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Breath & Shadow

Spring 2025 - Vol. 22, Issue 2

"Give Me Your Keys"

written by

Rhonda Zimlich

“Give me your keys,” Dr. Lintz said, arm outstretched, hand splayed open. She met me in the waiting room of the clinic as I came through the door.


I looked at the dark blue embroidery on her white jacket spelling: “Jan Lintz, P.A.” to her face, determined, stern.


“I saw you walk across the parking lot,” she said, as she wiggled her fingers, “give me your keys.” She didn’t seem mad, but more very serious.


“Jan, no,” I said, clutching the keys to my chest while I maintained balance holding the doorknob with my other hand. Tears pooled and my throat constricted.


“It’s okay,” she said, taking a step toward me but not lowering her hand. “Give me the keys and I will call Dave. He’ll pick you up when we’re done.” She reached me and cupped her hand under my elbow.


I knew she was right to take the keys. I knew it was wrong to drive, but I hadn’t been certain until that moment. It took seeing her concern and hearing her demand my keys, to dissolve the last of my stubborn denial.


In truth, this was a bad multiple sclerosis exacerbation. It had been getting worse all day, maybe even starting days before. Earlier that morning, my feet seemed a little numb. I blamed the way I slept and continued about my day.


By the time I headed out on my afternoon run, the numbness had moved into my calves, but I dismissed the feeling. I was being alarmist, having never experienced a true MS exacerbation. The absence of sensation in my feet was not real. Sure, I felt the tingle, then numbness, and finally, the weird sensation of having my limbs fall asleep. This had happened before. Sitting on the floor at school assemblies or at the movie theater—that weird, almost-warm sensation, just before the overwhelming buzz starts up, igniting my legs from the inside out with a thousand angry bees. But the bees hadn’t arrived.


So, it was nothing, I told myself earlier that day, as I jogged up toward my kids’ elementary school. The socks I had on that morning were too tight, was all. It would pass. I needed to run; that would do the trick.


The run, one that I completed three times per week, took me along a path that followed Amazon Creek in South Eugene, Oregon, where I lived. The trail lined both sides of the creek and crisscrossed along the route, offering glimpses of the meandering waters below. The path was also well-maintained with a thick layer of bark mulch, offering runners and walkers a soft footfall and lovely aroma. The scent of Fir bark carried notes of soil and water along with the smell of mighty trees, both ancient and new, sapling and old growth alike. I pulled in a deep breath, trying to shake off the numbness.


I crossed the road at West Amazon and headed back toward the school. Checking my watch, I saw that I would arrive at release time. I’d pick up my eleven-year old twins in front. They’d attended this school their entire lives, a small, “K-through-8” Montessori with about 200 students total; everyone knew everyone.


I made my way along the sidewalk already missing the comfortable bark mulch. My feet pounding concrete made it harder to deny how off I felt in my lower extremities. Years earlier, I found myself blaming multiple sclerosis for any strange body tick or change. But, just like the girl who cried wolf, these anomalies turned out to be nothing. So, I had developed the internal reassuring mantra of “it’s nothing.” But, as I approached the line of cars in the queue for pick-up, dodging a few pedestrian parents, I noticed that my ankles felt weak and my maneuvering sluggish. I wobbled, too, and sensed a bit of vertigo.


Thankfully, I saw a fellow parent, Miriam. I came to a stop and said hello.


“Hi!” I said, “How are you?”


She returned the greeting and we spoke about our kids, school, the University of Oregon where we worked. As she spoke, my attention shifted from her words to my feet and calves, now entirely numb. The sensation of bees arrived climbing up my legs, now swarming my thighs. My lower back tingled. Still, I told myself it was nothing; it was the tight socks, poor circulation, concrete, anything but an MS exacerbation. Regardless, I knew this experience was strange. My denial lost its potency.


“Rhonda?” Miriam called my attention back. “Are you okay? You seem like you’re somewhere else.”


“I’m okay,” I said.


“Looked like you were limping a little when you ran up?”


“Oh, was I?” My heart fell into my stomach. “I think my socks were too tight.”


“Do you need to take them off?” she asked.


“No, no.” I said, bending and rubbing my calves, massaging my quads with my fingertips. “I had on my favorite Star Wars socks earlier—stormtroopers. They’re a little too small but I love them. They cut off my circulation, is all.”


She laughed, “What we do for our kids, right?”


“Yes, absolutely” I answered, though I loved Star Wars more than my kids ever would. Returning my attention to the bees crawling up my lower back, I got brave. “Um, this isn’t normal, though.” I said this with the first spark of fear cracking denial. “I can’t really feel my feet, you know? Like when your foot falls asleep?”


“Maybe don’t run if you can’t feel your feet,” she said with a note of care. Moms share this ability to mother each other, which I welcomed. Still, the denial about my MS symptoms remained steadfast. I massaged my legs, pretending this was part of my post-run routine.


