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Ch-ch-ch-changes: In Which I Stubbornly Resist Things That Make My Life Better

The trend began with tears at the good CVS on Capitol Hill. The one with aisles so wide that two people can pass each other without having to turn sideways. The one with a nice selection of greeting cards. The one with a rack of canes near the pharmacy.

It was spring 2010. Birds were chirping, and I was raising money for the MS Walk, which I jokingly referred to as the MS Stumble. I walked reasonably well back then, but my stamina was fading. Neal pulled a cane off the rack and wisely/annoyingly pointed out that now might be a good time to give it a try. I didn’t quite point out that he could go to hell, but I did resist, first angrily and then dissolving into a puddle of tears and acquiescence. He paid $25, and I was the defeated owner of a drug store cane, which made its debut at the Walk and became increasingly present and useful over the years.

The next battle was shower grab bars. “They’ll reduce the value of our home!”

A shower bench. “It’s so ugly! Where will we store it?!”

Mobility scooter. “I’ll look old! Besides, where will we store it?!”

And now we’ve come to the biggest change of all: moving from our lovely, old, completely inaccessible house to a beautiful, though less charming, condo. Friends, my brain knows that this change will make my life better, but my heart and tear ducts beg to differ each time I look out at the screened-in porch I have just a few weeks left to enjoy and the fireplace whose final fire I didn’t properly appreciate, not knowing it would be the last. I’m giving up a proper dining room, a jacuzzi tub (which, admittedly, I’ve needed help extracting myself from multiple times), exposed brick, THREE fireplaces . . . and the worst non-spiral staircase imaginable for someone with balance and fatigue issues. 

The staircase loss is an enormous gain, as is the fact that our new bedroom not only lacks a step but also has an en suite bathroom. My day-to-day life is about to get so much better, but still I’m weepy and not just in a sentimental I’ve-spent-six-years-making-this-my-home sort of way. These tears, like those that came before, are about personal loss. Needing to move to a condo is my 41-year-old version of being put into a home. It’s the most tangible (and expensive!) sign yet that my body, my life is different than it was a few years ago. It is–really, I am–weaker. And that sucks. I try to frame it as empowerment rather than loss. (Thank heavens for Neal, who is much better at this than I.) These first few weeks sting, though.

When I watch tv now and see a character walking unassisted, I sometimes think “Oh no! She’s left her cane at home!” That’s how normal previously weird and painful changes can become. I have faith that once I’m ensconced in my gorgeous new kitchen, I will feel sorry for those suckers whose homes have more than one story. It will take some time, though . . . and perhaps some assistance from my new wine fridge.

Aforementioned gorgeous new kitchen. Wine fridge not pictured.

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What’s a Nice Girl Like You Doing on a Scooter Like This: In Which We Examine Life with MS for the Vain

Back in middle school, my BFF Sarah and I would spend Friday nights on her four-poster bed, a fan pointed directly at us so we could snuggle under all of the covers no matter the time of year, talking into the wee-est of hours. Our favorite game was “What would you do?” and it went pretty much as you’d guess – one would ask the other the question, invariably about a boy’s action. The game almost always began with “What would you do if [insert boy-of-the-week’s name here] put his hand on your leg and told you you needed to shave?” This led to a flurry of giggles and protestation from the person being questioned because neither of us would ever be caught with less than silky smooth legs when boy-adjacent.

Oh, how times have changed.

I wince every time I catch a glimpse of the pelt on my legs presently. It’s only a couple of weeks’ growth; I am a quarter Italian, so genetics are against me in the battle against body hair. Until the past year I usually could muster up the energy to shave a couple of times a week, if not every other day. Now just standing under warm water long enough to shower thoroughly can leave me with barely enough energy to dress myself after. Wielding a sharp tool partway through the process is ill-advised.

Facial hair used to be managed with the excellent bliss Poetic Waxing kit (a joke I literally just got), but, when waxing sessions ended with my sink covered in green goo but my lady mustache intact, I switched to wax strips. Even that grew too difficult, so I’m now stuck with depilatories, the stink of which send me back to middle school faster than wondering what I’d do if Benji Barton put his hand on my hairy leg. Still, that cream gets the job done, and I am grateful . . .  until I spot a rogue hair requiring plucking.

Intention tremors are the enemy of good grooming, and nothing underlines that like trying to pluck a single hair. NIH says intention tremor “is produced with purposeful movement toward a target, such as lifting a finger to touch the nose. Typically the tremor will become worse as an individual gets closer to their target.” So when I aim a pair of tweezers at a single hair in my eyebrow (yeah, that’s the ticket, my eyebrow), I activate a hand tremor that makes it damned hard to get purchase on that hair no matter how coarse and dark it may be. Add my head tremor to the mix, and it’s amazing that I haven’t poked an eye out.

(Speaking of eyes, my interest in real eye make up–not just a swipe of mascara–sadly coincided almost exactly with my tremors’ onset.)

