Tonight I am limping, but that’s because this afternoon I swam for an hour. I wasn’t swimming in the ocean, but the Cincinnati sky was as blue as any ocean, and that alone made it all worthwhile.
Posts Tagged ‘MS’
Mother’s Day, 2012
“If you want to know how a guy is going to treat you down the road, take a look at how he treats his mother. If he’s respectful of his mother, he’ll be respectful toward you. If he’s a jerk to his mother…you’d better dump him. Fast.”
My mother’s guidelines were intended to direct me to a suitable marriage partner. I applied them accordingly, and married a guy who adored his mother. That was twenty years ago. My mother’s advice proved so effective, I thought I’d never have the need for it again.
This summer, I was given a rare opportunity to apply Mom’s precepts to a relationship in an entirely different sphere. The man in question had done some business with my lady-parts, but that did not make him a potential romantic partner. The man in question was my urologist.
When I’d met the urologist in his clinic, I’d been dressed in a johnny coat. He’d been dressed in a suit and tie. His old-world formality, his swarthy complexion and his slicked-back, jet-black hair reminded me of my dear departed Grandpa Blanco. But despite the family resemblance, deep in my heart I didn’t trust the guy. I thought he was a show-off. He seemed more interested in impressing me with the latest gee-whiz treatment than in treating me appropriately.
A relationship with a doctor ought to be strictly professional, not personal, so I put whatever personal reservations I might have about him to the side. Yet a nagging voice inside me wondered if perhaps this man’s showmanship might lead to a less than desireable outcome. I was on the fence about seeing him again, or pursuing his “cutting edge” treatment, in part because I didn’t want to go through the trouble of shopping for a new urologist, and in part because mere intuition didn’t seem like a reliable measurement of a doctor’s professional aptitude.
As fate would have it, my intuition would be proven correct, luckily without the messy consequence of an undesired clinical outcome.
In what would be my last encounter this urologist, I was dressed in street clothes, and he was dressed, as always, in his suit and tie. I was carrying a parcel, a bright silk dress I’d purchased off the $50 rack in the back of the shop, which was nestled in the heart of the self-proclaimed “largest bridal district in North America.”
We both did a bit of a double-take, as sometimes happens when you run across a familiar person in an unfamiliar context. My husband and son arrived at the shop, having finshed their task of getting measured for tuxedos across the street. I introduced them to my “doctor” without spelling out his specialty for all the assembled would-be brides and bridesmaids to hear. And then the explanation for the urologist’s presence in a bridal shop became clear. A little old lady hobbled over to us on the arm of a lovely young college girl. The urologist introduced us to his daughter and his mother, who had just flown in that morning from Iran for a family wedding.
I couldn’t help it—I shared my delight at the bargains on the fifty dollar rack. “You couldn’t buy this much silk for fifty bucks! It’s Dupioni.”
As it turned out, the urologist knew all about the $50 rack. They were only there for the bargains. As nothing on the rack “carryies her size,” the urologist was planning on driving his mom to Goodwill to peruse the dresses there.
Goodwill? I wondered if his shopping plans weren’t a bit labor intensive. Why not pay full price at one of the 250 bridal shops within these scant two blocks? Hadn’t the urologist’s mother already had quite a day, flying all the way out to our fair midwestern city from Iran?
“She’s made of iron. Look at her.”
At this point, our party of two families had moved onto the street. My husband was halfway down the block, in a hurry to get to the car so he could deliver me from this unpleasant awkward encounter here in bridal shop purgatory. My son was halfway between his dad and his mom, tarrying in case I needed an arm. The urologist was keeping up with me, while the urologist’s mother, that stalwart traveler, was shuffling slowly but determinedly past the fifties-era storefronts, unaided by her granddaughter or her son.
At that moment, I made my decision. Dump him. The urologist wouldn’t wait up for his ancient mother, no matter how I tried to slow our pace. The man was too cheap to buy his mother a new dress for a wedding she’d traveled a long way to attend. If he could afford a plane ticket from Iran, he could afford a full priced dress.
