Lifestyle: The Darkness
Published by: Randee Head on Monday July 30th, 2012
Tonight, I am beyond exhaustion. I am typing with my eyes closed because I can’t keep them open. I forgot to take the medicine for my spasms today. I took it about an hour ago, and the spasms are finally beginning to subside. I can only think of sleep.
I know I have to make that long walk to the bedroom. It is only thirty feet away, but it looms before me like a marathon. I will have to try to stand up long enough to brush my teeth. I will grab the handle by the bed. I use it because I need something for balance while I get into bed. I will stand there – holding on – willing my right leg to cross the huge chasm of one foot. Will it work? Can I shift to one side or the other? How can I make it happen? I am so tired.
I try lurching, so my foot will end up on the bed. It works. Tonight, it works. I am so relieved. I can be so weak that it takes several tries before I succeed. I am more and more tired with each attempt. If I move a bit, change the angle, push a little harder – maybe it will happen. So far, I haven’t fallen asleep on the floor. Of course, that would be a problem because while I may be able to get down on the floor, I could never get up.
I happen to be tired tonight, but the physical battle is the same every night. I have Multiple Sclerosis and know that each day leaves me a tiny bit weaker because of the existing damage. I know the day will come that I will need assistance. I face an end of life that will leave me completely helpless.
Tonight, I am tired and sad. As you might expect, Multiple Sclerosis contributes to depression. It doesn’t normally get to me, but I am half asleep. I drift off, momentarily, only to be awakened by the reality of gravity. I know I have to get up, so I do.
However, even now, it is okay. I know that tomorrow will come. I know that I will be better tomorrow. That is the nature of hope. That is why I put my sadness and loss on a shelf where it belongs. I envision myself getting up and moving toward the bedroom. I will think of the satisfying moment when I I pull the covers up and fall asleep before I can finish the thought.
I will focus on tomorrow. I know the sun will rise, and I will be ready.
The day has dawned. I open my eyes. What will be working today? How will I get up? I assume the position and push hard. Wow. I’m up, on my knees and crawling to the edge of the bed. I’m off and, well, not running but, at least, walking.
I feel fine. I feel rested. That is always a good sign. No headache. That is an even better sign. It’s time to get going. I survived the assault – again. I know it’s just one day at a time, but the day is mine, and I will take it. Good morning.