It would be disingenuous to bemoan MS’s effect on my hair (that which grows out of my skull, that is), as even in my liveliest, steadiest-handed days, I’ve never had much skill in the styling realm. Wash and wear has always been my way, barring a brief and failed flirtation with late 80s peacock bangs. That said, often I can manage merely a half-assed blow dry once shower fatigue has set in.

So what’s a vain girl trapped in an uncooperative body to do? Here are a few things that work for me.

1. Enlist an ally. I found Andre long before MS reared its ugly head. He’s the only person I’ve allowed to touch my brows for over a decade. Without him, my entire forehead would be one big eyebrow. He also is in charge of special occasion make up, because, lord knows, the chance of my expertly creating a smoky eye once is less likely only than my doing it twice in a single sitting.

2. Throw money at the problem. I lasered the hair off my underarms a decade ago. It didn’t go away completely, but I can now go a full month without shaving them before entering dirty hippie territory. Do your research to find a reputable place and keep your eyes peeled for Groupons.

3. Sit yo’ ass down. If you’re going to be vain, you might as well get yourself a vanity! You can buy a proper one or DIY. Mine consists of a smallish table with a desk lamp and mirror atop it plus all of my make up and jewelry. Sitting to primp is less fatiguing than standing. Yay! Plus, bracing my elbow on a table steadies it a bit, making it less likely that I stab myself with a mascara wand.

I imagine a different (and perhaps better) woman would say “Screw it!” and embrace her hairy, unadorned body with acceptance and love. Instead of leaning that way, I’ve gotten vainer. I accept the fact that I will fall in public and that people will think, “Oh, that poor lady! What’s wrong with her?” I just hope the word “pretty” will cross their minds, too.

“Who was that dazzling woman on the mobility scooter?”
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The Urethra Monologues, Part Two: In Which I Am Thrust Into the World of Self-Catheterization

Six months after braving Urodynamics, I was still on Doxazosin and pursuing a new approach: physical therapy. I first met with a wonderful woman outside of DC whose office was welcoming and yoga studio-like. I desperately wanted her to take care of me but knew that a 90 minute commute each way via Metro (ah, the good old days when I still traveled independently!) was too much. She referred me to a rehab practice in DC where I worked with a woman who definitely knew her stuff but was significantly less nurturing. Under her tutelage I did Kegel after Kegel to strengthen my pelvic floor. I was sent home with a rented device to put inside me while I did my exercises. It was a hard and unpleasant couple of months, but I did come out of if with better bladder control. For a while.


I continued to see the wonderful Dr. Phillips and returned for my second urodynamics study (some girls have all the luck!) the summer of 2012, two years after my first one. There were some unexpected updates. This time I was treated to a rectal probe (yay!) as well as a real-time x-ray type scan that allowed me to watch my bladder filling up like a balloon, which was a bizarre experience. Even before the test, the nurse scanning my void diary (which included 15+ bathroom trips/day) mentioned intermittent self-catheterization as a possible solution, and, by the time all was said and done, everyone agreed that we should give it a try. Um, right now? Ack.

I cried a little and then pulled myself together and gave it a go with the amazing nurse Hazel talking me through. It was neither easy nor comfortable, but it also wasn’t as hard or painful as I’d feared. And, as horrible as self-catheterization seemed, Hazel unintentionally provided me with some good perspective while giving me instructions. “You’d be amazed how many women look at me blankly when I say ‘Put your fingers around your clitoris.'” I might have to pee through a straw but at least I know where my clit is!

That first week was awful. In addition to having to lug my new catheter samples (including some alarmingly long ones) and lubricant, I carried what is commonly referred to as a “hat” — a plastic container that sat on the toilet seat so I could measure my output and report back to Hazel, who would then help me figure out how many catheters to order. Some days I managed to catheterize maybe twice after rendering my ladybits sore from inept poking around. It is a cruel coincidence that folks with MS who have to self-catheterize also likely have hand tremors and/or poor manual dexterity. Even now I sometimes struggle, but I did eventually get the hang of it. Dr. Phillips told me the goal was to be able to sit through a whole movie, and within a month I could do just that. 

Look I made a hat!
So, since 2012, I have peed unassisted only rarely, usually in what my father charmingly refers to as “floating molar” situations, where even my uncooperative bladder cannot help but behave properly. Self-catheterization has become as normal to me as toothbrushing. I cheerfully discuss my catheter needs and preferences with the staff at 180 Medical. (If, heaven forbid, you or someone you love ever has catheter needs, I cannot recommend them highly enough.) I have bought myself a series of stylish bags in which to hold my stash. I have been grateful not to be a slave to my bladder. Still, when I hear someone forcefully peeing in a stall next to me, I get a little wistful, knowing that will never be me again. Next time you have a really good pee, enjoy it for me.

P.S. Medical lubricant seems to come in two sizes — ketchup packet and large toothpaste tube. Once when I was out to dinner with my friend Donna, while getting up to go to the bathroom, a toothpaste-sized tube clearly marked LUBRICANT leapt from my purse, falling at the feet of our waiter. Donna made a noble effort to kick it out of the way, but it was too late. Lord knows what that waiter thought I was doing with that lube, but he didn’t make eye contact with me for the rest of the night.

