Page 61 of Ms. Lead

He holds a hand out to me over the table. “I’m Oscar,” he declares sharply.

I hesitate only for a second, shaking his hand with a nod. “I’m Oliver.”

His grip is firm, and his gaze is steady, but it’s dawning on me what this is all about. The cane is a dead giveaway.

I’m going to kill Darcie.

“So, I hear you have MS,” he snaps.

I knew it.

“That’s correct.” No point in denying it. It’s why he’s here, after all.

“Well, boo hoo.” His tone is snide, like a boy in school. It throws me.

“Excuse me?”

“You have MS. Big deal. Supposedly you think it’s the end of the world.” He shrugs tightly. “I’m here to tell you it’s not.”

“Listen, I don’t know you, but—”

“No, you listen. I just took two trains to come to talk to you as a favor to Darcie. You have people that care about you that you are shutting out for no good reason whatsoever.” He waves down the emo girl and orders a tea. “Look. The truly insidious thing about MS, especially for us men, is that it strikes us right in our prime. We think we’ve got the world by the bollocks, you know what I’m saying? And, boom, game over. Well, here’s a little secret. It’s not over.”

I stare at him. Part of me wants to listen to this, but a bigger part of me is still rebelling at being tricked into this conversation to begin with.

He sighs heavily. “Okay, so tough love doesn’t work with you. Let me try this.” Pulling his phone out of his jacket pocket, he scrolls for a bit, then holds it out to me, swiping at the pictures as he talks. “That there is my wife, Nan. We’ve been together for almost forty years now. She stood by me during my whole diagnosis. Never treated me differently a day in her life. She’s the one that kicked me in the arse to go and start talking to other fellas about it. Got me to get a group going every other Thursday at the pub on the corner of my street. It made it easier for us to get together. It wasn’t a support group as much as it was a bunch of mates getting together for a pint. But we’ll talk more about that in a tick.”

I simply nod, at a complete loss for words.

Swiping again, he pulls up a picture of a happy family. It looks like a mother, father, and three small kids in a back garden.

“This here is my daughter Elizabeth who’s 33, and her family. Husband Jerry, and kids Georgia, Jack, and May.” Another swipe, and another family. “That’s my son Daniel, 37, with his wife Tracey, and their two boys, Jordan and Jacob.” He pulls his phone back, studying the pictures with a small smile playing on his lips. Remembering himself, he puts the phone away and looks at me, growing serious once again. “None of them have MS.”

I nod. “That’s brilliant.” Of course, it doesn’t mean anything.

“Out of the twenty or so gents that meet in my group that are my age, eighteen of us have adult children. Out of those children, none of them have MS, either. Now that’s not to say that it couldn’t happen to you because it sure as hell could, but it’s not likely. Is it more likely for you than someone else? Absofuckinglutely. Should that stop you from having your own kids someday? Hell no. Why would it?”

“That’s great and all, but—” I again don’t get to finish my thought.

“But do you know what has happened?” I shrug because, of course, I don’t know where this is going. “Mike’s daughter Lucy died two years ago from uterine cancer, leaving his son-in-law with two little kids to raise on his own. Joseph’s son Cary had an incurable lymphoma that took him at ten years old. Marvin’s daughter Margaret was killed in a car crash the night she graduated uni by a drunk driver.”

I can see him getting a little choked up by these stories, which makes my stomach clench. I understand what he’s trying to say, but I’m still not sure I buy into it.

“Do you think you’re a unicorn or something? So damned special? You’re the only one with this worry?”

“I see we’re back to the tough love portion of the lecture.” I can’t help the smirk, and I suddenly feel very immature. I don’t like it.

Is he right about all of this? Have I been too stubborn and fixated on the bad possibilities?

“It’s kind of my thing. Royal Navy still in my blood.” He snaps his palm to his forehead in a quick salute with a chuckle.

I don’t salute back because I don’t think I’m supposed to, being a civilian.

“Tell me, who else in your family has MS? Your father or mother? Grandparent? Uncle or Aunt?”

“Nobody.” I shrug.

He raises an eyebrow at me but stays silent.

---