I lace my fingers with his and force my mind away from the negative thoughts.
I stand on shaky legs when the nurse calls my name. Feeling Lincoln’s presence behind me helps my nerves as we’re led to the area where they check my weight and vitals. I frown when we bypass all of the patient rooms.
“Where—”
“Dr. Becker will be seeing you in his office today,” the nurse says before I can finish my question.
A knot forms in my stomach, and I pull in a shaky breath. I glance at Lincoln beside me and see the same worry on his face. My thoughts immediately move to all of the movies I’ve seen where someone gets bad news from their doctor. It always happens while the doctor sits behind a desk while the patient sits on the other side, clinging to their loved ones with tears streaming down their face.
The nurse gently taps on the door before pushing it the rest of the way open.
“Dr. Becker, Molly and Lincoln are ready.”
My doctor looks up from the laptop in front of him, the frown on his face disappearing when he sees us standing there.
“Please, come in and have a seat.” He gestures to the two chairs on the other side of his desk.
As we sit, my eyes zero in on the box of tissues sitting on the corner of his desk. Those tissues represent bad news, and I hate that they are there. I have a similar box in my own office at the vet clinic. Clients use them when we recommend their beloved animal be put down instead of continuing to suffer.
I don’t know who clutches whose hand tighter, me or Lincoln. As if sensing I need him closer, Lincoln scoots his chair over until the arm of his is touching mine, getting as close as he can.
Up until this point, I’ve avoided looking at Dr. Becker, fearful of what I might find in his eyes. When I finally meet his gaze, I know my fear wasn’t unfounded. He looks stressed. More stressed than I’ve ever seen him in the twenty-three years he’s been my doctor. I know in that moment, we’ll be leaving here with answers. Just not the ones we want.
“How are you feeling today, Molly?” he asks, his eyes assessing me too closely.
“Scared shitless,” I answer honestly.
He doesn’t so much as twitch at my use of words, which is even more telling.
He nods in understanding and turns his eyes to Lincoln. “And you?”
His hand tightens in mine, and his voice is deeper than normal when he answers. “Ready to get this over with.” He pauses. “And like Molly, scared shitless.”
Dr. Becker sighs as he pulls off his glasses and gently sets them down on the desk.
“I wish I had good news for you, Molly,” he begins, and my world tips on its axis. “But unfortunately, I don’t. What I thought was a very slim chance, is now a reality. Between the genetics test and speaking with my colleague, there’s no doubt we’re dealing with a disease called Gerstmann-Straussler-Scheinker.”
The name doesn’t ring a bell. Not even the slightest.
“What is that?” Lincoln asks before I can.
“GSS is a very rare, but serious, neurodegenerative brain disorder. It’s caused by a mutation in the prion protein gene.”
I shake my head. “I’ve never heard of this disease before.”
His smile is sad. “I wouldn’t expect you would. It’s extremely rare. There aren’t many cases in the world.” He steeples his hands on the desk. “Genes send messages to the protein in our body. These instructions play critical roles with our body’s functions. With GSS, the genes mutate, and the protein product may be faulty, lacking, absent, or overproduced. This affects the body’s organs.”
“And you’re sure this is what she has?”
“Yes. The genetic test showed there was an abnormal variant in the PRPN gene, which confirms the disease.”
“Okay.” I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “So, what are we looking at here? What treatments can we do?”
Dr. Becker’s expression turns somber. “I’m afraid there is no treatment. The only thing that can be done is try to manage the symptoms.”
My stomach hollows out.
“What’s the prognosis?” I barely recognize Lincoln’s voice when he asks the question. When I glance at him, his jaw is tight and there’s white lines beside his eyes.
The look Dr. Becker gives us has fear freezing the blood in my veins.
“Gerstmann-Straussler-Scheinker is terminal. The average life span, once diagnosed, is two to five years. It’s possible you could go over that five-year mark, but I’m afraid with the rapid onset of symptoms you’re already showing, we’re looking closer to the two-year mark. Possibly sooner.”
Suddenly, it’s hard to breathe. It feels like every ounce of air has been sucked from the room, and my vision blurs. My grip on Lincoln’s hand tightens. Spots dance in my vision, and my heart pounds out of control. Lincoln calls my name, but it’s so faint it sounds like he’s talking through a tiny tube. When the dizziness hits, I close my eyes.
Terminal.
Two to five years.
Two-year mark. Possibly sooner.
Suddenly, everything rebounds back into place, and my eyes spring open. Lincoln’s fully facing me, and I’ve never seen such a terrified look on his face before. As much as I want to reassure him I’m okay, I look frantically at Dr. Becker.
“You said this was diagnosed through genetic testing. I assume that means I must have gotten it from one of my biological maternal grandparents?”
He nods slowly. “That’s what I believe. GSS normally presents itself between the ages of thirty and fifty. Since neither of your parents have exhibited symptoms yet, it’s highly likely you got it from one of your mother’s biological parents. It’s not unheard of to skip a generation.”
“The kids,” I say hoarsely and look at Lincoln. His eyes flash with understanding a moment before the pain is back tenfold. I bring my watery gaze back to Dr. Becker. “That means the kids could have it, right?”
“The chances a parent has passed the mutated gene on to a child is fifty percent.”
“Oh, God,” I sob. “My babies. I can’t….” I look imploringly at Lincoln. “Gray and Gemma….” I stop again when I can’t form the words.
“Molly,” Lincoln croaks, falling from his chair to his knees at my side. He grips my cheeks softly, forcing me to look at him. “We can’t think the worst.”
“I’d like for you to bring Gray and Gemma in. Although they wouldn’t show symptoms for years yet, we can still perform the same genetic test on them to see if they carry the gene.” His tone is mellow. “Yes, there’s a fifty percent chance they carry the gene, but there’s also a fifty percent chance they don’t. Until we know for sure, you need to try to not let this affect you. I know that’s easier said than done, but there’s no point when there may not be a reason to worry.” He pauses. “I’d also like to test Lindsay and Aubree.”
There’s nothing the doctor can say that will make me not worry. Even if there’s only a one percent chance that I could have passed this horrible disease onto my children, it’s too much. I won’t relax until we know for sure. It’s one thing for me to have a terminal illness. It’s another for my kids to have it.