Yesterday was a Doctor Day.

So we shlepped into to Philadelphia, dealt with the obligatory parking issues and elevator issues and finally saw Dr. M to do the dance we’ve been doing for about eight years.  How am I feeling, he asks without actually wanting to know. He scrolls the computer screen looking at my bloodwork, typing sporadically.  We make small talk about the Grateful Dead.  Talk about some intriguing research being done in the MS field that isn’t really relevant to my case currently.  I tap my fingers, let him know if I can feel the cold metal, walk back and forth across the room on my toes and my heels, in a straight line.  I hop on each foot.  He disappears to “look at my scans” for a good twenty minutes.  They are fine.  We will see him in another three months to do it all again.

My prescription – as per usual – includes doing much of the same (eating well, water, sleep etc etc etc)  and continuing to work on my anxiety levels.

Thanks.

So easy to say.

But it isn’t just anxiety about paying bills on time or Lucy’s medicine.  Or picking up the dry cleaning (which I forgot again whomp whomp).  It isn’t just anxiety about MRIs and walking in a straight line.

It’s low level anxiety about everything.  Is it a sign … is it MS?  Am I getting sicker?  That’s the rub.  Everything could mean worsening disease.  Or it could mean nothing.  And I don’t know.  And honestly, my doctors don’t know.  We’re all just guessing based on other people having this same diagnosis, this same combination of brain and spinal lesions and vitamin D levels, and glucose and all the other levels measured on a metabolic panel.

It’s anxiety about being sick but not wanting to be treated as sick.  And sometimes needing grace without condescension about being sick.   But not wanting that sickness, that moment of weakness to define me.  Because I’m more than that.  I’m more than lesions and fatigue and diet protocols and doctor appointments and numb feet and bladder issues.

Anxiety about the fact that once that side is seen, people cannot unsee it.  It starts to define me and the anxiety of being limited and then limited again because I have multiple sclerosis.  People making accommodations and acceptions and then … pity.

Anxiety about pity.  Anger and anxiety and frustration and rage.

Because I’m here and I can’t fix it.  I’m here and I can’t change it.  I’m here and no one seems to be working on a way to get me out.

Anyway.  That was yesterday.

xox, g