Chapter Twenty-Three
I hate, hate, hate this! I'm sick of being sick! I hate not knowing what's going to happen to me!
Cassidy stared at the notebook she'd bought four weeks ago. Her scrawled words dug deeply into the paper. She curled her yoga-pant-clad legs and sock-clad feet closer to her body as she hunched into one end of Dave's couch, the afghan over her lap. Feeling shivery, she tugged the sleeves of her cotton hoodie over her wrists. A minute from now, she might be feverish.
She attacked the page again:
I hate having to remember to take meds and I hate sticking needles in myself. I'm sick of feeling nauseous and tired and achy. I hate waking up each morning not knowing if today I'll suffer another attack. I hate it that any time I have some physical problem, I don't know if it's a side effect of the meds, a new attack, a pseudoexacerbationâ
Her hand slowed as she wrote the complicated word, the term used for symptoms that were caused by things like heat, fatigue, or stress, not by a fresh attack. She went on:
âor just some perfectly normal thing like everyone gets all the time. I hate that I sometimes miss workâand when I am at work, sometimes I feel like I'm barely functional. It's not fair to Dave or to the other staff.
She pressed her fingers to her temples, took a deep breath, then began writing again, more slowly this time:
Fair? Hah! I learned as a kid that life isn't fair, but I figured that if I moved lightly through the world, if I was nice to people and the environment, then the world would be nice to me too. That's so
not true
!!
There's no justice. There just isn't. I've been good, I've done these stupid injections religiously, and I feel worse than I did when I was first diagnosed. Way worse.I feel like
crap
!
“Cassidy?” Dave said. “Are you all right?”
She glared up at him, where he stood over her looking all big and strong and healthy in jeans and a blue and green flannel shirt. “Of course I'm not freaking
all right
! I have MS and it's not going away.”
“I know that,” he said patiently. “It's just that you're crying.” He put out a hand as if he intended to brush her cheek.
She jerked away and swiped at her own cheeks, surprised to find that they were wet.
“I know you're sad,” he said, “butâ”
“I'm not sad, I'm mad!”
“And that's perfectly normal for someoneâ”
She snapped her notebook shut and leaped off the couch. “Do you always have to be so damned understanding and patient? So freaking
nice
?” Oh great, now she was being mean to one of the two friends who knew about her disease and were standing by her, yet she couldn't seem to stop herself.
His expression wary, he asked, “What's wrong with being understanding and patient?”
“You make me feel . . . Oh, I don't know.” Sweat broke out on her skin. She peeled off her socks, then yanked off the hoodie that she wore over a skimpy tank top, and tossed it on the floor. “Like I'm some spoiled child throwing a temper tantrum. Like I ought to suck it up and be all rational about it, but I don't feel rational.”
“I know,” he said cautiously. “That's why I said it's normal to be mad.”
“You
said
it, but you don't do it.” She glared at him. “How come you never get mad? Don't you care enough about anything to get mad?”
The stricken look in his hazel eyes made her recant immediately. “I'm sorry! I didn't mean that you didn't care about Anita.”
He swallowed. “Yes, I got mad about Anita's cancer. And I'm mad about your MS too.”
She tilted her head. “Are you? Tell me about it.”
“How will that make you feel better?”
“I don't know. Maybe it won't. Maybe neither of us will feel better. But I want to hear it. These days, it's all about me.
My
stupid MS,
my
symptoms,
my
meds,
my
feelings. I want to hear about you for a change.”
“I, uh, I'm fine, Cassidy. I mean, yeah, this is hard, but I'm fine.”
She shook her head. “Cop-out.”
“Leave it alone. Leave me alone.”
Maybe she should, but some instinct told her to keep poking. “Tell me. What are you mad about, Dave?”
He walked across the room, absentmindedly picked up the hoodie she'd discarded, then turned to face her. “What am I mad about?”
She nodded.
“Like you, I'm mad that you got this disease.”
When he didn't go on, she said, “That's it?”
“The rest sounds too awful.”
She barked a humorless laugh. “Believe me, what I've been writing in this notebook for the past month is awful. Come on, Dave, stop being so nice. Tell me the awful stuff.”
He ran the hoodie through his hands, from one to the other, then said slowly, in a controlled voice, “Don't get me wrong, I want to be here for you, but if you didn't have MS, our lives would be the way they used to be.”
She nodded. “Go on.”
“I'm mad that our lives have to be juggled around injections and how you're feeling. I'm mad that we have to make excuses when you need to pull out of going riding or going to my folks' for dinner.” His voice rose; his words came faster. “I'm mad that we're lying to Robin and my family, to my employees. I hate keeping secrets.”
