(Originally posted in March of 2006.)

A Mediterranean beauty she was: Dark locks cascaded down her slender back and around her lovely face. The wisps of her eyelashes seemed to magnify her dark eyes and her bright smile was framed with muted lipstick.

Her beauty intimidated me; we were no longer simply co-interns, but I didn’t believe that we had progressed past the label of “acquaintances”. We were about four months into our internships and already feeling doggedly tired. It seemed like we were signing out to each other every other day about our patients (basically because we were): “If he spikes a temp, culture everything.” “She’s in respiratory failure; she may die tonight. Comfort measures only.” “He’s getting a cardiac cath in the morning; he’s NPO after midnight.”

One post-call morning, Beauty saw me slogging through the last of my notes while my feet were propped up on another chair.

“Those socks are cute,” she remarked. They indeed were cute—and completely unprofessional: In a sea of white cotton swam turquoise cartoon dolphins that sported idiotic grins and floated oversized conch shells in different shades of pink.

I make a point of wearing obnoxious socks when I am on call.

She pointed at my feet and snickered. “Your feet are edematous, huh?” I peeled down one sock and there was clearly a line left behind from the elastic: A fair amount of water had collected beneath my ankles, resulting in my mildly swollen feet.

“That happens to me, too,” Beauty reassured me. Whew! Even the beautiful people get puffy feet!

One chilly afternoon, our exhalations resembling smoke in the late autumn air, she accosted me in the empty hallway. Neither one of us was dressed in scrubs; we both had the good fortune of not being on call that night. “Can I talk to you in private?”

I nodded, uncertain what was about to transpire. “Where do you want to talk?” I asked.

“How about the bathroom?”

Ah, the bathroom—that sacred sanctuary of all women, that hallowed space where so many secrets are shared, gossip is spread, and excretions are passed. Grade school indoctrinated within us that The Bathroom could double as a confessional.

I leaned against the window ledge and looked into her beautiful face. “What’ up?” I asked. What was she about to tell me that necessitated a trip to The Bathroom? I hardly knew her.

“This is really hard to say,” she began, speaking more to herself than to me, “but… I have M.S.”

What? I thought. You have multiple sclerosis? You can’t possibly have multiple sclerosis. You’re too young. You’ve been functioning. You’ve been working as a freaking intern. You can’t possibly have multiple sclerosis!

“Really,” I calmly replied, hoping that my facial expression hadn’t betrayed my rush of thoughts. “When did you—how did you—”

And in that chilly space, she told me about her symptoms. The tingling. The numbness. The buzzing. The changes in sensation. How they worsened during her nights on call; her vexation that they never seemed to improve. Her appointments with the neurologists, the MRI scan.

She talked shop: “There were several plaques in my brain and spinal cord.” Detached. Cool. As if she was reciting the ingredients of her favorite cereal.

Clinical.

That’s YOUR brain and spinal cord that you’re talking about!

“I’m sorry,” I breathed, uncertain of what else to say.

It was only a diagnosis before that fateful day in the bathroom—yet another disease that afflicted unknown people in my known world. I knew about plaques, optic neuritis, “relapsing remitting”, Lhermitte’s sign, depression, latitude distributions—

—and now, multiple sclerosis had a face—a beautiful face at that.

So when she asked me to participate in the multiple sclerosis walk last year [2005], how could I decline? Not only was (and is) she a trusted colleague, but she had also become a close friend—

—and I have learned about how she has coped with this condition as it has waxed and waned in her life. Rarely do I look at her and think, “Hey—she has multiple sclerosis!”, but I still feel a fresh shock of surprise when she shares her symptoms with me.

Because I would never know—she carries herself with grace; she continues to effectively care for her patients; I never see her take the numerous medications and shots….

You can’t possibly have multiple sclerosis!

It was a given that I would join her again this year in the multiple sclerosis walk. And, again, I was touched with the generosity of the people who have sponsored me for this event—it sounds cheesy, but my faith in humanity swells upon seeing people support me in my efforts to support her. No one has to give anything—they may not know anyone with M.S.—they may have other pet causes they want to support—they may prefer to spend their money elsewhere—and yet, they still give.

It’s awesome.

There still is no cure for multiple sclerosis and the current treatments are still uncomfortable for the patients—for my colleague—for my dear friend. Although I wish that effective treatments for multiple sclerosis existed (hence negating the necessity of the walk), I must confess that it is truly an honor for me to walk for the Mediterranean Beauty… and the Self-Professed Curmudgeon, and everyone else with this condition.

Hope buoys us all.

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