My husband pulled up alongside us. My son opened the car door for his mother.
That is how it’s done.
When I waved goodbye to the urologist, I knew it was forever. The next specialist to weigh on the situation was a gynecologist recommended by my local MS doc. She told me that if I were to continue to follow the advice of that urologist, I would end up in bad shape. Not that I needed a professional opinion to confirm …Mother knows best.
One summer night, my husband and I were sitting on a picnic bench outside an ice cream shop in one of the more precious neighborhoods in Cincinnati, as our son and his buddies from Shakespeare Camp clowned around and blew off some post-performance steam. The flavor of the outing was pure vanilla. Let’s just say none of the boys would be a shoe-in for the role of Othello.
My husband said, “I don’t feel white here.”
My husband is white. Half white. He is also half Chinese.
He spent most of his childhood in North Dakota, except for a year in Pakistan. There were no Chinese kids, or other half Chinese kids, in Grand Forks, North Dakota. There were no Chinese kids, or other half Chinese kids, in Lahore, Pakistan. Of the two cities, Lahore was by far the more racially diverse.
In North Dakota, my husband-to-be was regarded as an alien. In Pakistan, he was regarded as an American. It’s hard to guess which must have felt more uncomfortable. Even back in the ‘70’s, Americans were not exactly beloved in Pakistan.
In any case, his identity as an American pretty much evaporated as soon as he returned to the good old US of A.
Chinese Americans can tell at a glance that he’s not Chinese. Just like white Americans can tell at a glance that he’s not white.
There is one state in the union where my husband blends right in. While vacationing in Hawaii, he may be offered a local discount via a top-secret hand gesture and a knowing smile. For an hour or two, he’ll be all puffed up. And then he’ll be offered a fork at a Chinese restaurant. Deflated, he’ll be forced to ask for chopsticks.
When we moved to Cincinnati, I think things got a little easier for him. (I could be dead wrong.) Race in Cincinnati is black and white. Black Cincinnatians and white Cincinnatians can all agree on one thing. My husband isn’t black. Which means, for all intents and purposes, he’s white.
That standard generally holds, unless my husband happens to be surrounded by unfamiliar white people. Then he’s not-white. And the question hovers, usually unspoken, unexpressed, except through second glances.
“What is he?”
On this vanilla flavored outing, my husband and I talked to the other Shakespeare parents about volunteer opportunities at the arts school, about an upcoming pool party at the swim and tennis club. We did not openly mock the affluent white street guitarist playing Bob Marley. Instead, we exchanged whispers and surreptitious snickers.
After our breathless son rejoined us, my husband went off to get the car. He wasn’t just being a gentleman. That particular evening, it wasn’t physically possible for me to get up and join him for the three block walk on a mild summer night.
Once my husband pulled up in front of the ice cream shop in our Element, the gig was up. It was my turn to be the outsider. I stood. My knees buckled. Our son took my arm. My knees buckled again. Once, twice, three times more before fair Hamlet got me to the car.
I, too, have a shifting identity. For me, relapsing/remitting multiple sclerosis (MS) means sometimes I can walk, and sometimes I can’t.
What am I?
I am disabled. I have a placard to prove it.
What am I?
I am healthy. I can swim a lot of laps.
Once—only once—a man yelled at me as I walked or ran, I suppose with undue vigor, away from my placarded car.
“You’re not disabled.”
What does he know?
Usually, when I run from my car, I am running to the bathroom, ‘cause I have an MS bladder, and I’ve really got to pee.
Sometimes, when I see an available handicapped spot, I don’t have to pee. My legs feel just a wee bit tingly. I entertain the notion of parking further back. If there is only one empty handicapped parking space, I may just keep the placard in the glove compartment, and park somewhere less accessible. Which doesn’t always turn out to be such a smart decision. I can’t tell you how many times I have parked politely, and then felt not-so-good on my return. I have had to lean on a full shopping cart as if for dear life, my legs in excruciating pain, as I’ve pushed the cart past two, maybe three, perfectly empty handicapped parking spaces.