His hands clenched into fists as he gripped the hoodie. “This disease has changed us. I'm lying to my daughter. And you're not the fun, happy, free-spirited Cassidy I used to know. You're moody and depressed, quick-tempered andâ”
He shook his head and flung the hoodie back on the floor. “Shit! That sounds awful. And that's what makes me the maddest. What kind of person am I to be angry that my fucking life isn't so neat and tidy and fun because you got this horrible disease? It's . . . twisted. I'm twisted to think that way.” His body taut with tension, his expression agonized, he stared at her.
“Wow,” she breathed. This was a new side of Dave. Definitely a less perfect one. And yet . . . “I don't think it's twisted. Everything you said makes sense. In fact”âsurprised, she found a slight grin curving her lipsâ“it sounds completely
normal
.”
“Seems to me it's selfish and petty,” he said gruffly.
Her grin widened and she went to stand in front of him. “Yeah, kind of. But that's normal. Hey, I finally get what you've been saying. You've been trying to tell me not to get so down on myself over my feelings, because those feelings are normal.”
“Pretty much.”
“And so are yours.”
“Huh. I guess maybe they are.” He sighed. “This is new for us. Over time, as we get your treatment and the side effects under control, we'll both adjust and start to feel better.”
She thought about the things he'd said, and the pain he was going through because he'd chosen to support her. Slowly, she said, “There's something we could do now that would help with one of the problems.”
He cocked his head. “What's that?”
Now she felt chilled, either from the meds or from what she knew she had to do. She bent slowly to retrieve the hoodie, pulled it over her head, and stretched the sleeves down so she could grip them with her fingers. “Tell people,” she muttered.
“Really? Are you ready for that?”
Of course not!
Rather than let the words snap out, she used a relaxation technique she'd learned. A deep breath in, a long breath out, seek a sense of internal calm. “Honestly? I'm not sure I'd ever be ready. But you're right, it's terrible to lie to people. I only hope . . . Well, you told me how Anita felt when people found out she had cancer. I don't want people to treat me like I'm damaged, diseased. I don't want pity; I don't want avoidance. I just want to be
me
.”
He took her shoulders, holding her gently. “You
are
you. But the truth is, you're a different you. People change all the time, right?”
She leaned her forehead against his flannel-clad chest. “This isn't a good change.”
“Cassidy, if you tell people about your MS, will you also consider joining the counseling group Dr. Young recommended, with people suffering from chronic illnesses and disabilities? She said it would help to talk to others who are going through the same kind of things as you.”
A bunch of depressed sick or disabled people sharing their woes? Yeah, that sure sounded like fun. “I'll think about it. One step at a time, okay?”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Three nights later, a Friday, Dave glanced over at Cassidy in the passenger seat of the Jeep. She hadn't said a word since she'd greeted him when he picked her up at Ms. H's.
When she'd decided to tell people about her MS, he had thought they should start with the adults in his family: Jessie and Evan, and Robin's three sets of grandparents. He wanted to make sure it was okay with Jessie to tell their daughter, and also to have a sense of how his family was going to deal with this. Although he was sure they'd offer support.
He was sorry Cassidy had to go through this, but he'd be so glad to have the truth out in the open.
The living room of his suite at the Wild Rose was too small to comfortably host the group, so he'd prevailed on his parents. Earlier, he'd had dinner with Robin, then delivered her to Kimiko's house for a sleepover.
It was mid-October now, the night outside dark and chilly. He had the Jeep heater working, and on CXNG Willie Nelson crooned “Always on My Mind.” It should have been cozy, but the stiffness of Cassidy's posture told him she was anything but relaxed. Stress wasn't good for her. It could trigger a pseudoexacerbation. “Why don't I tell them?” he offered.
Her head turned toward him, but it was too dark out here on the country road to see her features clearly. “Because you don't think I'll do it right?” she asked, an edge to her voice.
Seemed he'd said the wrong thing. That was happening a lot these days. “No. I figured it might be easier for you.”
“Easier? Crap, Dave, nothing about this is easy!”
Man, she could be a pain. As soon as he had the thought, he forced it away, feeling guilty. “I know. I said
easier
, not easy. You're supposed to be keeping your stress level down and I'm sure it's hard for you to say the words, soâ”
“But I'm going to have to sometime, aren't I?”
He kept his mouth shut and his gaze on the road, feeling the force of her glare.
She went on. “I'm a grown-up. I can suck it up and do this. You don't have to protect me all the time, like I'm, I'm, Robin or something. Not that she's a baby who needs an overprotective father hovering over her all the time either.”
Anger surged, quick and hot. “What the hell do you know about parenting?”
“Enough to know that kids, like adults, need some independence and room to do things their own way.”
He clenched his jaw to prevent more of his anger from spewing out. Breathing fast, he told himself she was striking out because she was hurting. Striving to sound calm, he said, “I'm sorry, I shouldn't haveâ”
“Oh crap, I'm being a bitch.” Her words cut across his.
