A Letter to My Newly Diagnosed Self

It's been almost 13 years since my world turned upside down with one phone call. Looking back, there are so many things I wish I would have known then. So this many years later, I wish I could go back and share what I've learned on this journey. If I could, this is what I would say:

Dear Me,

I'm so sorry. I know you're world has been rocked and, if I'm being honest, I have to say it will never again be the same. I don't mean that to scare you, but the reality is that you are now different. You will forever see yourself through the prism of your MS. It will be your constant companion. You will wonder at some point every day when and if this unpredictable disease will rear it's ugly head. You will stress over being confined to a wheelchair. And yes, you will at one point or another think about whether or not you will die from this. STOP. Those things are not a done deal, and stressing over what may be will use up a lot of energy that you don't have to spare.

Speaking of energy, get ready for fatigue like you've never imagined before. And I'm not talking normal fatigue. It's "I can't get up and walk to the other side of the room" fatigue. It's "I just slept 12 hours and feel like I didn't sleep at all" fatigue. It's "who put 20 pounds ankle weights on me when I wasn't looking" fatigue. People will say they understand. They don't, they won't, they can't. Just nod your head and smile. There's no way to put what you'll feel into words. You will mourn the energy you once had. Again, I'm sorry. I wish I knew what to say, but I still don't have any good answers.

You will become very familiar with the MRI machine. Try asking them to put something over your eyes before you go in. It helps with the claustrophobia. Trust me on this one. Oh, and don't bother with the headphones. You won't be able to hear anything other than the banging and buzzing anyway.

Most importantly, ask questions. Ask for explanations. Research. Seek out help. It's all out there ready for the taking. Don't be afraid to use it.

Wow, there are so many other things I could tell you, but I don't want overwhelm you. You'll figure it all out in your own time.

NOW, having said all that, listen very closely because this is the important part. You've got this. You will discover that you are way stronger than you ever imagined. You will learn to embrace the freaky MRI pictures of your brains. You will get to a point where sticking a needle in your stomach, thighs, hips or arms no longer makes you flinch. You will learn to fall and not get hurt. You will learn to laugh about all of this. You will do things you never thought you could--even before your diagnosis. You will be awesome. Hang in there. It's going to be OK.

Desperately Seeking Stability

Have you ever seen those stability things at the gym? You know, the ones that look like this:

Well, the other day when I was working out I decided to give one a try. Working on balance is a constant goal of mine since I basically have, well, none. I pulled the balance thingy over in front of the mirror and confidently attempted to hop onto it. Well, I didn't really hop onto it because that would have been stupid and disastrous.

But I stepped on with one foot...and then attempted the other. Fail. I tried again. Fail. Luckily for me, I had placed the disc-looking thingy not far from the mirror--though I'm not sure why I would be stupid enough to do that and watch myself fall all over the place. But I sure was glad it was there so I had something to brace myself against instead of face planting on the gym floor. I do offer my apologies, however, to whoever had to clean all of my finger, palm, and face marks off the mirror.

After about the third failed attempt of climbing onto the balance ball or whatever you call it, I decided it must have been the equipment that was causing the problem. God knows it wasn't  me. So I confidently retrieved the larger, more sturdy looking stability ball, trying to play it off like it was part of my workout regimen. It had a solid base, so logically it would be easier, right?

Wrong. After I fell off the first time, I turned to see the guy working out next to me staring in my direction. I smiled, and returned to my workout. Step up, fall. Step up, fall. I puffed out my breath as if I had just completed an intense workout and returned the equipment to where it belongs. I came back and gathered up my belongings, patted my forehead with my towel and headed for the treadmill. You know, sometimes walking's much easier than standing. At least for me.