On Sunday I was walking down the stairs to take Lucy out and my right foot slipped.  It slid four or five steps.  My left did not.  There were bumps and John came running.  I looked up at him with teary eyes and smiled, nodding slightly.  “I just slipped,” I said, but the tears weren’t because of that.

He told me not to move, he would take Lucy out.  Normally, I would agree and then blatantly ignore him.  But I didn’t.  After getting both legs next to each other (from their lightening bolt position of the slip) I sat and waited for him to come home.  I tried to feel as much as I could in my legs.  Which, if I’m honest, isn’t much.  Even on a good day.

A million thoughts raced through my head.  Breath steady and move your toes and just be quiet for a minute.  Those were the good thoughts.  The bad ones included It’s your knee, how you could have been so stupid, it will take ten times the amount of time to heal because of MS  ….

But I walked upstairs when John got home.  We iced it.  We went to bed.  I felt confident that it would be okay.

On Monday we went to the ER.  Because it didn’t feel okay.  It felt wretched and scary and I felt wretched and scared (and frustrated and mad and defeated … among other things).  The ER told us (after hours and ex-rays and the sound of sneakers on linoleum passing our room over and over) a whole lot of nothing.  As we drove home in the rain of  Hurricane Florence I spewed vitriol, frustrations dripping in sarcasm and resentment.

Life isn’t always about having MS.  But also … it is always about having MS.

This week has been brutal for me.  Drowning in my frustrations, my limitations, the pain of my body from inactivity as much as injury.  Resentment.  Inability.  The list goes on, and on.  And infuriatingly on.

The truth?  I will take longer to heal than someone who doesn’t have an autoimmune disease.  I will also be slightly more proactive about it, because I know how debilitating the consequences are for not taking care of myself.

I didn’t fall down the stairs because of MS.  So as mad as I’ve been, I can’t blame it on my disease.  I slipped on the steps because I didn’t have shoes on, I was looking behind me to get Lucy to come down the stairs and I missteped.  Not being able to blame MS pisses me off, to be honest.  I like when MS gets to be the bad guy of my life.  I wasn’t super pleased at having to accept that this slip could have happened to anyone, MS or not.

It is challenging to be restricted.  It’s challenging to have to sit, knowing full well that the only thing that will help things get better is time.  It’s challenging to go to sleep each night trying to figure out how to get the best rest possible when it feels impossible.  Not being able to run around and do simple household chores means that all I can do is sit here and think about it.  Think about life.  Think (and worry) about my knee. Think about everything I currently can’t do.

It’s also hard to acknowledge all the challenges, admit your faults and move through it.  I am pretty bad at that.  Today, as the week winds down into the weekend, the only thing I am trying to do is give myself a break.  Let go of the resentment.  Accept everything for what it is without needing to define or categorize it.  And breathe through it.

That’s really all I can do.