Eminess and Me

 

I have given her a name.  My new constant companion, Multiple Sclerosis or “Eminess.”  (Sorry Mr. Marshall Mathers or Eminem)

Sharing my personal business with others has never been a big deal for me. I’d rather be an open book than locked up alone with my own thoughts.  That’s why I don’t ever hide my age.  Who would I be kidding?  But illness is different, somehow.

I remember being advised by my manager to never reveal the fact that I was taking anti-depressants to co-workers.  He said they would think of me as “crazy” and would regard me differently.  He was probably right about that, but I did share the fact with a few close friends.  It wasn’t as if it would be news to them that I was battling depression.

As unpopular as it is to admit, I really do care what people think of  me.  I’d much rather be thought of as strong than as feeble.   “Healthy” and “in great shape” are certainly preferable to “fragile” and “ill.” 

When I started collecting the many symptoms that led to my recent preliminary diagnosis of MS, I would off-handedly mention the symptom-du-jour and immediately dismiss it as just another challenge aging brings.  That I am aging was obvious and could not be denied, but it is something that everybody does, whether they like it or not.

However, when I began to suspect, subconsciously, that these events might be related, I noticed myself becoming more reticent.  I only shared how I was feeling if somebody asked, and then I would more often than not sugar-coat the answer.  I enjoy the comments I get about my relatively youthful appearance and mobility, and I didn’t want to bring any attention to evidence to the contrary.

One of the reasons I started the current round of doctor’s visits was the struggle I was having in my exercise class.  Six months ago, I was able to do everything asked of us and with great energy.  Sure I would get sweaty and short of breath, but I was able to do the chair pushups, the squats, the kicks and the bends non-stop.  Now, the quads, the front muscles of my thighs, were becoming totally fatigued about half-way through the reps. I would have to stop, give them a few seconds to recover, and begin again.

Then one day the woman behind me asked me if I was okay, because she noticed I wasn’t as “into it” as I usually was.

I hated that.  I hated that it was showing, but I hated it more because I didn’t seem to be able to to anything about it.  I told the woman I thought I was coming down with the flu or something.  Yeah, right.

Last Monday I decided it was necessary to share the truth with the instructor, who was also jokingly getting on me about slacking up or staying out late partying.  I also told my workout buddy, a woman I met when I joined that class who has a similar outlook on life and a high energy level.  I did that because I knew she was becoming concerned.  In both cases, I asked them not to tell anyone else and to please not treat me any differently.

On Tuesday morning, Eminess entered the gym before I did.  The instructor was nicer and paid more attention to what I was or was not doing.  My buddy kept glancing out of the corner of her eye to see if I was getting wobbly.  She whispered, “Don’t try to overdo it!”  When the time came to move a chair in place to do certain exercises, she sprang into motion to get one for me…which I nicely declined.

I suppose I will have to make room for Eminess, a companion I didn’t choose and don’t particularly like.  She seems to want to take center stage and steal the scenes. 

As I lay in the MRI machine for forty minutes yesterday trying to ward off the panic of claustrophobia, I made myself laugh with a thought.  What if I really don’t have MS?  What if this image completely negates those lesions on my brain, the tingling in my face and feet?  Wouldn’t that be great?  I could go back to the gym and do my best impression of Roseanne Roseannadanna:  Never mind.

Then I could kick that freakin’ Eminess to the curb! I already hate the bitch.