Is It, Or Is It Not?

How does one know whether a problem he is currently experiencing is MS or not MS? Moreover, how does he know whether MS has combined with the problem with the result of making the problem worse, or indeed whether the present problem is making the MS worse?

Shall we see multiple sclerosis as something which consistently invades and infects all other parts and processes of the body--and of the mind too, for that matter--or does it sometimes stand aloof, disinterested in, say, the broken bone, the torn muscle, or what have you?

As recently mentioned here, I happened to hurt my back the other day. All it took was rising suddenly from a chair. The same thing has happened 2 or 3 times in the past, and so I wasn't surprised to find myself groaning with pain on the dining room floor. I remember this happening somewhere in my 20s, and then again at about the age of 40. It's not pleasant, but it goes away in due time.

Nonetheless, I find myself wondering this time around, The pain seems more persistent, more severe, and has begun to radiate to my ribcage and my upper thighs. Was it like this before? Well, had I been blogging back then, I guess I'd know. But on the other hand, I guess there was no such thing as blogging back then.

In short, I begin to connect all things to MS. Was it MS, for instance, that had caused me to fall in the first place? The truth is, it happened so fast that I cannot now remember the mechanics of the thing. Did I fall first, and then feel pain; or did I feel pain first, then fall?

This is why we should all have camera crews to follow us around, kind of like Bear Grylis, only not so entertaining. Actually more like America's Funniest Videos.

Come to think, along those lines, it would likely be beneficial for each of us to have his own MRI scanner. That way we could take a look for any events that may have happened in the brain or spinal cord and therefore be able to say with some certainty whether MS had something to do with our latest mishap or not. Not that we could do anything about it one way or the other--but still, it would cut some corners, and some costs, and would be certainly more convenient than lining up at the hospital. Right? And when not in use, the thing could be easily enough disguised as a couch or a sparring bag.

Just a thought.

But for now I am left to merely wonder whether this problem with my back is the same old slipped disk that I've suffered in the past, or whether I'm feeling the effect of raw nerves newly stripped of their myelin sheath.

Time will tell. And that, in itself, is about the only sure thing there is with MS.

Broken Back and Other Trauma, Thanks to Satan, the God of this World

My life of late is a chronology of troubles. First off you have the baseline MS, which causes its own troubles every day. Then I get the kidney stone, then the kidney stone surgery. Then I receive a $250 traffic ticket which I never actually received. The next day I find that my driver's license has been suspended. In the meantime Capital One is suing me for a debt I had not known existed. And now, yesterday, I somehow totally screw up my back just by rising from a chair.

Yes, I was sitting at the dining room table, working on a letter to the circuit court (yet another letter, I mean), and the CD in the stereo, some 6 feet away, was skipping and crackling through Edvard Grieg's piano concerto (for the disk apparently had a scratch). Rising quickly to put a stop to this insult to a great work of musical artistry, I went down just as quickly, like the proverbial sack of potatoes (which I actually physically resemble, if you want to know the truth).

Upon rising, my back just stopped. It simply quit on me. As did my legs. So I'm worming across the floor, propelling myself with my feet, saying "Ow, ow, ow, ow, shit, ow," working my way toward my cane, which is about 500 miles away on the stairway banister. Both of the dogs, comfortable on the sofa, are staring at me. I have disturbed their sleep. My son is upstairs, inextricably tied to his X-Box. He pays even less attention to my trauma than the dogs.

Today I must somehow get my son's SSI money to him. I make it as far as the Wamu and then halfway back to my car when I go down again. Crawling to a sitting position against the wall, I light up a cigarette, just like everyone else, and I call my first ex-wife for help. Then I call my son.

He tells me that the devil is very active these days. He is attacking people right and left, leaving them with wounds and diseases and every kind of trouble in between. He tells me that he passed out the other day in a heavily wooded area in his neighborhood. He does not know how long he laid there. He just remembers somebody finding him--a transient, a derelict, a hobo--you know, one of those sorts of outcasts from decent society. The man helped him, fed him something, saw him back home.

My son, you see, has type 1 diabetes mellitus. Has had it ever since he was 4 years old. He takes several shots of insulin a day, and sometimes this sort of artificial measure does not work out so well--more and more of the time, quite frankly--which, in itself, is attributable to other problems, which I will not go into here. At least at the present time.

Yes, the devil is very active, and focusing particularly on me. And my son. Damn you, Lucifer! Damn you to hell!

Or . . . hm . . . wait a minute now . . . Oh well, never mind.

Now those with MS are those who understand that MS makes every difficulty just a little more difficult, every pain just a little more painful--the way a good friend makes all things funner, only the opposite. Pain in the back, therefore, is not enough. My legs must also go numb, my crotch must also ache, other parts of varying name and nature must fail to respond appropriately to my desires. A body in rebellion. So it is. So it has been for just about as long as I can remember now (the good news is that that is not very long).

Poor old grampa, my young wife says.

Sure. Poor grampa indeed.

My Left Foot

My left foot has begun to drag. I guess that's what they call "foot drop." This seems, unlike many other medical terms, perfectly descriptive. Nonetheless, I am more inclined to call it obstinate. The same way my father used to call me obstinate. I have to keep looking behind me to see if the foot is still coming along. Yo, get with the program, I will say, and yet the foot persists in its recalcitrant ways, and finally begins to pout. I'm thinking of sending it to military school. Either that or church camp.

In the meantime, my neurologist has left his practice for a teaching position at UCLA. Maybe he could take my foot along with him? If not, it will just have to wait for a new neurologist sometime in the dim future (the clinic is looking for one--no doubt under rocks and in other nooks and crannies, as this, I think, is where they are most often to be found).

Also my back is aching like a SOB. This, however, is not due to MS. It is due to the fact that my chair is too low and my desk is too high. It is an ergonomic problem, and I cannot really figure out what to. I am thinking of either raising the floor or lowering the ceiling. Or sitting on a phone book. Or sawing off the legs of the desk. There are a number of options, all of which are presently under consideration.

Concomitantly, I am trying to beat the standard line count, which is how we transcriptionists earn incentive pay (which the IRS in turn takes in taxes). My foot has no objection to this pursuit, but my back does not care for the idea at all. My back, as it were, is stabbing me in the back, and has become, therefore, as obstinate as my foot.

The rebellion of the body, part by part. Ain't that what MS is all about?