Lupus is one of those things we don’t really know the cause of. Genetics. Great, but which parts? Environmental factors. Cool. Which ones? And how can we someday prevent anyone from getting it? That’s what I want to strive toward learning, because life is already unfair, and too many people die young who don’t deserve to.
“Hey, kiddo!” I rap my hand on the open door only after peeking in first to make sure Noah is awake and not in the middle of anything important. He’s playing Pokémon with his older sister Emma, so I think I’m safe.
“Doc Walk!” Noah announces and sits up taller in bed.
He came in for a checkup.
He hasn’t left since.
“Finally, someone else to let this dorkus win,” Emma teases, stopping after whatever battle they had finished and setting her Nintendo Switch aside.
Noah has his own Switch, andPokémon Scarletis their go-to game whenever Emma is visiting. She’s ten, maybe eleven now,and a really good big sister who never lets Noah feel like he isn’t the same snot-nosed little brother she’d tease if they were home.
“Nah uh!” Noah snaps back. “I letyouwin! Rapidash could easily beat a Gastly!”
“You wish.” Emma gets up from the chair she’d pulled over beside the bed to give Noah a sudden—but very gentle—tickle attack.
He doubles over laughing, but when he quickly gets out of breath, she stops.
She is a really good sister.
Their parents often give them time alone, so I don’t see either of them around. I enter fully to grab the chart from the end of the bed. A quick peek isn’t technically doctoring.
Noah took to calling me Doc Walk on day one. He had trouble pronouncing Hammond without it sounding like Ham ‘N.
“What am I, a ham ‘n cheese sandwich?” I’d teased.
“Ha! Doc Ham ‘N Cheese!”
“Oh no, no. I am not answering to that.”
“What’s your other name then?”
“My first name is Walker.”
“That’s not a name!”
“Why not?”
“No one’s named Runner or Crawler.”
He had me there. “I do walk the walk and talk the talk.”
“Doc Walk!” He’d laughed harder. “Like Doc Ock!”
And it stuck.
“Pretty sure I wouldn’t have toletanyone kick my butt,” I say as I scan through Noah’s chart. “My last Pokémon games wereBlackandWhite 2.”
Noah giggles. Those games are twice his age, but I’ve seen these two with old Nintendo DS handhelds, so I’m betting they’ve played their parents’ hand-me-downs.
Much as I try to keep a smile in their presence, the latest readings and notes aren’t great. Noah’s seizures have been getting worse, which means he’s due for an MRI today to see if we—if Doctor Aldrin—can learn more by looking at the neurological side.
That’s the problem most people don’t understand. Just because an illness presents itself one way with one person, doesn’t mean it’s the same for everyone. Just like how treatments and medications don’t work the same way for everyone. We’re too different and every new case is a puzzle to solve.
But an MRI at six? That sucks.
I was six when I had mine. Yep, that same six years old as when I almost died. The aspirin made my asthma worse and caused complications, but the initial trigger was a panic attack from being in that big metal box.
