Jim asked the only question that mattered to him. “Is it fatal?”
“No.”
Spencer glanced at Jim and grimaced. “Is there a cure?”
Dr. Abbott slowly shook his head. “I’m afraid not, Mr. Strickland.”
Spencer blew out a breath and leaned back in his chair.
“But we can slow, even stop, the progression of the disorder through the use of corticosteroids, intravenous immunoglobulin treatments and plasmapheresis. And with physical therapy you may even regain some use of your legs.”
Spencer looked up at Jim. “Plasmawhat?”
Jim translated. “Okay. Think of it this way. Your immune system is the Empire. It’s decided that your nerves are the Rebel Alliance, and it wants to stomp them into submission. In reality, your nerves are loyal followers of the Emperor, so they can’t understand why they’re being pounded into the ground. Their shields are failing, and they have nowhere to turn.”
“Enter Han Solo?” Spencer was grinning.
“Sort of.” Jim ignored the doctor’s quiet laughter and continued his explanation. “That would be the treatment options. The prednisone would be the X-wing fighters, swooping in to battle but might not wind up sticking around. The immunoglobulin treatments are the Mon Calamari Star Cruisers, the heavy guns, and the plasmapheresis would be the, um…” How would you use Star Wars to describe a process where your blood was removed, the plasma filtered out, and new plasma introduced?
“If you say midi-chlorians I’ll be forced to beat the stupid out of you.” Spencer rolled his eyes. “Fine. I’m going to be poked and prodded on a regular basis. Got it.”
“We’ll be starting treatment soon, unless…” Dr. Abbott frowned. “I see here you’re going to be moving, Mr. Strickland?”
Jim turned to stare at his brother, joy racing through him. Had Spencer finally decided?
“Yup. I want to be closer to my family. That would be him.” Spencer hitched his thumb toward Jim.
Dr. Abbott closed the file. “In that case, I’ll refer you to an associate of mine closer to Halle, Pennsylvania. I can assure you she’s good, and I’ll make sure she’s familiar with your case.”
“Thank you, Doctor.” Spencer held out his hand. “It’s nice to finally get a real diagnosis.”
“It’s in your head, it’s fibromyalgia, it’s GBS, it’s MS—believe me, I’ve heard it all.” Dr. Abbott took Spencer’s hand and shook it firmly. “I’m glad I was able to help.”
The doctor left, and Jim looked at Spencer. “So. Moving to Halle, huh? Are you sure? When we started this you didn’t want anyone to know you were sick.” Spencer had once been a vibrant, athletic man. His disease had hit him hard, but it hadn’t dimmed his spirit. Still, he hadn’t wanted his problems to affect Jim’s life and had asked him to remain quiet about the fact that Jim had a bastard half brother.
Jim hated that. He wanted to tell the world about his brother, how strong and brave he was, but Spencer had been adamant. Rather than stress his brother any further, Jim had reluctantly agreed.
“I got over it.” Spencer winked. “Must have been the midi-chlorians.”
“Does this mean I can finally introduce you to everyone?”
“Aw, man.” Spencer looked away for a moment, a blush on his cheeks. “You know the only reason I said no was because I never wanted to be a burden on you.”
“You aren’t. How many times do I have to tell you that?” He might have only known Spencer for a little over a year, but they’d formed a strong, unbreakable bond. He couldn’t imagine his life without his brother in it now.
“Then take me home.” Spencer blinked innocently up at Jim. “Can we have a kitty?”
Jim’s Wolf howled. It wanted a vixen, not a kitty. “Um. No.”