Not to mention your achy muscles, et. al.
Yes. Those, as well. Also to the days of not being able to walk without gritting my teeth and falling down, to the days where there are apparently electric cattle prods being held up against my jawline, to the days when I can't cook because trying to use one of my pricey Henckels would lose my a finger or three because I can't coordinate what I not only love to do, but have been doing for thirty five years. Also to the days when I pick up a guitar and can sort of play it using sense memory, because the damaged nerves will never send those signals properly to the brain again.
Not to mention the ongoing terror that the damned disease will jump. Just because I have the easy version of it now doesn't mean it's going to stay that way. It's phase one now - it could go phase two and hit progressive tomorrow. It's not predictable. There's no way to know.
Being alive is about balance. I balance it by writing about it, and writing about it pretty damned effectively.
Also why I have zero tolerance - and I do mean zero - for any resentment towards the groovy stuff in my life.
edit: well, that was a gorgeous example of Deb the Thread Slayer. Not my intent, honestly.
In other news, first half of chapter eight sent out to WIP readers. Feedback, SVP?
Whether I liked it or not is irrelevant. It worked.
Yay!!!
-t's hit too close to my world right now.
deb, you didn't kill the thread on account of me; I was asleep. I had a good friend who had phase one MS the whole time I knew her, except the MS had made her paraplegic and wheelchair bound before calming down. And then, 20 or so years later, it ramped up again. She lived beautifully though.
Sometimes I wish my mother had gone that route, rather than a steep slope of ALS and out, so she'd learned to not resent the groovy stuff.
Ah well. Vibing hard for you that Rowling will read your letter at the very least.
Yep. It's a honkin' tricky bugger of a disease, not predictable at all.
But there are, quite seriously, worse things you can have.
I don't know anyone close to me -- really, anyone that I know of -- with MS, so as awful as it sounds, you have really educated me on what a fucking suckfest it is, and how hard it is to live with.
And you turn it into inspiration. That's amazing to me.
Ok, cue the "You are the Wind Beneath My Wings." I suck at communicating admiration tempered with a healthy lack of gooshing.
Drabble 107
You Only Hurt the One You Love
They found over a hundred pictures in the wallet. From a grinning and toothless child to Homecoming Queen to as recent as this morning. She was never too far from him. She had to be. She was what made sense. She was what grounded him. She was the only link to reality that was felt anymore. There was no driver’s license, social security card, or any official document linking this wallet to the body it was found on. Just these pictures. They all said, “Lisa loves me.”
They found it in his hands. He held it there while he strangled her.
ooh, Aims, v.v.nice. In that great so-wrong way!
Thanks, sj.
It just popped in there.
"What just popped in there, Ray?"
Who The Hell?
Digging through “The Bag”, I pull out a very strange assortment of items. I remove it all and set it on the table. What I’m looking for has to be in here. A bottle of sunscreen for the baby. The registration for the other car. The flotsam and jetsam of being a working adult: Pens, paperclips, those binder clip things. My actual purse is buried somewhere in here. Medical cards. Plastic refrigerator letters. A grape that is more than halfway to being a raisin.
I look at everything out in the open, searching for what I’m looking for.
I’m not there.
