Having spoken of lamentable present day realities, let us speak for a moment of olden days.
Up until the time I was about 50, I spent several weeks of every summer in the High Cascades of Oregon -- Camping, fishing, hiking, climbing, swimming, boating. I hiked seven miles up hill to the base of the peak of Mt. Jefferson, carrying a backpack for a two night stay on the shore of the snow-water lake there. Reaching the highest ridge before the little valley that dipped down to the base of the peak, I decided to descend cross-country rather than follow the trail, down through the shale rock, between the hearty tufts of grasses and huckleberry bushes, past deep blue pools, one of which was bridged by a slowly melting snowbank, over the final crags of stone and to the spreading green below, shot through with wildflowers every color of the rainbow.
I climbed four times the 7200 foot hill known as Olallie Butte, scrabbling up the final barren hump on hands and knees. two feet forward, one foot back. We -- I, my brother and our friend -- made a challenge of seeing who could reach the top first and in the fastest time.
I rowed the length of Olallie Lake, 3 miles, and then rowed back against the wind.
I climbed nearly every trail and visited nearly every lake in that wide and rugged wilderness; and if there was a hill above the highest lake, I climbed that hill to see what was on the other side.
In Bali, already 55 years of age, I swam almost every day; and in Thailand, we boated, swam and snorkeled the day long at Krabbe Island; and in Bangkok, we walked miles to visit temples and markets and the sites of the city. In Georgetown, Malaysia, we walked from morning to evening, visiting the historic sites, stopping off at cafes and local markets.
The point is, I have not always been a cripple. I was strong, and agile, and sure of foot, and full of energy, and seemingly tireless. And when the day was done, I would go out at night and enjoy the bar or the club with friends.
These are the things that MS has taken from me. This is the me that MS has murdered. I remember it now as if it were a fiction, and yet I was there, once upon a time, in the flesh -- and not long ago, at that.
You don't 'get better' from MS. You don't recover. You don't regain what is lost. You don't 'get back on your feet' again. You lose, little by little, irrepressibly. Little by little, you disappear.
Up until the time I was about 50, I spent several weeks of every summer in the High Cascades of Oregon -- Camping, fishing, hiking, climbing, swimming, boating. I hiked seven miles up hill to the base of the peak of Mt. Jefferson, carrying a backpack for a two night stay on the shore of the snow-water lake there. Reaching the highest ridge before the little valley that dipped down to the base of the peak, I decided to descend cross-country rather than follow the trail, down through the shale rock, between the hearty tufts of grasses and huckleberry bushes, past deep blue pools, one of which was bridged by a slowly melting snowbank, over the final crags of stone and to the spreading green below, shot through with wildflowers every color of the rainbow.
I climbed four times the 7200 foot hill known as Olallie Butte, scrabbling up the final barren hump on hands and knees. two feet forward, one foot back. We -- I, my brother and our friend -- made a challenge of seeing who could reach the top first and in the fastest time.
I rowed the length of Olallie Lake, 3 miles, and then rowed back against the wind.
I climbed nearly every trail and visited nearly every lake in that wide and rugged wilderness; and if there was a hill above the highest lake, I climbed that hill to see what was on the other side.
In Bali, already 55 years of age, I swam almost every day; and in Thailand, we boated, swam and snorkeled the day long at Krabbe Island; and in Bangkok, we walked miles to visit temples and markets and the sites of the city. In Georgetown, Malaysia, we walked from morning to evening, visiting the historic sites, stopping off at cafes and local markets.
The point is, I have not always been a cripple. I was strong, and agile, and sure of foot, and full of energy, and seemingly tireless. And when the day was done, I would go out at night and enjoy the bar or the club with friends.
These are the things that MS has taken from me. This is the me that MS has murdered. I remember it now as if it were a fiction, and yet I was there, once upon a time, in the flesh -- and not long ago, at that.
You don't 'get better' from MS. You don't recover. You don't regain what is lost. You don't 'get back on your feet' again. You lose, little by little, irrepressibly. Little by little, you disappear.
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