Another shit body day. Pain everywhere. Legs whack.
Before I went to bed last night, I sent a lengthy email to The Great Scott (TGS) inquiring about this whole thing we call a “relapse” and telling him I think I’m actually having one. New symptoms that last longer than 24 hours? Check.
As soon as I hit send I got that same feeling I used to get after finally giving in and sending the text to the boy I shouldn’t be texting after a few too many glasses of wine. I’m referring to that nearly instant desire to somehow physically enter the internets or the airwaves and pull those words back. No sooner did I hit “send” on my email, I felt this horrible regret. Like I just admitted something embarrassing by admitting that my body isn’t working properly. Maybe he will wait a day or two to respond, just like the recipients of drunk texts of yore, just to leave me hanging in angst for a few more hours. I anticipate his answer being the usual “Well, Maribeth, that’s just your MS suck it up buttercup.”
Well. He wouldn’t say it quite like that but his dry tone and sardonic twinge will feel like he just said that. Truth is, I really like The Great Scott. I feel lucky to be in his care. He is the great and powerful, of course, and somehow the universe delivered me into his care. The universe knew I needed this neurologist, one who would be willing to listen to my endless arguments about science and his lifelong specialty and not just dismiss me. He argues with me.
Ask anyone who knows me. I need to look at every topic (good or bad) from every angle. Maybe it’s the writer in me, this obsession with motives and reasons but whatever the reason, there it is. TGS has lively discussion with me even when he vehemently disagrees with me.
I also worry, though, that he just wants me to shut up and accept things. I know evil nurse Carol certainly does. I know I’m projecting. I know they probably never think about me at all until my name appears in the list of unread messages and one or the other or both look at it and sigh and think to themselves, “Jesus. She’s still trying to understand the un-understandable” before typing a polite (TGS) or a terse (evil nurse Carol) reply. I know this is their job and I’m kind of like their client. I sometimes shudder when I get certain emails at work. I know how they feel.
I just don’t know if they can possibly understand what it feels like to go to bed so many nights in a row (at least a week) wishing and hoping and yearning to wake up and feel not quite as bad as the day before. I’m not even asking for feeling good like I felt before all of this shit hit the fan. I just want the regular bad. Like the pre-two-month-flush level of bad. I’d take that.
Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the universe my pain to keep. If I should fall when I get up to pee, I pray the universe sends someone to help me (who doesn’t care about my mismatched pajamas).
That’s not how that prayer goes. But it’s what I got right now. I wish TGS and Evil Nurse Carol (suddenly she deserves capitalization to me for some reason) could know how much I want to help them understand what this is like each night. And how it feels to wake up another day with numb hands, weak legs and a back that feels like it’s on fire knowing that the universe has said “sorry sunshine, this is what you get” yet again.
It’s so much like the drunk texting the wrong boy feeling that it’s almost uncanny. That feeling of, oh shit! I shouldn’t have done that. Now he knows I care. Now he knows I’m not strong and mighty and over the whole thing, especially over HIM.
NOW HE KNOWS.
And I’ll be on those same pins and needles tomorrow checking my email with numb hands waiting for the boy’s response.
Or will it be from Her. That’s kind of like old times too.