“There’s a cure, right?”
Nobody says anything for a few seconds, and those feel like the longest seconds of my life. Dr. Specialist sits up straighter, morphing from man to doctor-machine. “We’re still exploring options at this time,” he says in that calm voice they teach you in medical school along with crappy handwriting.
“But, like, the other people who’ve gotten this Crew, croix …”
“Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease …”
“That, the, um, mad cow thing, what happens to them?”
The doc clears his throat. “It depends on the progression of the disease. But there are some things you need to know, Cameron.”
Dr. Specialist finally finds his voice, and now I just want to tell him to shut up. It’s like the information is a big wave rushing over me, and I can only grab at certain words and phrases to hold me up. “Progressive muscle weakness,” “uneven gait,” “dementia and delusions,” “four to six months,” “hospital,” “experimental treatments.”
I don’t hear anybody mention it’s going to kill me. Probably because no one actually comes right out and says it. In fact, Dr. Specialist does everything he can not to say it.
And that’s when I know I must be in some deep shit.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Wherein, Now That I’m Officially Screwed, a Pep Rally Is Celebrated on My Behalf, and Staci Johnson Gives Me the Time of Day
What happens to us when we die: an informal poll.
Theory #1: The Christians are right. There’s a big guy with a white robe and a long, flowing beard and a devil with a pitchfork, and depending on whether you’ve been bad or good (oh, be good, for goodness’ sake!), you’ll wind up playing a harp with the angels or burning in the everlasting fires of hell, both of which sound sucktastic.
Theory #2: The Jews are right, and when you die there’s nothing, so you better have gotten plenty to eat in this life.
Theory #3: The Muslims are right, and I am in for some serious black-eyed virgin time. Then again, I’ve got black eyes and am a virgin, so I may be in for some serious trouble once I kick.
Theory #4: The Buddhists and Hindus are right. This life is one of many. You just go on working through your karmic baggage till you get it right. So be nice to that cockroach. That could be you someday.
Theory #5: The UFO crazies are right, and we are all one big experiment for a race of superaliens who like to sit around in the alien equivalent of the Barcalounger, sipping a brew and watching those wacky humans get up to the nuttiest sorts of hijinks. And when we buy the farm, they swoop down in the mother ship and take us back to Planet Z and the primordial ooze.
Theory #6: Nobody knows shit.
This is just one of the many nifty lists I’ve been making up over the weekend since I got my diagnosis and entered it into that devil’s playground, the Internet. Turns out I’m in for a fun ride. I’ve learned a lot of spiffy new information.
For instance, if you want the technical term for what I have, it’s Creutzfeldt-Jakob variant BSE. BSE stands for Bovine Spongiform Encephalopathy. Should I tell our studio audience more about it, Jim? Sure, let’s tell ’em what I’ve won. Well, folks, it’s a fatal virus that eats holes in your brain, turning it into a sponge. The tying-shoes brain cell? Sorry, this item permanently out of stock. We regret to tell you that your gross motor skills and neurological functioning will no longer be in your control. Here’s your econo diaper pack. Watch out for those hallucinations, and have a nice day.
It’s all got a sort of pathetic, TV-movie-of-the-week treatment. How our hero started off as a good kid/under-achiever-with-promise/hardened-by-life-but-marshmallow-soft-in-the-center type who managed to get hooked on drugs/make the debate team/tutor a disabled kid and everything turns around the minute he accidentally kills his best friend in a car accident/scores the winning point/nearly loses the kid to “the system” and comes to realize how much he loves the little tyke. Cut to denouement, where everyone has learned a lesson and comes out a stronger, wiser person for it. The kind of shit that makes parents and politicians coo over the “positive,” “life-affirming” message that gosh-darn-it our young people need more of today. Insert Theme Tab A into Plot Tab B, fold and fluff, and you’ve got yourself a nice little book that also makes a beautiful display for your holiday table.
Yeah, f**k that.
You know what works? Denial. As a coping tool, denial is severely underrated. Hey, maybe it’s a mistake and I’ve just got a wicked bad flu. Doctors make mistakes all the time. Psych—just kidding!
