Wrecked (36 page)

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Hunter

Three years ago

I’d always hated the
doctor’s office. The chemical smell reminded me of the cleaner we used on the
wrestling mats after practice. We used it for the same reason they used it in a
hospital: to kill things. Sure, they were microscopic things, but still, it
wasn’t a healthy smell.

I was just
halfway through my freshman year at Arrowhart. I’d gotten a scholarship to be
in the Reserve Officer Training Program—something I’d wanted to do ever since I
met an Air Force recruiter in high school. I was going to be a pilot. I was
going to fly. But first I had to get through this doctor’s visit.

I sat on
the thin paper covering the exam table, nervously studying the the various
anatomy charts posted on the walls as I waited for the doctor to come in. This
particular visit was even worse because I had no idea what the fuck was wrong
with me.  

When I
first came in, the doctor had been worried I might have a neurological issue.
I’d been fighting and getting bumps and bruises my whole life, but this was
different. This was my brain.

Just as I
was about to get up and check on the doc, the door opened, and the doctor came
in with his clipboard. I studied his expression, trying to get a read on what
the news was, but he was poker-faced.

“Hello,
Hunter,” the doctor said, carefully neutral. He was gray around the temples and
wore silver-rimmed glasses. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” I
answered. “Did you find out what’s wrong with me?”

Taking a
seat on a stool by the counter, he double-checked the chart, flipping carefully
through to the last page. Then he removed his glasses, placed them in his coat
pocket, and looked at me. I swallowed and gritted my teeth but said nothing.

He paused
for a moment to take a deep breath. “Looking at the MRI, we have all the data
we need. It appears you have suffered exacerbations from a condition called
relapsing-remitting multiple sclerosis, or RRMS.”

My pulse
leaped and my stomach churned.
Did he just say multiple sclerosis?
I’d
heard about the condition before but all I knew was it was a neurological
condition and it wasn’t something to fuck with.

I exhaled
heavily and looked back up at the doctor. “How did I get it?”

Growing
up, there were always dirty syringes and used crack pipes littering the “home”
I lived in. I didn’t remember ever touching them, but it couldn’t have helped
to be around that.

The doctor
shook his head, “You didn’t catch it from anyone else if that’s what you’re
asking. MS isn’t contagious. As for the cause, even the best researchers don’t
know yet.”

The doctor
continued. “We found two lesions on your brain in the MRI. At this point it
looks like it’s RRMS because you’ve recovered pretty well. You’re on the young
side to be diagnosed with this, but at this point we’ve ruled out everything
else.”

“So what
happens now? You write me some drugs and it’s back to action, right?”

He looked
at me seriously for a moment before continuing, “Not exactly. It’s not curable.
But we can manage it with treatment. What you had recently was a flare-up,
after the treatment starts your symptoms will likely get better; they might not
even be noticeable. In between flare-ups you’ll likely only have minimal
symptoms.”

“So, my
vision will be a bit fuzzy but I’ll be okay?” I asked. That didn’t sound so
bad. I could live with that. But a sinking sensation in my stomach told me that
I wouldn’t get off the hook that easily.

He
frowned. “The nature of the disease is that it’s progressive. It will gradually
get worse and worse. You’ll lose your sense of touch first, then your sense of
balance, then you might start losing control of your muscles. Eventually your
brain stops telling your heart to beat, or your lungs to breathe. We can slow
it down, but we can’t stop it.”

Growing up
like I did, not much fazed me, but right now I could feel a cold sweat on my
forehead and a helpless fury expanding in my chest. “How long have I got?”

He sighed.
“Hard to say, but with proper management and modern treatment, some patients
live full productive lives.”

“Some
patients? What happens to the ones that don’t?”

“In the
most severe cases, hospice care is required within a couple of years, maybe
months.”

“Jesus
Christ, months? In a few months I’ll be waiting to die?” I felt hollow, like I
should vomit but there was nothing inside of me. I’d faced difficulties before
but this thing was different. This thing wasn’t real. It came out of nowhere.
It wasn’t something I could grab, punch, or knockout. I had no idea how to
fight this.

The doctor
shook his head. “The prognosis largely depends on how severe of a case you
have. As for you, it’s too early to tell how aggressively the disease will
progress. The good news is that we caught it fairly early, so we can plan a
course of treatment. ”

I clenched
my fists, my insides roiling.
Fuck this shit
. Why did this have to
happen to me? I thought I had done it. I’d finally gotten away from the drugs,
the filth, and the petty crimes that were forced on my childhood. Even though I
still got in trouble sometimes, I busted my ass in school so that I could get
into college and go somewhere far far away from the negativity and bullshit of
my parents. School, wrestling team, boxing club—that was my routine throughout
high school. My life was fucked up, but at least there were things that I could
control.

But now
this. Now I had a death sentence hanging over my head, just waiting to crush
me.

