Paralysis.

This is Part One of what happened last week. The conclusion will appear soon.

On Monday, the lower portion of my body was particularly weak. At work, I was having difficulty standing; I am accustomed to challenged walking but not to trouble with staying upright. I left work early and upon my return home, stumbled upstairs for supine rest. When I awoke, I experienced additional issues. I called to my dad: “My legs, I can’t make them go.” I tend to speak in simple terms when paralyzed with fear. This manifestation was new. Although MS alters, tweaks, and increases and decreases symptoms regularly, I have always had the capacity to maintain minimal functional bipedalism. I’m rather proud of that. Alas, I couldn’t stand and hold steady; I shuffled and wavered, always seconds away from falling. A myriad of thoughts sliced through my mind and immediately became jumbled, as if my skull was filled with steel tavern puzzles intertwined with Rubik’s Cubes. How was I going to disentangle all of these light-speed velocity thoughts?

First, I got my Taoist groove on. I do not claim to be an actual Taoist because it requires a tremendous amount of discipline in regard to acceptance and serenity and my lack thereof would be insulting to actual Taoists. With that said, I have read many works concerning its precepts and wisdom. I thought of wu wei, action without action, creative quietude, and yin yang, opposing, rooted together, transforming, and balancing. The Tao, it is indefinable, unlimited; it exists and I have no control. After many calming deep breaths, I panicked. What the heck was this all about!?! If I had had the capacity to be a whirler, I would have. I wanted to ululate and yaup and waul. I wanted to beat the living piss out of something: my fists through drywall, stones through windows, just to run wildly and kick and thrash and leave a wake of destructive rage. Funny thing about partial paralysis, those reactions are negated immediately due to the nature of movement stoppage.

My close friend, Andrea, was at my house within an hour. We talked seriously for a few minutes and then ate some cheese, as dairy products always assist with contemplation and problem-solving. I needed her to help me escape my present terror. While I smoked cigarettes, we sat on the porch, her following my lead singing an altered chorus of the most famous Bangles song: “Ay oh whey oh… walk like a paraplegic.” It was horrifying in its irreverence but quite necessary. I couldn’t fathom that this was it, that this was the beginning of my life in a wheelchair. I needed to mock the possibility, ridicule my body, its actions and limitations, scorning my own soma for its despicable behavior. I may have well punched at my legs, pinched and scratched them for some response. This is why having a friend beside you is so important. I wasn’t given the opportunity to sit in my own vat of misery, my own swill of self-pity. Instead, Andrea and I watched a clip from “The Simpsons Movie” time and time again. We sang along to, “Spider Pig, Spider Pig, does whatever a Spider Pig does. Can he swing from a web? No, he can’t; he’s a pig. Look out! He is a Spider Pig!” It was silly; it was immature and irrational. It was the best thing in the world for me because it provided a diversion, keeping me from sobbing and injuring my own being out of fear and madness.

The next day, I was scheduled for my regular IV infusion, a two-hour process that fills my body with medication on par with chemotherapy, its intention to slow the progression of my disease. That appointment was nixed due to circumstances, and I was instructed to go to my neurologist’s office. My doctor steadied me as best as possible as I attempted to traverse the hallway; it was not going well. One symptom of MS is spasticity--- think of clenching your muscles and holding them clenched as long as you can. Then, think of never being able to stop the clenching. It’s rather uncomfortable. My legs were trembling and my right foot was curled inward. My physician wanted to hospitalize me. I explained my philosophy that it was much easier to crawl out to my parents’ front porch for a cigarette than to take the hospital elevator down four floors, meander through the hallway and the main lobby, exit the doors in search of a proper smoking area outside, and then reverse the entire journey to return to my room. He shook his head and touched his temple as if a pulsing vein was igniting a migraine. We agreed to start the five-day process of outpatient steroid IV treatments with a dosage strong enough to make a wildebeest batshit.

At this juncture, I was barely mobile, my skin tone was ashen, I had black circles beneath my eyes, and I actually was a tad nervous. The spasticity was horrific; the pain was excruciating; I was angry and scared. Often I run a dialogue through my head, questions and responses that help me analyze the situation. It is not that of a child vs. adult, or angel vs. devil, or any of that. It is my emotive self conversing with my intellectual self, utilizing everything I have learned from books and mentors and friends and family and age and experience. On the drive home from the doctor’s office, I began.
“What do you think is going to happen?”
“We don’t know.”
“Do you think this is it? I’m going to be in a wheelchair?”
“We can’t predict the future.”
“I need to know something right now.”
“No. If you need to know anything, know that you cannot be reactionary. Do not project. Do not panic. Let’s see what happens with the medication.”

Upon my return home, my mother brought me dinner and I wrote and I rested. The next day, I would start the intravenous treatments.