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Authors: Jane Costello
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someone as ambitious as she is should feel like that. The way she says it is weird though.
‘Well,’ she gulps, ‘I’ve got more than a cold.’
A chill runs through my blood. I have no idea what she’s going to say next but there’s something about the look in her eyes that tells me it isn’t good.
‘It was finally confirmed yesterday,’ she continues numbly. ‘Though we – at least, my doctor and I – had suspected for a while now what the problem was.’
‘What is it?’ I whisper.
‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘I’m rambling, aren’t I?’
‘Heidi,’ I urge her – and not because I’m in a rush any more.
She looks into my eyes and swallows hard, as if a pebble is stuck in her throat. ‘I’ve got multiple sclerosis.’
Chapter 13
We live in an age when it’s hard to shock. When revelations on magazine stands are no longer headline news; when words that would have made our grandmothers pass out barely make us blink.
As I sit in front of Heidi, taking in what she’s told me, the world around me zooms out of focus. All I can fix on is her pretty face. And I am shocked.
‘Multiple sclerosis?’ I repeat lamely.
She sips her tea. ‘You weren’t expecting that, were you?’
I shake my head mutely.
‘Don’t worry. Neither was anyone else. When you’re twenty-three and you tell people you’re ill, why would they think it was anything more than the flu?’ She almost grins. ‘A bit of flu would’ve done me nicely, let me tell you.’
A waitress appears and removes Heidi’s empty cup. ‘Sorry, I didn’t get you a coffee, did I?’ says Heidi. ‘Fancy a cappuccino?’
She goes to stand but I put my hand on her elbow and gently push her back into her seat. ‘Heidi. Talk to me.’
She nods and looks at her fingers, playing with an empty pack of sweetener. ‘Do you know what MS is, Abby?’
I clear my throat. ‘I . . . not exactly. I mean, I knew someone – a friend of my parents’ – who had it years ago. He was on crutches and . . . well, I haven’t seen him for a while.’
That’s true – it’s been fifteen years since I saw Damian but he wasn’t in good shape then and I’ve heard that he’s worsened significantly since. The crutches he only used irregularly before are now permanent, and his speech difficult to understand. When he was Heidi’s age, he was an avid football player and a teacher. I don’t say any of this, obviously, but from the look on her face she has guessed some of it.
‘MS is an auto-immune disease that affects the nervous system.’ She tells me this with calm clarity – the same way I’ve seen her behave in important presentations when I’ve brought her along as back-up. ‘Those most likely to develop it are women in their twenties and thirties. Just like me.’
‘How serious is it?’
‘It isn’t terminal. Not most of the time anyway,’ she replies. ‘And in the years immediately following diagnosis, people can usually lead a relatively normal life. Go on working, for example. At least at first.’
‘Good,’ I say firmly, clinging to this. ‘Because I can’t afford to lose someone as talented as you.’
She bites her lip. ‘But there are also a range of symptoms that you can go on to develop that . . . well, they’re not nice. To put it mildly. Spasticity, pain, vision problems, cognitive problems, fatigue – they’re just a few.’
‘People don’t always develop those, do they?’ I ask.
‘Everyone’s MS is different,’ she tells me. ‘It’s impossible to know which of the symptoms you’re going to get – and, yes, it’d be unusual to get all of them. The only thing you do know is that it tends to get worse over time.’
‘Are there treatments?’
‘There are drugs to slow its progress and manage symptoms. But the real nightmare is . . .’ she looks up. ‘There’s no cure.’
The room swims as I take in her words. God knows what hearing this must have been like for her.
‘Of course, some people only
‘Well,’ she gulps, ‘I’ve got more than a cold.’
A chill runs through my blood. I have no idea what she’s going to say next but there’s something about the look in her eyes that tells me it isn’t good.
‘It was finally confirmed yesterday,’ she continues numbly. ‘Though we – at least, my doctor and I – had suspected for a while now what the problem was.’
‘What is it?’ I whisper.
‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘I’m rambling, aren’t I?’
‘Heidi,’ I urge her – and not because I’m in a rush any more.
She looks into my eyes and swallows hard, as if a pebble is stuck in her throat. ‘I’ve got multiple sclerosis.’
Chapter 13
We live in an age when it’s hard to shock. When revelations on magazine stands are no longer headline news; when words that would have made our grandmothers pass out barely make us blink.
As I sit in front of Heidi, taking in what she’s told me, the world around me zooms out of focus. All I can fix on is her pretty face. And I am shocked.
‘Multiple sclerosis?’ I repeat lamely.
She sips her tea. ‘You weren’t expecting that, were you?’
I shake my head mutely.
‘Don’t worry. Neither was anyone else. When you’re twenty-three and you tell people you’re ill, why would they think it was anything more than the flu?’ She almost grins. ‘A bit of flu would’ve done me nicely, let me tell you.’
A waitress appears and removes Heidi’s empty cup. ‘Sorry, I didn’t get you a coffee, did I?’ says Heidi. ‘Fancy a cappuccino?’
She goes to stand but I put my hand on her elbow and gently push her back into her seat. ‘Heidi. Talk to me.’
She nods and looks at her fingers, playing with an empty pack of sweetener. ‘Do you know what MS is, Abby?’
I clear my throat. ‘I . . . not exactly. I mean, I knew someone – a friend of my parents’ – who had it years ago. He was on crutches and . . . well, I haven’t seen him for a while.’
That’s true – it’s been fifteen years since I saw Damian but he wasn’t in good shape then and I’ve heard that he’s worsened significantly since. The crutches he only used irregularly before are now permanent, and his speech difficult to understand. When he was Heidi’s age, he was an avid football player and a teacher. I don’t say any of this, obviously, but from the look on her face she has guessed some of it.
‘MS is an auto-immune disease that affects the nervous system.’ She tells me this with calm clarity – the same way I’ve seen her behave in important presentations when I’ve brought her along as back-up. ‘Those most likely to develop it are women in their twenties and thirties. Just like me.’
‘How serious is it?’
‘It isn’t terminal. Not most of the time anyway,’ she replies. ‘And in the years immediately following diagnosis, people can usually lead a relatively normal life. Go on working, for example. At least at first.’
‘Good,’ I say firmly, clinging to this. ‘Because I can’t afford to lose someone as talented as you.’
She bites her lip. ‘But there are also a range of symptoms that you can go on to develop that . . . well, they’re not nice. To put it mildly. Spasticity, pain, vision problems, cognitive problems, fatigue – they’re just a few.’
‘People don’t always develop those, do they?’ I ask.
‘Everyone’s MS is different,’ she tells me. ‘It’s impossible to know which of the symptoms you’re going to get – and, yes, it’d be unusual to get all of them. The only thing you do know is that it tends to get worse over time.’
‘Are there treatments?’
‘There are drugs to slow its progress and manage symptoms. But the real nightmare is . . .’ she looks up. ‘There’s no cure.’
The room swims as I take in her words. God knows what hearing this must have been like for her.
‘Of course, some people only
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