By now, the first students emerged from the school. Parents and teachers greeted each other warmly. Kids rough-housed and gathered in small groups to chat and hug. The scene was always the same at our sweet, little school. My kids, twins who couldn’t be more different, came bounding toward me.


“Can we get hot chocolate?” Gabriella asked.


“We can make some at home,” I said, as we turned toward the side street where I had parked an hour earlier.


I bid farewell to Miriam, and we set off toward the car. Every step seemed labored, and I wondered if I should drive. I dismissed this in consideration of how close the house was to the school, and how, during those times when my feet fell asleep from sitting on the floor too long, a short walk and then an upright seat usually ushered them back to normalcy. I would reassess in the car.


Concern shifted to unease as I sat in the car waiting for the kids to click their seatbelts. They crooned about funny things that happened at school, things other students did, their teachers, the playground antics, what they wanted to do over the weekend—even though it was only Tuesday. V had started teaching kindergarteners how to play the ukulele. The larger group of students in the ukulele band had visited the ALF next door, performing a concert for the residents. Something funny had happened during the concert and both kids laughed about it. I tried to keep my attention on the things they shared with me, and with each other but I kept returning to the numb sensation in my feet and legs. The weird feeling in my lower back, the buzzing, was something I had never experienced before. I reached my arm behind me running my fingers along my lower spine. I could not feel my own touch.


When I think about driving my car that day, I am mortified that I did so with my children strapped in their seats. Regardless of how irresponsible that was, I blame denial. I also justify the act by ruminating on my strong love of driving. From a very young age, driving gave me purpose and direction, a sense of control and normalcy. When I was first diagnosed with MS, I thought of losing my driving privileges and panicked. Of all the terrible outcomes possible with MS, losing the autonomy driving afforded was one of the scariest possible outcomes. Sure, there were a host of nasty symptoms that came with MS. I feared blindness, but that included not being able to drive. Colorblindness, too, might impact my ability to drive. But sporadic loss of muscular control would strip me of my ability to drive as well. I had read about people with MS losing their license and this panicked me.


My family of origin lived in Southern California, and we often visited them via a two-day drive from Oregon to San Diego. I drove to meetings and activities. My kids depended on my driving, running them to Kung Fu and dance and swimming and parties. I first learned to drive when my feet could reach the peddles in the dune buggy. I was about seven-years-old then when my dad taught me about the stick shift and how to feather the gas pedal while letting off the clutch. I was proud of my off-roading abilities, my snow-driving talents, and even my skill in maintaining control while the car hydroplaned. I had driven thousands of miles by myself and with others—to Montana, New Mexico, Oregon, Washington. I’m sure my love of driving enforced the denial about losing sensation in my legs that day. It was, after all, just the storm trooper socks and not the MS that gripped my nerves and stripped my feeling; I was certain.


We drove up Fox Hollow, a pine and fir-lined street that climbed the foothills of Spencer’s Butte. Sunlight flittered in and out of the shadows of trees and branches. I thought about the many times I ran up that long hill, proud of my strength and endurance. If MS could impact my ability to drive, it could also strip me of my ability to run. The thought ruined me, and I shook my head to chase it away. Around the bend at Donald and down the steepest part of the hill, we turned left at 53rd and pulled into our driveway. The kids clambered out of the car dragging backpacks and papers. I stayed in the car for a beat, my seatbelt fastened, breath slow.


“Please, God,” I whispered before clicking the belt and opening the door.


I swung my body round and placed my feet on the concrete of the driveway. I will myself to feel my feet, and maybe I could, but when I stood, I fell onto the open car door, my legs failing to support my weight.  Holding onto the car’s doorframe, I panicked again. Then I pushed myself upright trying to shake it off. Wasn’t it all just an illusion? Wouldn’t the muscles still work even if my brain had lost the connection? I closed the car door, still holding onto its frame. I used the car’s hood for additional support as I shuffled along. I could still feel the heat of the car’s metal against my palms and fingers, so that was good, I thought. Making a series of small falls, I reached the stairs that led to the porch and the front door. My kids waited at the top of the stairs for me.


“Can you get the door, G?” I asked, throwing Gabriella the keys. “Remember, mountains to the sky,” I said, referring to the teeth of the housekey, and the position she should insert the key into the lock.


“I’m on it,” she said. This was a new saying for her, and I loved it. Watching these young people come into their independence was one of the greatest joys of motherhood. Sure, I still hosted movie night with them each Friday night—just me and them when Dave went out to his Friday night meeting—holding on to their younger childhood with a loose grip, but I relished those small moments of maturity when they said and did things that reassured me they were on their way to becoming fine adults. I needed to be strong for them.


As if reading my mind, V asked, “Are you okay, Mama? What’s wrong with your legs?” The fact that they noticed and asked dealt a blow to my denial.


