Why I Run

Doctors don't tell you that you have MS like the way you see it portrayed on television dramas.  You know, in hushed, gentle tones; maybe trying to prepare you emotionally for the bad news with a lot of eye contact and perhaps some hand holding.   It's a matter of fact business because let's face it, if you're in the profession in which you'd find yourself breaking this sort of dreary news, you'd be a basketcase if you really thought about what kind of life most likely awaits the 29-year old, stay-at-home mom who can't really feel much of her own body from about mid-chest chest down.

That 29-year old mom would be me.  Back then.  Circa New Year's Day, 1994.   At Mission Hospital.  

I took the news remarkably well.  This was due in part because I was relived it wasn't something worse.  My neurologist had recited to me a laundry list of horrendous possible disease and disorder explanations for the paralysis few days prior: Lou Gehrig's disease, brain tumor, Lupus...  While he was reciting these possibilities, as if I were buying a pair of shoes, I was mentally trying on each one for size, "Ugh. No thanks. Next..."  I kept waiting for The Cause that would be cured with a simple antibiotic prescription and a few days rest; maybe someplace warm...like Hawaii.   There wasn't anything like that on his list.    

After marinating with the all possibilities for a few days, MS didn't seem quite so bad.  Seriously.  It was odd to think I might spend some portion of my life in a wheelchair but I was rather fond of sitting.  I could make it work.  Plus, by the time the neurologists had narrowed the cause down, I could get around fairly well with a walker.  I couldn't really feel my legs and feet, but as long as they were getting the message to move from my brain, I was willing to make the most of it for as long as it would last.   

When friends and family heard the news, I got a lot of sympathy.  This annoyed me.  I wondered who these overly-sympathetic people thought they were, behaving as if life was going to leave them utterly unscathed.  I didn't think, "Why me?"  I thought, "Why not me?  Who am I to get a special pass on the consequences of living a life?"  


Other than a handful of exceptions, most people would come visit me and I would end up trying to comfort them.  "I am the same person sitting down that I am standing up," I'd say.  "I can be paralyzed and miserable, or just paralyzed.  The misery part is strictly optional, right?"   I wasn't in cheery denial.  I really did see misery as an option I could take or leave, though I'd be remiss if I didn't give God the credit here.  I really felt in my heart of hearts that everything was going to be alright.  I truly did.  I didn't know what was going to happen to me, but I was going to be okay with it.  I may not end up living my first choice lifestyle, but generally speaking, I didn't have to make peace with it - I was at peace with it.  From the get-go.  And I didn't do a thing to bring on that peace.  It just was.  Amen. 

Happily, I recovered most of my physical abilities to near completion within a few months.  By April 1994, I was passing myself off as a perfectly functioning human being.  I was walking totally unassisted, though I was still finding myself exhausted doing the simplest daily household tasks.  By the time I gave birth to Sabrina, two years had passed and I was doing well.  After her birth, I went on beta-interferon, which I had to inject into my thigh once a week, after I had plied myself with a beer (ever the cheap date).  I had decided I wasn't going to give MS any place in my life - MS would have to take whatever it got.  I took the kids to the park every day; I coached Cassandra's first soccer team; I walked an 8K for a local charity.  I did have bad days; days in which I couldn't physically accomplish much other than entertaining the kids, getting them fed, and to the park to play.  Those days weren't great - but I got through them.  I tried not to think about the future too much.  I wanted to make sure the kids had memories of me up on my feet and active; just in case.  And every New Year's Eve, I would run.  Not far, not fast.  But I would run, because I could.  I would put on the plaid flannel hoodie that I wore in the hospital the day I got my diagnosis, and at 11:59 pm and a handful of seconds, I would head out the front door and run in the new year.  Every year.  Alone.  I'd run as hard and as fast as I could.  When I started to hear horns blaring, the sound of cow bells, and people shouting, "Happy New Year!" I'd run faster.  And I'd keep running until I couldn't run another step.

Turns out, I didn't have MS; a fact I learned some five and a half years, and a new series of MRIs and blood tests later.  What I did have, as best as the neurologist could tell, was something called Transverse Myelitis.  It presents with the same symptoms MS does, but it's a much more rare condition.  The only real difference between MS and TM, is that TM is usually just a one-time event.  There are 3 possible outcomes with TM:  You end up never recovering at all; you end up with limited recovery and in need of an assistive device to get around; or you end up with a nearly full recovery and a handful of minor, mostly insignificant neurological issues.  I am in the third catagory.  My remaining issues are insignificant.  Most I can simply ignore, so I do.  Granted, no one can explain why the lesions on my optic nerve and brain just disappeared;  but they did.  Is it a misdiagnosis...or a miracle?   My take is everyone's nervous system is a miracle.  So is mine; so is yours.  Amen.

I gave up running in the new year when I got the re-diagnosis because I didn't feel the need to do so anymore.  These days, my New Year's Eve celebrations generally involve Tim, a fireplace, and number of glasses of champaign.  But every time I put on my running shoes in preparation for a run, I think of when I couldn't run; and I acknowledge that someday, I won't be able to.  Again.  I will have bad knees, or a pesky hip, or some other regular, old lady issue that will once again make running impossible for me.  Or maybe something else will sideline me before that.  It is possible.  This is life we're talking about.  No one has a guarantee for anything in this wild, wonderfully unpredictable, world.

I run because I can. 

Sabrina & Me
The Iron Girl Race - San Diego - 2009

The Return of the Absolute Laurie Blog

Admit it, you've missed me.  

Today I received two items in my mailbox.  One I had ordered; the mint green Nike Dri-Fit tank top, and a mysterious package from someone named Suzanne Atwood.  Suzanne Atwood?  I don't know anyone named Suzanne Atwood so naturally, I thought it was some sort of mail bomb because, you know, that's what mysterious packages from strangers always are on TV shows.   Always.  Every.  Single.  Time.  Hmmmm.. who do I know that would want to kill me in a dramatic yet desperately cowardly fashion?

Failing to come up with the name of anyone that I could have inspired such a passionate, deadly response, and despite my better television-honed judgement, I opened the package.   This is what was inside:

What the..?  My first guess was these were some sort of quilting squares from someone that mistook me for a person with some practical, useful talent.   And for some mysterious reason, they wanted me to make a really, really ugly quilt for them.  Obviously, this Suzanne Atwood person, who wants me to make an ugly quilt for her is totally unaware that I don't know the first thing about sewing.  Nothing.   I have on occasion, used a stapler to hem my dress pants and once in a pinch, busted out the duct tape.  My daughter Cassandra is the proud owner of a fistful of loose Brownie patches from back when she was in Girl Scouts.  They're sitting in a neat little pile my closet because you can't staple them to the little brown vests without being on the receiving end of a bunch of shade and negative social repercussions from all "The Good Mothers."

Meh.  Whatev.  I do other things well.  You know, things like using self-deprecating humor to dodge having to learn how to do stuff that would bore the living daylights out of me.

Intrigued, I googled up the name "Suzanne Atwood" and discovered she is the owner of a company that makes 100% organic baby products.  In fact, you can order a package of these little flannel squares which incidentally are spit-up cloths, for $18 a throw.  Ohhhhhhh, okay.  Wait.  Huh?

There must be some confusion on the part of Suzanne Atwood, or somebody, somewhere.  Either that or a friend of mine has mistaken the 10 pounds I need to lose for a devastating mid-life pregnancy.  And really if that's the case, why didn't they send narcotics?