I'm Still Here

How many times have I been taunted by this blank piece of paper? Countless. I load the program I use, and this blank white rectangle glares at me, daring me to fill it with words. Not with just any words, but words that mean something. Words that say something. Words that matter. Ah, but there's the rub. Matter to whom? Matter to me? Matter to you? So I sit, blinking my eyes at the blinking cursor. After a while, I close the program and do something else.

Today, though, today, I decided to take the dare and put words on this rectangle. You may ask yourself why today? You may also be thinking, darn, I thought she had given up this blog. I decided to write today, because. Because tomorrow is far away. Because tomorrow I might not be able to put words together coherently. Some of you may point out that I don't really do that now. Still, I am writing.

I had an appointment with my neurologist yesterday. Bottom line from that appointment is that we need to do an MRI fairly soon. Brain AND C-spine, with and without contrast (so, like 4 MRI's, really). I may or may not be transitioning into secondary progressive MS. A lovely little stat my neurologist told me: 20% of MS patients transition into secondary progressive within 15 years of their diagnosis. My diagnosis date was October 2004. So I have an 80% chance of not transitioning and I could “just” be having an exacerbation.

See, here's the thing, though. I look okay. At a glance, I may seem like someone who didn't sleep well (I didn't) or someone who might be coming down with something, or you might think I look fine. You can't see the tingles rippling through my body like rivers of electricity. You can't see that I'm having issues with my right eye. You can't see that my balance is questionable (until I do the sidestep jig as I inevitably do). You can't see the constant headache that no medicine can take away. You can't see the tuning forks vibrating in my legs. You can't hear the voice inside that says don't get up, stop trying. You can't see me struggling or fighting. Make no mistake, I am. I am struggling and I am fighting.

The fight is getting more difficult. More difficult to just get up. More difficult to move around. More difficult. But not impossible.

So whatever the MRI shows, I'll face it with tears, anger, sadness, laughter, aches, phantom itches, stumbles, smiles, and scowls. Just like I do now.

Until next time...

If you're curious about the different types of MS, WebMD has concise and easy-to-follow information here.