So much for that.
My husband doesn’t get to choose when he is perceived as white. I don’t get to choose when I am perceived as disabled.
I look disabled when I’m in my wheelchair.
I look fit when I swim my laps.
If I didn’t swim, if I didn’t persistently lift very minimal weights, I would not be at all toned. I would not be able to blend right in with all those other white parents from Shakespeare Camp, if only for a while.
Oddly enough, my husband still hasn’t gotten over caring what other people think about our parking our car in a handicapped spot. He will often run around the car, and give an ostentatious show of offering me his arm, whether I need it or not. It’s like he’s broadcasting, “See, people, my poor wife is handicapped. That’s the reason why we’re using this spot.”
He clearly feels the pressure of the unasked question.
“What is she? Is she really handicapped?”
Screw that. I’m not dead yet. Don’t put me in box.
And while you’re at, screw, “What is he?”
Race is a construction.
So is disability. All of us have an uneven distribution of abilities. These attributes will wax and wane over time. We might as well relax about affixing any labels. They all peel off eventually.
What am I?
Who are you to ask?
“Lies are what the world lives on, and those who can face the challenge of the truth and build their lives to accord are finally not many, but the very few.” -Joseph Campbell
When I first went on daclizumab, I was euphoric. After going through six neurologists, and three MS medications, I finally found a brilliant neurologist who had uncovered an off-label medication that appeared to actually work.
My husband remained unmoved. He girded himself for every outcome, including the possibility that the medication would fail.
I shared his neutrality. At first. But then daclizumab surpassed my expectations. I had wanted nothing more than a medication that would prevent further exacerbations. What I got was a medication that did all that and more. Suddenly, I felt…able. I was able to hike and swim and lift weights. So I did. I pushed my suddenly able body to astonishing new limits. I rode the wave. I soared. My husband stood steadfast, like a beacon on the shore. He appreciated my toned body, but he didn’t expect it to last.
Indeed, it didn’t last.
No body lasts.
Years passed. My physical capabilities became less and less astonishing. I had very much enjoyed becoming super-fit. As my physical parameters kept shrinking, I kept pushing back. It was with great reluctance that I finally learned to stop wanting more of my body than it can deliver.
This week, my hard-won acceptance was put to the test. I would have to also learn to stop wanting more of my medication than it can deliver.
The moment of truth arrived on Tuesday. I finally received the news my husband has been girding against ever since I started taking daclizumab, shortly after Tysabri was pulled from the market in ‘05. In all that time, my MRI’s have always come back with no further lesions. I’ve been lucky.
I’ve kept up on the preliminary results of the daclizumab trials, and while they are impressive, I couldn’t help but notice there hasn’t been a 100% cessation of disease activity across the board. Something had to give.
Now finally, something has.
My latest MRI came back with one enhanced lesion.
Just one little lesion, located in the so-called “silent area.” My local neurologist doesn’t think one lesion would be worth attacking with steroids. (And I must say, I’m relieved.)
The news of the MRI didn’t shock me. It was almost a comfort. I already knew I wasn’t well. It actually felt good to have some confirmation that there was a reason, even if that reason was inconveniently screaming from the “silent area.”
Daclizumab has worked wonders for me. But it is what is. It’s a medication—the best I’ve ever taken. It is not a miracle. It is not a cure.
Daclizumab is fallible. Just like me. That doesn’t mean it’s a failure.
I’m glad I haven’t been afraid to hope. Hope did me no harm, after all. Yes, I was once euphoric, but with good reason. I’d been given a reprieve. When the facts changed, I didn’t break. I changed along with them.
It’s been a good ride.
Today a specialist asked me if I had a certain personality.
I may have responded with an arch look.
He rephrased the question. “How would you describe yourself? Your personality? ”
I knew where he was going with that line of questioning. He wanted me to confirm his at-a-glance hypothesis that I am a Type A personality. Apparently The Specialist subscribes to the popular theory that Type A personalities are more prone to autoimmune diseases like multiple sclerosis (MS.)
