November 11 is one of those signpost dates. The eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month will live forever in our memories and those of history as well. 10 years ago, that date took on a different meaning to me. As many are celebrating the time the guns fell silent from World War I and making their remembrance as they will, I am taken back to an unremarkable exam room in the Boone Hospital Medical Complex.
This was the scene of the climax following a several week rising action of ambulatory issues involving what would in the process be identified as “drop-foot”- a mild neuropathy-induced symptom in which the sufferer is unable to lift their toe sufficiently, if we apply an overly simplistic definition. At any rate, sat in a standard medical exam room (well, it was maybe double length of “standard” but the industrial lighting, medical furniture, and sterile feel were all there) on the 11th day of the 11th month of the 11th year (sadly at around 1415 if I recall correctly), I was informed in the most oblique way possible (my recollection – your results may vary) that the happy-go-lucky lifestyle that I enjoyed – OK, it didn’t *feel* like it at the time – was coming to an end.
Perhaps it was some small-scale dissociation, but “You probably have MS” is what I remember being told. It’s something scary to hear… perhaps especially if your life had been heavily influenced by classical music and you were familiar with the story of Jackie du Pré. Visions of wheelchairs and a young, undignified end of life flooded into an ill-educated mind that, contrary to what that mind thought at approximately 1:45 on 11/11/2011 actually did enjoy being alive.
A “discussion” followed – “you’ll take <drug name redacted>” – and I was sent on my way to continue my life with literal no comprehension of what I had just been told, while my neurologist went happily on his way in whatever best version of his life he had crafted. Not that it was within my control, but if I had a choice, my diagnosing doctor and early care would look significantly different.
While there are some stories about the time that I was still associated with that particular neurologist they aren’t for here or now… feel free to ask me personally if you want. They’re really not that fascinating anyway.
In hindsight, the lack of discussion regarding my initial drug therapy probably colored the way I reacted in the short term after my Dx. Had I had a healthier interaction and discussion, perhaps I would have been starting off with the thought that my feelings and reactions mattered in my own care and prognosis. If ifs and buts were candies and nuts, I suppose.
Regardless. Time is a funny old thing… and its passing invites us to give past events continuing power over us. With a chronic illness, to be fair, it doesn’t need the help. In the positive, an anniversary, even an inauspicious one, can invite us to shift any mental logjam that we have built up against something… and so here we are.
It is hard to know how to deal with a loved one who reveals a scary diagnosis that we don’t know how to unpack. We are early in my sharing yet, so maybe my next one will deal with unhelpful things that I heard from people shortly after my diagnosis (which can tie into discussing my particular brand of MS) and discuss from a personal perspective why that might be the case. Stay tuned for the next thrilling installment. Same Bat time, same Bat channel.
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