I got pregnant.
We were waiting for our businesses to be a bit more stable and to finish our renovation work on the house, even though Nick was keen to get a move on and have our five babies. （Yeah, right.） Finally, he persuaded me to go off birth control, and on our very first try, we made a baby.
Then only two weeks after my positive pregnancy test, the bleeding started.
Nick took it worse than I did. He was so excited about starting a family, and he had already been suggesting terrible baby names. I was sad about it too, but I had read how common early pregnancy losses are, especially for a first pregnancy. I was sad, but I knew we would try again.
Then a week after my miscarriage, I woke up unable to feel my right foot.
Now it’s four months later. I’m sitting in the office of a neurologist named Dr. Heller, a tall, thin woman with half-moon glasses that rest low on the bridge of her nose. She has two armchairs set up in front of her desk—Nick is sitting in one and I’m in the other. My cane is leaning against the desk, because I would fall if I tried to walk without it. And Dr. Heller has just uttered two words that will completely change my life.
“Multiple sclerosis?” Nick blurts out. His face looks how mine feels. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” she says simply. “Technically, you need to be having symptoms for a year to make this diagnosis, but I feel fairly certain. And unfortunately, you have a primary progressive form of the disease, since your neurological symptoms have gotten no better, even with the steroids, and have in fact progressed.”
She’s right. The symptoms have not gotten better—not even a little bit. They have progressed. The numbness has spread to my other foot.
“So what’s the treatment?” he asks.
“With primary progressive multiple sclerosis, there’s no proven treatment,” she says. “We can try some medications, but…”
No treatment. There’s nothing we can do. I will continue to progress.
Nick shakes his head. “I don’t understand how this happened. She doesn’t have any weird neurological diseases in her family.”
“It doesn’t always run in families,” Dr. Heller says. “It’s possible in your case, the pregnancy triggered it. And there’s a chance that if you get pregnant again, your symptoms could get worse.”
“A chance,” he repeats. “So it’s not for sure?”
“No,” she says. “It’s uncertain. Especially since Rosalie has a much less common form of the disease. But you should be aware of the possibility.”
We return home after that appointment, both of us visibly shaken. Nick hardly says a word the entire drive home. That muscle twitches in his jaw the way it always does when he’s upset. I spend most of the drive staring out the window, trying to figure out what’s going to happen for the rest of my life.
The tower card. The life-altering revelation. Multiple sclerosis. The end of life as I know it.
It’s come true.
When we walk into our house, I sit down at the kitchen table, but Nick just stands there. He doesn’t say anything for several seconds, but it’s obvious he has something to say. I look up at him, waiting. And then he says it.
“So it’s just a possibility, right?” He folds his arms across his chest. “That doesn’t mean if you get pregnant again, you’re definitely going to get worse.”
I knew that’s what he was thinking. I knew it, but I wasn’t sure if he would have the gall to say it. I mean, it’s easy for him to be glib about it. He’s not the one whose body is literally attacking itself.
I glare at him. “So you’re okay with taking that chance?”
His face falls. “Rosie, you want a family too, don’t you? I thought we were on the same page. Five kids, right?”
I can’t even joke about it. There’s nothing funny about what’s happening to us right now. “I’m not willing to sacrifice everything for it though.”
“Yes, but…” His voice drops. “Our family is everything too.”
“So I’m not enough for you?”
“No. No.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “It’s just… It’s a lot to give up. You know?”
Of course I know. I’ve wanted to be a mother my whole life. But over the last four months, I’ve been learning how hard it is to walk without being able to feel my feet. If this gets worse, I don’t know what will happen. I don’t know how I’ll be able to run the restaurant. And I certainly don’t know how I’ll be able to run after a bunch of kids.