Eight

I am starting treatment for MS this month. I should have started treatment a year ago when I first noticed my foot drop. Every doctor gave me their opinion, yes it is MS, no it’s not. No one wanted the diagnosis attached to their name. A year ago I could lift my arms up all the way and lifting my legs didn’t require my hands.

The last 24 hours have aged me. My eyes look bruised. My skin has lost color. My clothes feel wrong. I write a request to my doctor to switch to a higher protein tube feed. Imagine asking your doctor for permission to switch from 0% fat Greek yogurt to 5%. Food is medicine except for me it’s poison. I review the nutritional gaps between what my formula provides and the recommended daily intake. I research supplements. I am exhausted.

EDS is not a progressive disorder. MS has the potential to be. That’s a different pill to swallow. Bitter. Strangely shaped. A diagnosis means treatment. Treatment means remission. Treatment is another fucking medication. I surely have BINGO by now. I make a note to research any cases of MS killing all the nerves in the colon.

You always forget the fatigue that comes with it. A tired so burdensome you don’t feel real. Like the body held its breath for too long. Metaphoric lips purple, skin red. You breathe in. All sensation comes back and somehow it’s louder, brighter, more violent. It’s electric boogie oogie woogie.