I needed to call the doctor.


V helped me up the stairs, through the door, and to the couch. I reassured both my kids that I was fine, and I promised to call the doctor if they promised to get a start on their homework. Then they went about their business. Eleven-year-olds are very busy people. Gabriella made hot chocolate before they set off to their rooms to work.


I thought about waiting—maybe the feeling would return to my legs with rest—but my lower extremities were not waking up. I recalled my shower the night before, how the water seemed cold on my lower body but almost too hot on my head once I started to wash my hair. This took me back to a time before I was diagnosed with MS. I had been holding a paper cup of hot coffee in my left hand. When I switched hands, the cup was so hot it burned my right hand and I dropped it. Only after, did I notice the red along my left fingers and palm. Numbness is like that; it’s hard to recognize unless there is sensation to compare it to. I reached my hand behind my back again to feel my spine and muscles there. My hand found the flesh of my back, but the sensation was not reciprocated. I panicked again and pulled out my phone to call the doctor.


We were lucky to belong to a small family practice in our neighborhood. And, like in our kids’ small school, everyone at the medical practice knew each other. The receptionist knew my family by name and was familiar enough with us that a friendly greeting on the phone was always welcomed and even expected.


“Hi, Rhonda.” First names on the west coast prevailed!


“Hi, how are you, Kristi?” Small talk also prevailed.


“Great. What can I do for you? Kids need their boosters?”


“Probably,” I thought for a second but then returned to the purpose of my call before I lost my nerve. “I need to make an appointment to see Jan, and I’m hoping you have something today, so I won’t have to go to urgent care.”


“Sure,” she said, and I could hear her fingers already clicking into my chart and Jan’s schedule. “She had a cancelation just a few minutes ago. What’s going on?”


“Well, I hope this isn’t the case, but I might be having an MS flare up.” Saying it out loud squeezed my throat. I turned my thoughts to the sound of her fingers typing.


“How quickly can you be here?”


“I can leave now. You know we’re in the neighborhood so, five minutes?” I glanced at the clock. “By 4:00.”


“Great, see you at 4:00.”


“I’m on my way. Thanks.” I hung up and stood then fell back on the couch, forgetting that the simple act of standing was impeded by my numbness. I stood again, this time reminding myself of how I moved across the driveway: my muscles were fine even if the connection to my brain was not. I took a few steps unaided, swiped the keys from the entryway table where Gabriella had left them, and reached the door with what I told myself was no problem.


“Kiddos, I’m headed to the doctor’s office,” I yelled out, hearing their chorus of “okays” from their bedrooms. Then I made my way outside and down the stairs, gripping the railing as I went. Once inside the car, I gained a bit more confidence, having conquered the distance from the couch to the driveway. I called my husband on speaker.


“Dave, I’m headed to see Jan Lintz.”


“What’s up? Are you sick?”


“Um, well,” I hesitated. “I am having some pretty bad numbness in my legs. It started during a run, I think. Maybe earlier.”


“Oh no,” he said. “Should I come?”


“No, nothing like that. Just wanted to let you know. Honestly, it’s nothing.” There were those words again.


“Okay,” he responded. “Call when you’re done and let me know what she said.”


I agreed and ended the call. I reached the parking lot of Hilyard Clinic within minutes and opened the car door. I swung my body out of the car the same way I had in my driveway. This time, I knew I might fall so I used the doorframe to pull myself up, counting myself clever. But as soon as I shut the door and started walking across the parking lot, I knew things were not like they had ever been before. The thought that this was a bad exacerbation came on strong as my knees buckled together and my toes pointed inward. The upper half of my legs seemed to melt together. From my knees down, my lower legs splayed outward in the oddest Y-shape, with the weight of my entire form compressed at the split of my knees.


I focused on the door of the clinic, shifting my attention away from my legs, as I hobbled across the parking lot. My posture enabled slow movement in a way I can only describe as that of someone who needs to pee. Hefting my shoulder, I’d lift one leg and plant it a few inches forward. Hefting the other shoulder, I would repeat the movement. In truth, I could not have moved any other way. Gratefully reaching the door, I shifted my car keys to the other hand, gripped the doorknob of the clinic, using it to steady myself, and then I opened the door, stumbling through—only to find Jan Lintz standing inside the waiting room with her hand open toward me. Kristi, the receptionist, leaned out over her desk, gawking.


“Give me your keys.”


In that moment, all pretenses of denial fell away and I began to cry.

Rhonda Zimlich, author of Raising Panic (Steel Toe Books 2023 Award winner), writes on intergenerational trauma and resilient youth. Her work appears in Brevity, Past-Ten, American Story Review, and others. Director of the MFA in Creative Writing at American University, she has received awards from Dogwood, Please See Me, Barely South Review, and an honorable mention in Best American Essays 2021. 


Find out more at her website!

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