A Bit More Fog and a Thank You

I had just celebrated my 17th birthday a short four days before I was first admitted to the hospital on account of the Multiple Sclerosis. It was determined that I needed an MRI and at that time there was only one machine available in all of Austin. My parents decided to take me out of the hospital in their own car and to the hospital across town that had the MRI and then back to my original hospital after.

They purchased some lovely satin pajamas for me and buckled me into my wheelchair for the ride to the car. Wide awake, and exhausted all the same, I watched as in a dream while so much occurred around me. I was wheeled to the exit and felt a bit of shock at the wind on my cheeks and in my hair. Had it been only three days since I walked through these doors, somewhat of my own ability?

It may have been my Dad, I’m not certain, but I found that someone was behind me trying to lift me into the car. I felt the chair move and knew right away that the wheels on the wheelchair needed to be locked first. It was the oddest sensation: knowing all at once that something must be done quickly to prevent disaster and doing nothing and saying nothing all the same. Just watching it happen.

My feet became tangled at the door and forced my parents to lay me at an odd angle while they got my feet adjusted. I remember laying there, so still and somber, while my brain raced with a million animated questions: Where exactly are we going? Am I going to die? Did we win the football game? What happened to the play? Who’s getting my homework? Am I going to die?

As my Dad drove to the MRI center, so carefully- as though he carried the Queen, I found that I was slipping in the seat a bit on account of my satin pajamas. I slid further in the seat and I can honestly tell you exactly what went through my head, “Huh. It looks like I’m going to slide to the floor board. Sure wish I could say something. I’m sure they’ll notice before I hit the floor.”

“Amy? Would you like me to help you up? Why didn’t you say something?” I could hear my Mom talking to me and I could feel her helping me up, but I had no strong ability to respond.

A high dose of steroids and mercy caused that first spinal cord lesion to reduce in size enough that I could again walk and use my hands by the time it turned to a scar. The exhaustion though, that has only ebbed and flowed as in good days and bad days. It’s that exhaustion that sits on me like a ton of mud and I struggle as if in a bad dream to get from point A to point B.

I have spoken before about the sensation of having my personality paralyzed. By that I mean that I often feel stunted and unable to fully express myself in speech and facial expression to the extent someone with as loud a personality as I have would like. This is maddening.

As maddening as it is, I have found great relief in writing. It feels as though I am able to properly convey the extent of my thought with the same tempo and order as I would if I had the energy to actually have a visit.

Writing has become an extension of my personality. It is through this little key board that I am able to put down the thoughts that run around and around in my brain while my body looks as though I am near comatose.

There are days when Eric gets home from work and I am exhausted. Exhausted and pleased at a day’s good hard work. I am worn out to the point that I am unable to actually chat with him about the day’s events, but I can point him to my ol’ blog and there he has it, “The Life and Times of Eric’s Wife”.

I understand now why my Grandma was always writing. Sometimes it’s all I can do not to sit down and write, even in crayon on the back of a cereal box if I’m desperate.

I just wanted to say thank you. This blog has become a bigger deal to me than I imagined it could when I started some three years ago. Thank you all for reading and commenting and e-mailing. For interacting with me in this fabulous little place called Blogger and giving my tired self a voice. It’s a hoot, ain’t it?

*Also, a big thank you to Jennifer for stepping up with the bike. You may have heard the excited shrieks from a certain eight year old across town. Thank you.