Welcome to the Carnival of MS Bloggers, a bi-weekly compendium of thoughts and experiences shared by those living with multiple sclerosis.
"Who I am is stronger than any disease."
Had my first Complimentary Customer Care Conversation with the Copaxone Consultants yesterday (too bad yesterday doesn't start with a C). You know, the ones where a representative calls in order to share how easy, and actually fun it is to inject yourself with toxic substances. Got my free products coming, of course--a durable plastic storage container for 30 glass syringes, another plastic container for travel, and a gel pack for injection sites. I was hoping for some Cuban cigars as well, but it looks like these are no longer being offered (if they ever were).
I also had the opportunity to rate various aspects of treatment and personal satisfaction on a number scale--1 equalling No, not really, and 4 meaning Yes, I love it!
When asked about my level of commitment to the treatment, I answered 2.
This apparently caused some red flags to shoot up with the interviewer.
Why 2? Are the injections unpleasant? Is there something we can help with? Do you believe you really have MS, or are you unsure? Do you need more literature about Copaxone?
No, it's just this irritating, unreasonable gut feeling that I cannot seem to escape--the feeling that somehow when ones body objects so strongly to the introduction of this or that foreign substance, it could somehow mean it's not a good idea.
Your body objects? How do you mean? Is there something about the injections that you don't like?
Well, I uh . . . .
Would you like to have one of our nurses visit your house?
No, I'm just saying . . . .
Are you having pain? Are you depressed? Do you have questions? Are you dizzy, breathless, confused, disoriented, having chest pains, gangrene, paralysis, loss of vision or function in any body part?
You know what? I wanna change that 2 to a 3. It's really not a 2 at all. I don't know why I said 2. It's more like a 3, honestly, or even a 3-1/2. In hindsight, I'm changing it to a 3-1/2.
Now that's more like it, Mr. Boughton. Keep yer chin up, will ya?
Happy trails to you, until we meet again . . . .
The following was just too hilarious to pass up. Enjoy, Lisa E.
says Rae from In It For the Parking
I know I haven't been posting. I also know that I start almost every one of these entries out this way. Well, this time, I'm not going to promise to write more frequently - so there.
Right now, I'm up with insomnia. I'm aching in the WEIRDEST places (my forearms and shins), but other than that, I couldn't be better.
Over the last several days, I've been getting back to myself - almost entirely. No seizures, no numbness, no nothin. It's really pretty great.
But that doesn't explain why I haven't been posting.
I know that journaling my experience may be beneficial for me and for others - but it's one thing to talk about it in your diary and another for you to think of it as your responsibility to be a strong voice in the cause.
When it comes down to it, regardless of whether or not I thought it would help other people, I created this site for me. I needed to prove that I was giving back to the community/world or whatever while I was unable to get out of bed or off the couch.
Now that I'm getting better (and by better, I mean totally used to my seizure meds), I'm able to resume doing things that I enjoy and things I don't enjoy but must do. (Can we say studying for the bar exam?) I'm not saying that it leads to less time to post here, but rather that I'm less focused on my body, and hence less focused on the subjects that pertain to that body.
Not posting on In It For The Parking as though it were my job is helping me to stop letting MS become the defining characteristic of my personality on and off screen.
I doubt that I'm alone in this - having to make the choice between focusing on my self and focusing on my body or the disease.
It's way too easy to get caught up in how you're feeling - before long, you sound like one of those horrible cartoon caricatures of old people who can't find anything to talk about besides their bodies, medicines, doctors, etc. I don't know about you, but that *certainly* isn't the person that I want to be.
At first, I cried when I thought about it -- how I'd never be able to be as physically well as I was prior to having this disease, how bizarre it would be to try and make positive changes when OBVIOUSLY everything seemed too hard, how hopeless the rest of life seemed.
But suddenly, a light peeked through my stormcloud of doom, and I remembered something very important.
Who I am is stronger than any disease.
So, I'm getting back to me.
by Nadja at Living! with MS
One of the things that really struck me during my recent conversation with my dad was the notion that I should be doing creative things. I agree. That is part of why I am drawn to blogging. This of course leads to another excellent point... My father said that he noticed that I often use this blog to do battle with myself. He is absolutely right. I work out my thoughts here but I also spend a great deal of time beating myself up and feeling anxious, guilty and sad. This takes the blog from the realm of pure creativity, into personal therapy but not always the good kind. Too often, my posts perpetuate patterns I would like to change in myself and a good dose of self-loathing as well. I think in the spirit of creativity and stress-management, I need to change the direction of my writing a little. My blog does not need to be a stage for fighting with myself, but it can be a good place for finding myself. With this in mind, I find myself returning (at least in thought) to my long neglected memoir.
My father suggested that I was 14 or 15 when the foundation for the MS was laid in place. He said that at this time I lost touch with who I really was and began the long battle with myself. Whatever the case may be, I do remember losing a lot of my spontaneity, creativity and joy around this time. I became a perfectionist, a performer and a critic. I started to see myself through the eyes of an imagined, outside observer who constantly tracked both my accomplishments and failures. This was around the time I first experienced anxiety and depression. Slowly I left behind many of the activities I loved as a kid. I eventually quit both dance and gymnastics (things I had always loved). When I was little, I was an uninhibited choreographer but by the time I was about 16, I was stifled when I tried to just listen to music and dance. Sometimes I have vivid flashes in my mind of the girl I was. Now, whatever comes of this, I want to remember that girl and draw myself closer to her, not for my dad, not because of MS but because this may be the key to a brighter future for me.
I remember a story that I was once told that inspired me to great leaps of creative thought.
Once upon a time there was a little girl who journeyed with her brother into a tomato plant. They became tiny and traveled right into the veins of the plant. They did this by concentrating on the plant with their eyes until they were absorbed into the stem. Once they were inside the plant, they seemed to float along in the liquid center of the plant. They journeyed from stem to limb and then eventually into a giant, ripe tomato. There, they had fun playing until someone plucked the tomato from the vine and then they had to find a way out quickly when a giant mouth threatened to consume them.I may have gotten the story wrong but that was the kind of tale that inspired me as a child. Like Tinkerbell from my favorite childhood play, "Peter Pan" said, "You just have to believe." I used to think that if I believed enough and looked hard enough, I would see the magical things from story books.
I would sit in the garden and stare at a plant for a long time, just waiting to be drawn inside. Sometimes, I would hide among the flowers and imagine that soon I would encounter a fairy. I would even dress up and pretend I had become one.
Once, when I was about 3, I saw a unicorn. The strange thing is that to this day, the image of the unicorn across the pond is still cemented in my mind. She glows white in the moonlight at a distance and despite what my rational mind says she is there.
Today I am grateful for this chance to remember...
This concludes the 33rd edition of the Carnival.