Faith. I’ll try Faith.
The walk down the stairs isn’t really walking. My equilibrium is off, an unwelcome side effect of the nightmare in my left eye, and I don’t trust myself, so I sit and inch my way down the stairs like a toddler. I’m beyond humiliated by the time I knock on Faith’s door, and if it weren’t for my kids I would probably lock myself away in my apartment and never come out.
I knock twice, and as I turn to walk away, she answers the door to my back. “Good morning, neighbor,” she murmurs sleepily.
I don’t greet. I apologize. “I’m sorry,” I say it before I turn and face her.
And when I face her, her eyes are locked on my face, searching it, pulling every detail from the despair etched on it. She tilts her head and says nothing, but her gaze says it all. Sadness, mild shock, and the need to help are kindheartedly apparent. “What can I do, Seamus? Just tell me what you need.” It’s her soft voice, my place to land if I fall.
She’s in her pajamas, just a large t-shirt that barely covers her underwear. It’s old and the lettering on the front reads, Our ribs will stick to yours. Rick’s BBQ. I’m momentarily distracted by how awful that tagline is, which makes me want to hug her because it’s the first time all morning every cell in my body hasn’t been tied up in this shitstorm.
Then I want to hug her because I have access to the world’s greatest hugger standing right in front of me.
So I do.
I hug her.
And she hugs me back.
And I try not to cry.
But I fail and wet the shoulder of the awful BBQ t-shirt.
“Can you take the kids to school for me this morning and drive me to the hospital?”
She releases me. “Of course.” She’s nodding. “Of course.”
I wipe the tears from my eyes quickly.
“When do we need to leave?”
I check my watch. “Fifteen minutes.”
She’s still nodding, I don’t think she ever stopped. She’s lost in thought. “Okay. Meet you at your car in fifteen minutes.”
“Thank you.” I’ve said thank you thousands of times in my life. Most of the time I mean it to some degree. There are times when I’ve said it and felt the gratitude behind the words wholeheartedly, but I don’t think I ever understood what those two words truly meant until this very moment. Now I think I need a new phrase because thank you is insufficient in this situation.
She’s still nodding. Still thinking.
When I reach the base of the stairs, I look at her door, and she’s still standing there watching me. I don’t want her to watch me walk these stairs, to bear witness to the struggle because it’s not going to be pretty, so I stop.
“Seamus?” she calls. Her voice sounds lighter. “Remember that gift I gave you that pissed you off?”
I nod because now I’m thinking.
“I’m not telling you what to do, but if you didn’t already chop it up and make toothpicks out of it, today would be a good day to take it for a test drive.”
The nod continues because relief is pouring in.
The next several hours are a blur.
I explain what’s going on to the kids in non-scary terms, even though I have no idea what’s going on. Reality in non-scary terms is how I’ve always approached my kids with my disease. Basically, I tell them I’m having trouble with my eye, and that Faith is taking me to the hospital so the doctor can make it better. I’m not sure if it’s true, but that’s what I tell them.
I use the cane.
I call in sick to work.
Faith drives us and we drop my kids off at school.
Faith drives me to the hospital.
We wait in the ER for hours.
I see a neurologist.
He confirms MS is the culprit behind the blindness.
There’s a good chance it’s temporary.
But it could be permanent.
He consults with my doctor and writes me a prescription.
Faith drives me to the pharmacy.
The pharmacist gives me steroids in exchange for a swipe of my credit card that’s almost maxed out.
Faith drives me to pick up my kids from school.
Faith drives us all home.
When she kills the engine, and the kids jump out and run up the stairs to our apartment, I’m not sure what to do next. I’ve spent all day with her and we haven’t spoken two words to each other. She’s done everything I needed without instruction or direction because I was lost in my body’s breakdown. The last thing I said to her this morning was the thank you that wasn’t thank you enough. And I want to say it again. But again, it’s insufficient. So, I look at her and say the words I feel bone deep, “So much more than thank you.”
Her confusion is evident when her eyebrows pull together, a crease forming between them. She has a very expressive face. I’ve watched it closely all day and seen a wide range of emotions. “So much more than thank you?” she questions.
“Thank you isn’t enough to express my appreciation,” I sincerely clarify.
Understanding lights in her eyes and the confusion crease disappears as a soft smile slowly spreads across her face. “So much more than you’re welcome.”