Waiting for- But Not Wanting- an Exacerbation

If you have MS, you know first hand. If you've ever talked with anyone who has MS, talked with a doctor, a nurse, or someone who knows someone with MS, they will probably all tell you that stress makes MS symptoms feel worse. Aside from me and my doctor, no one in my life was more acutely aware of that than my sister. My sister always kept in close contact with me, even more so around stressful times for me.

When my mom passed, my sister would call me more often than usual. Of course, she wanted to chat, but she was also gauging how I was doing. I could always tell the difference between when she asked me how I was versus how I was. What I mean is she would say “How are you” in a different way when she was worried about me having an exacerbation.

My mom's passing was the culmination of a couple of months of loss in my family. Our family lost an uncle on October 27^th. He was my mom's brother. We went back and forth about telling my mom. In the end, we didn't tell her. By then, my mom couldn't stand on her own. There was no way I would be able to get her to the services, even with a wheelchair.

Then on October 31^st, we lost another uncle. Again, we went back and forth about telling my mom. Again, we didn't tell her for the same reasons.

Lastly, my mom in December. December 12^th. It was just like my mom to decide on that particular day.

When my husband and I lived in Chicago, my husband worked overnights. It seemed as though I always got bad news when I was home alone. My mom, of course, knew this. So December 12^th was probably the most selfless day possible. It was a Saturday afternoon, and everyone was home at my house. My grandmother's birthday was December 10^th, and my mom's birthday was December 16^th. My mom left us between those days.

Through it all, my sister kept a very watchful eye on me. She was always so concerned about how I was coping. Actually, more precisely, she was concerned with how my body was coping. From the day of my diagnosis in 2004 when she sent me flowers until the days where texting became too much, my sister was the one person in the world who always watched out for me.

My sister never said any of the hated phrases to me like: “I know exactly how you feel”, “I know what you're going through”, “I feel the same way because I didn't sleep well”, “Everyone gets tired”, “It could be worse”, or everyone's favorite “You don't look sick”.

After my sister's cancer diagnosis we would talk, and she never expected that I would put my disease aside when talking to her. One day, I said to her that I felt ridiculous talking about my symptoms to her. She said, “Why? Your MS didn't go away with my diagnosis”.

Since my sister passed, I've seen my neurologist a few times. Every time I'm in her office, I get the impression that she fully expects me to be having a terrible exacerbation. Truthfully, so am I. I was there just the other day, and she asked how I was feeling. I told her the truth; I feel really good. She stopped in her tracks and turned into a mouth-breather for just a second. She turned to me slack-jawed with a look of genuine surprise. It's not that she didn't believe me, but she was really happy when my exam echoed what I said. I'm doing pretty well.

I've been on Aubagio for nearly 3 months without any appreciable side effects. My symptoms aren't gone, of course, but I seem to be managing them fairly well. Losing my sister has essentially disintegrated my soul, so maybe that's why I'm managing so well. It's hard to feel symptoms when you're empty inside.

Reading. Writing. Not So Much 'Rithmetic

The post yesterday got me thinking about how other people formulate thoughts and write. When I'm writing, one thought leads to another, and another, and another. In my head, they all seem to tie into my central idea. But do they?

The ideas in my mind are like tendrils curling around a lattice. Some meander and don't quite make it to the lattice, and some hold fast to it. Are the tendrils that don't make it back to the lattice superfluous? Well, let's be honest. My whole blog is superfluous, so maybe I asked the wrong question.

When looking for photos to add to my post, I found a website that will teach you “how to mindmap”. Here I go sounding curmudgeonly and stodgy, but way back in the 1980's, we learned to mindmap in ELA. In yesteryear we called it “brainstorming”, and we did it while taking creative writing in English. If we had an idea, we would essentially do word/thought association until we had a direction. Sometimes the teacher would make us do an outline if we were writing something with a lot of detail. My outlines were never any good. mostly because I let the story tell itself. Half the time, my outlines weren't accurate because the finished product ended up so far from where I thought it was going.

I thought I would do something different today. I am asking you questions, and I'll also answer the same questions. My questions to you today are: What is your process for writing? Do you have one? Have you read any books that helped you write better? Has any author influenced your writing? They say prolific writers are prolific readers. Do you read a lot? Do you get ideas from random things?

I don't necessarily have a process for writing, but I sort of have little rituals. I prefer to have coffee nearby, even if I don't drink it. After (I think) I've finished something, I will do something else for a bit. I might water the plants, throw in a load of laundry, or do the dishes. Sometimes I think of things to add, or a better way to convey what I mean. Sometimes, it just clears my head so I can do a little editing. Yes, I actually edit. You might be surprised at what I don't say.

I've read books and articles through the years about writing. The commonality is that they say “write”. If you have an idea, write, If you enjoy writing, write. Just write.

I read in fits and starts. I may read several books in a row, then nothing for a while. I have a few books waiting for me right now, including a couple I started and didn't get back to. I would love to say I read all genres, but I honestly don't. I have a few authors I return to, like old friends; Stephen King, Charles Dickens, and Clive Barker. I wouldn't say any of them influenced my style of writing, though. I do read other things, too, but these few are my favorite jeans of authors.

If you've ever read my blog, you know I get ideas from random things. Essentially, every encounter with anything is raw material for me. I do try to be mindful of other people's privacy, though. You will see me use the phrase “not my story to tell”. I might be an open book, willing to share so much with the world, but I know not everyone feels that way.

It's So Trivial

I was listening to the radio the other day, and a commercial came on. The male voice in the commercial was very distinctive, and I wondered to myself if he sounds like that all the time. I also wondered if I would recognize his voice if I heard it in a random setting.

While looking for articles on sound and memory, a cursory glance told me that we don't retain information we hear nearly as well as information we see. I'm not talking about information, though. I'm talking about the sound of a voice, not necessarily what the voice was saying.

Basically, our senses create memories that are either in our long-term or short-term memories. It's been my experience that sound is instant and intense in its ability to transport me to a time and/or place. I hear a certain song and instantly remember where I was, who was with me, and what I was doing.

A couple of years ago I took an ambulance ride because of severe spasms in my back. The spasms were so intense that with each spasm, my legs would involuntarily pull up and I was in a fetal position. Anyway, I had to go for physical therapy (after I was able to walk).

At PT, I heard a voice. A familiar voice. I knew that voice. I looked around to see whose voice it was, and it was a DJ from a local radio station. I don't listen to that station regularly anymore, but I'd been listening to him since I was in high school. I didn't know how deep in my memory his voice was until I heard him.

I digress, because I was really talking about the male announcer in the commercial, and how his voice jarred a memory.

Before the internet made information accessible in the blink of an eye, I co-hosted a call-in trivia show on a local college radio station. It was a weekly show, and it may have been an hour long. I'm not quite sure anymore.

My friend was a cashier at a grocery store (I know this seems completely unrelated to the previous paragraph, but it's not). I was there to get her from work so we could go out. As I'm chatting with her, a guy approaches me and says, “You're Lauren Haulass”!

Lauren Haulass was the name my co-hosts gave me at the radio station; the name I used on the air.

I froze for a few seconds. My mind was volleying questions and answers to itself.

He said that he listened to the show every week, and he would have recognized my voice anywhere. It was kind of cool, but I felt very weird. This was back in the day where radio and television were two decidedly separate media outlets. Radio afforded you anonymity. Only to a degree, though, as I discovered that night in a grocery store.