Most of us know the sameness of our struggles. Most days are like the ones we finished and survived only one night earlier. Waking to another day of physical limitations can be numbing. I suspect most of us have come to grips with our daily obstacles. Our responses are rote. When we cross the same minefield everyday, we learn where it is safe to step.
I, for one, get lulled into passively assuming this is it. I’ve got it mastered, or at least I am okay. The Faustian bargain I have mentioned before has me agreeing to nobody in particular to live with what I’ve got, as long as it does not get any worse. That is a foolish gambit, of course. Such guarantees do not exist. And no one is in charge in the enemy camp.
When MS intercedes, I am not shocked, only betrayed. It is not supposed to be this way. But MS flares take a cumulative toll. My last one hit my back and weakened walking. My optic nerves have been attacked once more, and I have been pushed over a line I long feared I would cross. I spend more time at the computer correcting what I try to write than writing. All keys look alike to me now. I can and will live with this. Writing still is a joy.
What’s next? My problems seem to appear at night. It is a drag to wake up at dawn and begin my morning evaluation to identify changes in any part of my body. I get out of bed, wondering if I will just fall. The room is too dark to see and test my eyes. That judgment is saved for the kitchen when the sun is rising, as is my blood pressure when I move to fetch the newspaper in the driveway. The whole routine has gotten old.
I just know there is more to come. That wheelchair with the white cane propped against it still sits in a dark corner of my mind. Each day feels as if the wind has been knocked out of me. I am furiously working on my book. I want it to be finished before my dreams come true. And life goes on. You know. We will fight another day.