Bill walked through the doors of the Newark Public Library at about 6:30 last night and strolled over to the catalogue computer hoping to find some info on a book he heard about over Sunday Brunch.
Something wasn’t quite right.
“Shoot! My legs. I’ve felt this before. Damn.”
It started with a tingle in his feet and soon his whole legs felt as if they were half-asleep and half full functioning.
“Oh man, it’s neuropathy,” he thought.
His wife Kate was still looking at books on CD’s for her ride to work.
Bill walked – trudged – to the fiction aisle hoping to find something that would spark his curiosity, but every step was laborious.
“At least there’s no pain.” He thought.
He distractedly picked up a copy of Don Quixote. Put it down. Picked a couple of other things that might interest him and put them down too. He really wasn’t looking; just going through the motions.
He walked toward the circulation desk, met his wife, and they both walked out the door.
“My feet aren’t working,” he said. That sentence had long ago become a codeword for a neuropathy attack.
“Do we need to go home?”
“No I’ll be alright, but when we go to Rite Aid I’ll just wait for you in the car.”
They went to the store, found out their co-pays for prescriptions had gone up due to federal budget wrangling, did one more errand, and went home.
“I hate this so much,” he said. “I just want to cry.”
“I know,” Kate said. “I know.”