“You're anxious about tonight.”
“Well, duh.” Then she clapped a hand over her mouth. “We should both just keep quiet.”
Maybe she was right. He was smarting from her criticism of his parenting, and she was in a mood to take everything the wrong way. Which didn't augur well for the family meeting. “I hear you,” he said evenly. “Maybe we should postpone the announcement until, uh . . .”
“Until what? Until I'm more reasonable?”
“Until you calm down a little and don't misinterpret everything someone says.”
“How freaking condescending,” she huffed.
On CXNG, Elvis began to sing “Love Me Tender,” the song Dave and Cassidy had first danced to. He remembered how she'd felt in his arms that first time. His reaction had been physical: such shock and such pleasure, holding a sexy woman. Now that sexy woman was his lover and his friend. He needed to get over his injured ego and be there for her.
The song was so gentle, filling the dark night and the tense space between him and Cassidy. Slowly, the stress eased from him. He hoped the same was happening with her, because he was now driving the benchland road that led to his parents' place. Below them, the lights of Caribou Crossing were sparkly decorations scattered across a dark landscape. At another time, he'd have pointed out how pretty they looked, but tonight Cassidy would likely find some way to fault that comment.
Instead, he said, “I'm sorry if I'm saying things wrong. I'm here to support you. Just let me know what you need.” Guessing that she'd immediately think that what she needed was a cure, which no one could provide, he quickly clarified, “What you need from me tonight.”
Her head, pressed back against the headrest, turned slowly toward him. “Any way you can stop me from being a bitch?” She sounded tired, but the note of wry humor in her voice encouraged him.
“You're not a bitch. I guess we both need to think a little harder before we speak, and before we react. Can you try to remember that my intentions are good? That's going to be true of my family as well, even if they inadvertently say things that seem uninformed or inconsiderate.”
“You're right.” She reached over to rest her hand lightly on his thigh. “This is all so foreign to me. Not being in total control of my life. I don't like what it's turning me into.”
He took his right hand off the steering wheel and put it on top of hers. “This is probably another wrong thing to say, but that sounds defeatist. Yeah, you have a disease. You're taking the meds that can modify its effect on you, and that gives you some control over the physical side. As for what it âturns you into' in terms of your feelings and personality, that's up to you. Not up to it. You don't have to give it that kind of control.” He swallowed. “Like I'm anyone to speak. I'm not doing so great at dealing with my own feelings.”
“It's hard, isn't it? But you do make an interesting point.”
Grateful that she'd tried to understand what he had so clumsily said, he made the turn into his parents' driveway. “Ready for this?”
“No, but I want to get it over with.”
As he parked, he said, “They're all here.” Jess and Evan's Riders Boot Camp SUV, Miriam and Wade's Bly Ranch truck, and Brooke and Jake's Toyota.
Cassidy was quiet as they started up the front walk. When he reached for her hand, she twined her fingers in his and held on tight.
Pops answered the door and ushered them into the spacious living room, where Dave's mother was getting drinks. There were quick greetings, curious glances, and a sense of expectancy in the air. All he'd told his parents was that he and Cassidy wanted to get together with the group.
A quick scan of the room showed that no babies were present. “Are Alex and Nicki in the nursery?” he asked his mom.
“Sound asleep.” She held up crossed fingers. “Hopefully, they won't disturb us. Now, what would you two like to drink? Wine, beer, coffee, tea?”
Dave accepted a glass of red wine, but Cassidy chose herbal tea.
On any normal social occasion, everyone would have mingled, drinks in hand, chatting, but tonight people quickly took seats, each couple together. Dave and Cassidy sat side by side on a loveseat. She put her mug of tea on the coffee table, untasted. When he reached for her hand, she again clasped his. Hers was cold, a tremor running through it.
Everyone gazed expectantly at the two of them. Cassidy cleared her throat, then glanced at Dave. When she didn't speak, he got the ball rolling. “You're wondering why we wanted to get together with all of you.”
“Some kind of announcement, we figure,” his mother said, a twinkle in her eye.
“I wonder what it could be?” Humor teased at Miriam's eyes and the corners of her mouth.
Oh shit. It suddenly hit him that they might think this was an engagement announcement. Cassidy must have realized the same thing, because she jerked and said, “No! God, no, we're not . . . I mean, our relationship is just . . . you know, casual.”
Dave felt an odd twinge of something he couldn't define. Of course she was rightâneither of them wanted anything seriousâbut did she have to be so adamant? The two of them had a special bond that was more than casual.
“Oh,” his mother said flatly, the sparkle in her eyes dying.
“So what's going on?” Jessie asked.
Cassidy opened her mouth, but didn't speak. He could imagine her wanting to hold on to her secret. As soon as she told his family, her world would, yet again, change irrevocably.
