycoprotein that has developed abnormally. It’s rare, and there’s no recognizable transmission. I suspect it spontaneously appeared, although it can be genetic. You would have heard about it if it ran in your family, though,” he tells me.

Finding my voice, I ask, “If it’s so rare, how can you be sure that’s what she has?”

“The 14-3-3 protein present in her cerebrospinal fluid combined with her atypical EEG is enough for me to be confident it’s CJD. True confirmation would come from a brain biopsy, but I’m sure you won’t want to put her through that. The rapidly progressing dementia, deteriorating hand-eye coordination, myoclonus or muscle spasms, double vision—these all point to CJD. It’s why I cleared my schedule for the tests last week when you brought her in. I’m very sorry to be giving you this bad news.”

“How long does she have?” West asks.

“Typically, death occurs within one year of the onset of the illness,” Dr. Bridges says quietly.

One year.Less than that. I started noticing things were a little off with Mom last Christmas. Now it’s June.

West asks some more questions, which the doctor answers patiently and thoroughly, but all I can do is wonder how my life changed so drastically in so short a period.

“All we can really do is keep her comfortable,” the doctor tells us. “Anti-seizure and anti-anxiety drugs will help with the muscle spasms. There doesn’t seem to be any pain associated with the disease.”

“That’s good,” West says, and I tune out, staring out the window at the drizzling rain.

“Logan? You okay?” West squeezes my hand.

I turn, blinking his face into focus. When I look to where Dr. Bridges was sitting, he’s gone.

“Come on.” West helps me up from the chair, and I follow him down the hall to the elevators.

“I knew it would be bad, but this…” I shake my head.

“I’m so sorry, Logan,” West says.

When we reach West’s car, he suggests we go for a drive. “Maybe have dinner somewhere out of the way? So we can process.”

I nod, letting West drive me wherever he wants to. I feel disconnected. In shock, I guess. I’ve never even heard of this horrible disease before today. My mother will never be the same again. I’ve lost her already.

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