Two and a half years ago

After receiving my
diagnosis, I threw myself one-hundred percent into ROTC. The doctor couldn’t
tell me how quickly my MS would progress, but from what he said, I figured
worst case scenario was I would still have a few years. Maybe ten, definitely
five at least. I was young, and other than the MS, pretty healthy. I could
still do it, I could still get into the Air Force.

I’d work
my ass off even if I could only fly one mission. I just wanted to fly, to be up
in the air, free and away from it all. That was all I needed, all I asked for.

The doctor
gave me some resources for cleaning up my diet and pointed me to some
alternative therapies I could try, like yoga and meditation. He also encouraged
me to continue my exercise routine. Leading a healthy lifestyle in general was
something I could do to manage my condition.

Living a
disciplined and healthy lifestyle fit well with my goal of being an Air Force
officer, so that’s what I did. Everything I read about dealing with MS said the
worst thing you could do was feel sorry for yourself and dwell on it, so I
threw myself into training. I felt pretty shitty when I first found out, but I
wasn’t big on long pity parties. This thing wasn’t going to stop me from doing
what I wanted to do.

After
training hard all summer, I was a beast in Physical Training when school
started. I finished first in every drill, and the supervisors were noticing. It
made me feel good to be recognized for all the work I’d done. I was beating
these guys even with my condition. It proved to me that there was still plenty
in my life I had control over.

I was
still sweaty from another session of dominating PT in the late summer heat when
Captain Mitch McHenry called me into his office. It was September of my
sophomore year. I was a little worried that he was calling me in. Most of the
time, unscheduled visits to McHenry’s office were a bad thing.

“Sit,
Jensen,” he said pointing to the chair in front of his desk when I entered. His
face looked grim, but I couldn’t think of anything I’d done wrong.

He
grimaced before he spoke. “There’s no way to put this lightly. I’ve seen how
hard you’ve worked, both last year and the beginning of this year, so I know
how much you want this. But the Air Force is going to have to release you from
the ROTC program.”

I bolted
upright in the chair and caught myself before I stood up. This couldn’t be
happening. McHenry could be a hardass, but he was always fair.

“What do
you mean?” I asked, racking my brains desperately for where I had fucked up.
“Why?  Was it the B+ I got in freshman writing? Look, I’ll take it again!”

He shook
his head and glanced back down at the file in his hand—my file. “No you haven’t
done anything wrong Hunter. But I was looking at your physical record today and
saw that you have multiple sclerosis.”

“I know,
sir, but it’s not that bad. I’ve been managing it with my doctor. He said that
we caught it early. I haven’t even had any flare-ups since—”

McHenry
looked down and held up his hand.

I studied
his face desperately. I could feel it slipping away by the minute. The only
thing I ever cared about was slipping through my fingers. I tried again. “I’ll
do double Physical Training. I’ll do the night sessions too—”

“Jensen,
stop. It’s not about how hard you can work. I know you’ve put in more time than
anyone else in the program. This is Air Force policy. The Air Force doesn’t
accept candidates with your condition.”

I shook my
head slowly in disbelief. “But I’m fine!” I said, as much to myself as to him.
“You’ve seen me in PT.”

“Jensen,
look. The Air Force can’t risk you having a flare-up while on active duty with
lives at stake. The Air Force thinks it’s best to avoid the potential for that
situation altogether. I’m very sorry, Jensen, but that decision is final.”

“The Air
Force thinks? What about you? What do you think?” I yelled, feeling betrayed by
both McHenry and the organization I had worked so hard towards. I knew I was
crossing the line but I didn’t care.

McHenry
relaxed and looked at me, his eyes softening. “Son, it doesn’t matter what I
think. I can’t change Air Force policy. You’re a capable, smart, young man. The
military isn’t everything, and with your condition, why do you want this
anyway? There are a lot of other opportunities for you beyond the military.”

A flash of
pity flashed across his face and the anger boiling in my chest threatened to
spill over. He pitied me. He fucking took away the only thing I ever wanted and
he pitied me.

McHenry
was talking but I wasn’t listening. “I bust my ass, whip everyone in PT, and
this is what I get? Kicked to the curb because of some stupid shit disease I
have no control over? This is fucking ridiculous!”

His eyes
became hard and commanding. “Watch it Jensen. Just because you can no longer be
a part of this program doesn’t mean you can say whatever the hell you want.”

I got up
and stared him down. I was shaking with rage and there was a furious pounding
in my head. “Fuck you McHenry, and fuck the Air Force.”

I left his
office bouncing between helplessness and anger as I entered the locker room. I
smashed my fist into a locker, rattling the entire row. Other guys looked at me
and backed away as I went to my locker; it took every ounce of control to not
punch someone. Why did this have to happen to me? What was I going to do now?

I shoved
the contents of my locker into a gym bag and slammed the door shut. All that
grueling work was down the drain for nothing.

I punched
the locker again, leaving a fist-sized dent. McHenry could have fun getting
that thing out. My fist aching, I threw my bag over my shoulder and stormed out
of the building. After dropping off my stuff back at my apartment, I went
straight to the bar. I woke up hungover the next morning and got my first
tattoo.