He could do this for her. But she'd made it clear she didn't want him to, so he kept quiet.
Her grip tightened on his hand and she said, in a rush, “I've been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis.”
She gazed around the room and so did Dave, reading the reactions. Shock, mostly. Sadness and, yes, pity. He knew she hated being pitied, as Anita had, but how could you not pity someone who'd been hit with that kind of diagnosis? He also saw a lot of uncertainty. He'd told Cassidy that no one in his family had ever had MS, so they likely didn't have a clear understanding of the disease.
“I didn't know much about MS,” Cassidy said, “but believe me, I've learned a lot.” Her voice relaxed slightly as she went on to give a basic explanation of the disease.
Dave squeezed her hand as the others exchanged glances.
His mom said, “Your leg?”
“Yes. When I was in Vancouver, it was completely numb for two or three days. That's what's called an attack. A year before that, I had double vision for a while, and that was another attack. The things that have happened here in Caribou Crossing, the occasional tingling and numbness, the fatigue, those aren't actual attacks, they're what are called pseudoexacerbations. That's when symptoms act up for reasons other than actual disease activity. Heat, stress, and tiredness can cause pseudoexacerbations.”
“That sounds hard to diagnose,” Pops said. “Your doctor's absolutely sure?”
Dave remembered how Cassidy had at first tried to deny the truth. Now she said, “Yes, she is. My great-grandmother had it, so Dr. Young knew it was a possibility. She sent me to a neurologist, I had an MRI, and yes, there are MS lesions.”
His mother rose, came over, and kneeled on the carpet in front of Cassidy. She took her free hand. “I'm so sorry, Cassidy. I think we're all a little in shock.”
Bless his mom for saying the right thing.
Cassidy gave a forced smile. “Yeah. Tell me about it.” She squeezed Sheila's hand, then released it. “Okay, what else do people want to know?”
Another exchange of glances, then Brooke said, “All right, there's an elephant in the living room, so I'll tackle it. What's the treatment and the prognosis?”
Cassidy filled them in, telling them about her relapsing-remitting MS, answering questions as they arose, taking an occasional sip of tea. Then she said, “I'd really like to be the old me, but I can't. I don't know how MS will affect me and I just . . . I don't want people to pity me or act weird around me.”
“It's a part of who you are now,” Brooke said. “You can't change it, so you need to own it. Like me and my diseases.”
“Diseases? I know you're a recovering alcoholic,” Cassidy said cautiously.
“You didn't know that I have bipolar disorder?”
Cassidy gaped at her. “I didn't. No one mentioned it.”
“It's no secret,” Brooke said, “but I guess it's old news, not something people gossip about anymore. Anyhow, it's a significant part of my life because I need to take medication and have my lithium level monitored. But on a day-to-day basis, it's just this thing in the background as I live my normal life. I hope that's how MS will come to be for you.”
“I could maybe live with that,” Cassidy said slowly. “But one of the toughest things about MS is that you wake up each morning not having a clue what's going to happen. You could be fine. You could even go into remission for decades. Or you could”âshe gulpedâ“
I
could wake up planning a day of work, riding, line dancing, then try to get out of bed and find that my leg's gone numb. Or that I can't see properly. Or that my words come out garbled.”
Dave swallowed hard, thinking how strong she had to be to live with that reality.
So softly that she was almost speaking to herself, Cassidy went on. “One of my mottos used to be âA new day, a fresh start.' I always envisioned that fresh start being something fun and exciting. Now each new day is fresh all right, because I don't know whether, or h-how, my b-body's going to fail me.” Her voice faltered as she finished.
“That sounds really tough,” Brooke said sympathetically. “One thing I've found with a serious chronic illness, it teaches you patience and flexibility.”
From the way Cassidy's grip tightened on Dave's fingers, he guessed she was holding back one of her sarcastic retorts. Still, Brooke's words encouraged him. Cassidy might not be ready to see a silver lining to her MS, but maybe one day she would. Maybe he would too.
Cassidy took a deep breath, let it out, and her fingers loosened. “I'm sorry we didn't tell you earlier. I was having trouble dealing with it. But it was unfair to ask Dave to deceive you guys, and Robin. So now we want you to know andâ”
“You know that we'll do anything we can to help.” Pops, a normally quiet man, broke in.
“Of course we will,” everyone else echoed.
Dave studied their faces and saw genuineness. Concern, sorrow, pity, but not disgust. No one was shunning her. He hoped Cassidy could see that too.
Maybe so, because her “Thank you” sounded just as genuine. “That's really nice of you, considering you've only known me a few months. I don't know that there's all that much you can do, but knowing you're behind me means a l-lot.” Her voice choked up again and she took another sip of the now cold tea.