I thought it would be easy. You know, mind over matter, positive thinking, putting good vibes out into the universe and all that jazz. Whoosah. Breathe in, breath out. I thought if I put my mind to it, I could control it. I was wrong. I was so wrong.
My husband was out of town, so it was up to me to walk our dog, Chaka, that morning. As we headed out the door, I was determined that I wasn’t going to allow MS to hold me back. My mobility is precious to me. It represents my independence. That independence is something that MS will eventually rob me of, layer by layer, bit by bit, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left of me to give. I don’t want that to happen. So I move.
Before leaving the house, I strapped Chaka into her purple harness. She doesn’t realize it, but purple is her favorite color. It’s by default, really, since purple is my favorite color. I opened the door to a beautiful, chilly autumn morning. Swathed in my husband’s Northface jacket, Chaka and I pound the pavement for our morning walk. I moved with determination, quick paced, like a woman on a mission, a woman with something to prove, a woman who didn’t want life to pass her by.
I breathed in the coolness of the morning, the sharp smell of wet leaves curling into my nostrils and giving me life. I waved at passing cars, as I normally do – sometimes not knowing who’s behind the tinted windshield, not that it matters – and kept Chaka reigned in as she trotted along, searching for the perfect spot to relieve herself.
As we reached the crest of the barely-there hill, we trudged across the dewy grass and through the parking lot. In the distance, two dogs at the end of their tethers, happily trotting along with their humans in tow. Chaka saw them before I did. The excitement bubbled up inside her as she spun around like a four-legged top. I struggled to make out the walkers from afar, but my eyes wouldn’t cooperate. Thanks for that, MS.
A heavy, stuffy, cloudy feeling filled my head as my legs turned to prickly, thick liquid, slowly flowing downward. And just like that, my body betrayed me. I became one with the curb, holding on for dear life, afraid that I would tip over the edge and be swallowed whole into the crevices of hard, dark pavement.
“It’s too soon,” I thought wildly. “It’s only been a week!” my mind screamed, knowing that my MS diagnosis had only come one week before. I felt cheated. I hadn’t known the relief of remission. All I knew was the past four months of constant fatigue, nausea and the unsettling feeling of drunkenness. I sat on the curb and, despite my best efforts not to, I cried.
As I hung my head low—shielding my face from the slight breeze that rustled the fallen leaves as they danced about to a nameless tune—panic began to course through me. Stillness filled the air, broken only by an unfamiliar voice.
“Are you okay, miss?” A gentleman on The Mountain for a golf tournament pulled up next to me in his large, white truck. “Are you okay?” he repeated.
I looked up, touched by his concern. A line of cars queued up behind him, but he seemed not to notice as he climbed out of his truck and walked around to the passenger side. Even while practicing social distancing, he showed his very human, empathetic side.
Next to me, Chaka was still. Normally, fear of strangers would send her into a growling, barking frenzy, but not this time. She simply stared at him as she snuggled closer to me. “I-I’m okay,” I lied. I wasn’t okay. Fear kept me rooted to the curb. Not fear of a stranger, however, but fear of my own body betraying me once again.
“Is there someone I can call for you?”
I’m not sure why I said what I said, but once I opened my mouth, I couldn’t stop the torrent of words that came flooding out. I blurted everything out to a person whom I never met before. My husband was out of town. I was just diagnosed with MS. My neurologist initially misdiagnosed me and I refused to accept it. My legs had given out on me. I want to be able to walk on my own. I’m so damn tired. I can’t feel my right foot. I don’t want to die.
I was overcome with emotion. Chaka leaned into me and licked my cheek as I put my arm around her and held her close. We were one at that moment.
“You just have to remember who’s in control,” the stranger said, as he looked heavenward. For a brief moment, I was reminded of Michael Landon in “Highway to Heaven.” I knew what he meant. He smiled and nodded. I nodded back. “Are you sure I can’t do anything for you?”
I wiped tears away with the back of a hand that had gone cold. That was happening a lot lately.
“Thank you for caring. I think I’ll be fine. I just need a minute.”
He climbed back into his truck, drove off and parked in the lot adjacent to where I sat. Chaka and I continued to cuddle. She didn’t try to break free or whine in the way that dogs do when they want to continue on with their morning walks. It was if she knew in that moment that I needed the warmth of her closeness, her wet tongue on my face, her horrid fishy breath assaulting my senses. More than anything, I just needed to be right there, with her, in that space and time.
The minute that I thought I needed stretched into ten minutes. When the feeling of life returned to my legs and I was finally able to stand with confidence, I did. The backside of my jeans were wet from half-sitting in the damp grass. Great. A casualty of MS. I removed my jacket, tied it around my waist, and Chaka and I slowly made our way back home.
When I left the house that morning, I thought all it took was mind over matter. I’d will my body to behave, and through the sheer power of perseverance, all would be well. It wasn’t. MS is with me. But MS doesn’t totally have me.
I’ve always considered myself a strong woman. Something tells me that my strength is about to be put to the test. Okay MS, I think I’m ready.
