I have to make a trip by plane to Ottawa. Here's the problem...do I take my cane, which is some help to me but which isn't a LOT of help to me, if you know what I mean - or do I take my bulky rollator, all shiny black four wheels of it? I can walk SO much better with it, but I probably won't be walking much and it's so bulky. On the other hand, in addition to MS I am having knee problems and there is a significant difference in pain if I use the rollator to walk.
Hmm. How much of a crip do I want to be?
I am lusting after a little collapsible 3 wheeled rollator but it's $100 I don't have at present. So....
Any advice, MSers?
Have we been looking at Multiple Sclerosis all wrong?
Interesting discussion on this blog as well...plus a link to the research article.
I linger in bed as long as I can, after a night spent tossing and turning, where I turn on my radio without knowing it and then wake myself when the volume level changes suddenly. I spin and toss as my legs ache. Finally I know I have to get up because I have a dog whose bladder is no doubt at the point of rupture in the next room. I stagger into the shower and/or pull on clothing, release the hound, and it's time for the morning ramble. It starts off easily enough, particularly if I remember to bring my cane, though handling leash, exuberant and desperate puppy, keys and poop sacs is an interesting dexterity challenge. Today I can see properly, so it's a bit easier. Last night the fog was internal and external. Weather and vision. That terrifies me and I spend a fair bit of my time praying loudly that the gods preserve my sight.
But about, say, 300 yards into the walk, it is no longer pleasant. Legs and hips remind me of the MS. They start, ever so annoyingly, to add pain to the walk. Like sands through the hourglass (as the soap "Days of our Lives" used to say), each step adds a soupçon of misery. By the time we're on our way back, the dog is dragging me, looking back to see what the problem is. My legs feel like they weigh 2000 tons, like the weights in Wily Coyote's plots.
I suppose it would be easier if I used my walker, but I'm fighting that. It's even bulkier than the cane and I'm not sure how I'd hold the leash. I suspect bungee cords would be involved.
But we get home and I stagger about feeding the beasts until I can slump myself into a chair.
Which, about half an hour later, is uncomfortable. So I stand to pain.
There's got to be a way out of this cycle. Other than scotch, which does help but which isn't recommended for breakfast, for some reason...
I am lucky enough to live near the sea - right near Halifax Harbour. It's fabulous. There are two sounds that make me smile every time I hear them - the noon-day gun, and the foghorns.
I wish I had one of those. I'd like to be able to blatt it out whenever I go to do something without thinking. Which is a lot of the time these days as my MS-brain gets more muddled.
Like when I signed up with my local newspaper (a shameless rag). I didn't realize I had agreed to subscribe in perpetuity. So when I changed my credit card and they sent me a note saying that my credit card had been declined and if I wanted the newspaper I should call them right away, and I didn't call, I ASSUMED that meant they'd discontinue my paper. Not here in nice NS. They ran it on for another month. Then charged me. Now I don't feel like I should pay for the newspapers I didn't ask for, but who really knows what went on? I surely can't remember.
Or when I go to buy something and buy it without realizing I have no money to pay for it.
Or when I send in a writing entry filled with errors and spelling and grammar mistakes cos I just don't see them.
That's when I want to pull the chain and blatt out a big foghorn warning for everyone who has to deal with me - but for me, too. For now, I'll just have to hope it stays foggy around here and pretend the ones I hear are meant for me...
My hands are losing their grip.
How damn annoying.
I just started loving knitting. I have oodles of yarn to make into things. Yet my hands can't handle it anymore.
I can't read big books (I like big books and I cannot lie). Having to read on an ereader, which is okay except it dies regularly. Grr.
On the good side, I've started needle felting. And since my fingers are numb, I can stab myself with gay abandon. As long as I'm felting red things. To soak up the blood.
But I type my thoughts. What if I totally lose that? Yeah, I can use that dictation software but it's hard and bothersome and just not as much fun as it should be because you have to speak punctuation. Period. Which is annoying. Period. Or is that exclamation point? Question mark
You see how it could be frustrating comma especially since I don't often think of punctuation and just let it happen period Which accounts for a lot of my editing problems comma perhaps period.
Arggh. And then there are the mystical misspellings. When I get on a good dictatory run, I don't watch the words form on the page (partially because it is a bit slow and it's a bit like listening to a recording of you speaking just a bit slower than you do). I go back to reread and find the punctuation parts and realize a completely different story has been written.
It's not that it is necessarily a BAD story, but it isn't the one I was writing. I feel like I am in a partnership with HAL. (I wouldn't erase that if I were you, DA)
I need my hands. Take my legs. I've already seen them going. Bits of them are dropping off - the toes went first, numb and no longer available for location. My hips are on temporary strike and need to be promised increasing wages to cooperate. My knees just laugh at me. Shaving my legs invariably results in loss of blood. They need support, preferably 4 points of it.
But my hands - I like them. They are squarish, man-hands, designed for work. And I want them to work. Please?
It's this sort of practice that makes me see red. Why do companies have to become obscenely rich on the illness of others?
Of course, I should check my mutual fund portfolio. Perhaps I have some stock in Teva. In which case, I've been supporting their greed and gluttony.
"Curses," as Snidely Whiplash would say, "Foiled again!"
We staggered home - me tacking heavily to the right and left (again, thank heavens I wasn't driving) and I fell into bed to sleep for 12 hours straight.
It's probably the worst I've been cognitively for some time, and reminded me of how I felt after a couple of days at work. It amazes me I was even able to show up. Small wonder I seemed like an idiot to others, or a grump, or a bitch. Who knew what my voice was doing? Or my mouth? I certainly didn't. I feel like I should apologize to everyone.