“Has anyone ever told you that you are a control freak?”
He has nothing to gain from this line of reasoning. Think about it. Of the two of us, who is more likely to have a Type A personality: the guy with the medical degree, or the gal with the MFA?
I countered, “I think that’s just blaming the victim.”
I don’t (necessarily) have a bad personality. I just have a bad disease.
The Specialist kept describing the Type A personality. “Do you set goals for yourself?”
“Sure I do. And maybe I’ll accomplish all of those goals in a day, and maybe I’ll only accomplish only one. Or none at all. My body has the final say.”
“So you’ve reached Acceptance.”
Acceptance. I didn’t know what The Specialist would think about that. Acceptance doesn’t carry much of a cachet among Type A personalities.
I ventured, “I don’t know if that’s good.”
Though of course, I do know that it’s good. In my case, Acceptance is reasonable. All my MRI’s in the past four years have come back showing no new lesions. It’s appropriate to reach Acceptance when you’re on a drug that actually works.
The Specialist was happy to hear about the efficacy of the drug, even though he couldn’t find “daclizumab” or “DAC HYP” on his portable information device. (I probably spelled it all wrong.) He seemed more frustrated that he couldn’t shoehorn my personality into his Type A hypothesis. He kept trying. He listed high achievers who had autoimmune diseases. Montel Williams’ MS. Michael J. Fox’s Parkinsons.
I could think of one other thing these guys had in common, besides autoimmune diseases. “These guys are both celebrities. You kind of have to be a high achiever to become a celebrity.”
Whereas, you absolutely don’t have to be a high achiever to become a patient with MS. It’s just not that simple. I know plenty of high achievers. And most of them are not celebrities. Most of them don’t have an autoimmune disease, either. Nor do they deserve one.
I don’t deserve one, either.
“Do you think you used to have a Type A personality, back before your diagnosis?”
Back before my diagnosis, I’d majored in philosophy. What kind of Type A personality would be stupid enough to major in a thing like that?
The kind of Type A personality who thought English majors weren’t thinking hard enough.
Have it your way, Specialist.
He proposed, “Some people think meditation could be helpful for people with multiple sclerosis.”
So now he’s “some people.”
“Meditation could be helpful for anyone.”
I’m not making a very good case for my being a Type other than A.
The Specialist is an Ear, Nose, Throat guy.
He finally got around to asking me to stick out my tongue.
“You know, thousands of years of Chinese medicine has taught them to diagnose an entire person with one glimpse of the tongue.”
I had my tongue sticking out, so I couldn’t reply. And anyway, I didn’t think of a good comeback until after I left the examining room. Here it is: “For hundreds of years, Gypsies have said they can see a person’s fate with one glimpse of the palm.” You don’t see me rushing out to consult any gypsy. I consulted my half-Chinese husband instead. My half-Chinese husband said my sharp tongue was one of the first qualities he loved about me.
So maybe there is a perk to being Type A, after all.
The Specialist had said, “Things happen for a reason.”
I agree with half of that statement. Things happen. But If you’re going to look for a reason, don’t stick your tongue out at a Chinese guy, and thrust your palm onto a gypsy’s lap. That’s just silly. None of us are so special we should waste our breath whining, “why me?”
I may have a strong personality, but I don’t think it’s so strong it could cause a disease.
While I was waiting for The Specialist, I was reading Population 485, a delightful book by a Michael Perry, a volunteer fireman. He writes, “We are creatures of myth, hungry for metaphor and allegory, but most of all, hungry for sense.”
Sometimes our hunger for sense has us gobbling up nonsense.
Perry writes, “Surely, we tell ourselves, we can’t die just because we hit a patch of pebbles on a curve.”
But as Perry clearly illustrates, we can and we do.
We identify with our problems, with our illness, with our fate, instead of detaching, and researching cause and effect.
I think I’ve figured out why I contracted MS. It had nothing to do with my personality, and everything to do with my intestinal parasites.
Surprised? So was I.
It’s a wild, random world. (Is this the observation of a Type A control freak?)