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The Urethra Monologues, Part I: In Which We Embark on the Long Road to Botox

A few months after diagnosis (way back in 2004), it dawned on me that my frequent urination might be related to my MS. My neurologist put me on a few medications over the years in an attempt to calm this symptom None worked great and some came with annoying side effects like dry mouth, which caused me to drink more, which led to more urination, which defeated the purpose.

In 2009, I asked for a referral to a urologist and met with the cheerful Dr. Shin, a young-ish dude with a fauxhawk (hey, it was 2004) and an easy manner — upon learning we lived in the same neighborhood, he said, “Is it okay if I say hi when I see you? That freaks some patients out, talking to their urologist in public.” I assured him it was fine so long as we weren’t discussing my urinary habits. I believe Dr. Shin was more accustomed to dealing with men and their man problems, so at my next appointment I saw Dr. Phillips, a kind and good humored guy who knew a thing or two about neurological issues. I liked him immediately in spite of what he had in store for me.

And what was that, pray tell? Urodynamics. Sounds a little like a facet of Scientology, no? Of course, Scientology is full of shit, whereas urodynamics concerns itself with pee. Here’s how it goes:

Part one:  I emptied my bladder in a fairly traditional manner (just with the added clean-catch bells and whistles) and then having an ultrasound to see just how empty it was.  I passed this test just fine.

You can be the President. I’d rather be the Pope.

  

Part two: I stripped from the waist down and then sat on a strange throne sort of chair with a round section cut out of the front of the seat. A catheter was then inserted into my urethra, which was pretty damned uncomfortable going in and coming out, but wasn’t bad once in.  Three sensors were stuck on as well – one per cheek and one on my left thigh.  These measured nerve function.  I coughed a couple of times for the warm up, and then I had the bizarre experience of having my bladder filled from the bottom up with saline from an IV bag. I notified Dr. Phillips at various intervals of fullness sensation, later learning that my impulses were pretty normal there, barring my feeling full up a little earlier than most. I was then left alone to expel what had been put in, an awkward experience to say the least what with the sensors and tubes and the fact that I was sitting on a chair, hovering over a funnel and beaker. “Don’t worry if you miss,” said Dr. Phillips. I laughed, secure in my aim. Ha. I missed and missed good, peeing all over the pads they’d left on the floor. When he and the nurse returned, Dr. Phillips said, “You missed!  Honestly, men are so much easier.  We just point and shoot.” I was disconnected. The indignity was over.
At the end of it all I learned that my bladder function was all pretty normal except that my full stream (measured when I was peeing on the floor, I think) was about 40% of what a normal person’s should be.  This was due to detrusor sphincter dyssynergia, which means my bladder is saying, “Come on, guys! Everybody out!” but my sphincter muscles can’t hear them. This explained the hesitancy issues experienced. We started treatment with Doxazosin, which is usually given to men with prostate problems (leading me to believe my dad was right all along – I did, in fact, pee like an old man).  I also stayed on Oxybutynin, which I’d be taking for a while, so we were only adding one variable at a time.

Thus began my attempts to wrangle an uncooperative bladder.

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Separation Anxiety II: In Which I Sing the Praises of a Really Good Physical Therapist

I’m on my fifth physical therapist in this MS journey. The first was a stern older woman who tried in vain to strengthen my pelvic floor. (Yes, I realize that sounds like the plot of a niche porn.) The second was a dumb but pretty and oh-so-strong young man whom I dazzled with my knowledge of 80s music as he threw me to the mat again and again to teach me to fall properly. (He’s the basis of my as-yet-unwritten smutty romance novel.) Next came another sweet and moderately helpful one at the Capitol Hill location of Physiotherapy Associates followed by Danielle at the same site. I highly recommend Danielle; she’s encouraging without being cheerleader-y, good at banter (a must if you’re spending 30+ minutes with someone twice a week), and a solid physical therapist.

Given my recent struggles, though, when it came time for 2017’s PT adventure, I decided to go for a pro. Pro, meaning someone with experience with neurological issues. Enter Molly. Well, first, enter Valerie, a fellow Georgian about to take her PT boards — or whatever PT tests are called. Initially I was a little peeved to have this near-child taking care of me when I’d asked specifically for an expert, but Val had studied up on MS and gave me some new insights and potential tools (a foot drop brace probably is not for me, but it’s good to have tried). Molly, though. Molly is where it’s at. She is a master of the tiniest verbal cue that changes everything. When I told her I felt like I was walking on the edges of my feet, she said not only to strike with my heel — a key thing for folks with foot drop and something you normal-walkers do automatically — but to think about making sure my big toe hits the ground after. I’m not saying I walk well presently, but, if I think about it, I can almost mimic a normal stride. And maybe if I think about it enough, I can someday do it without thinking.

Molly has also concerned herself with my back pain, which has eased considerably while in her care. When I told her it twinges when I put things in the oven, she said, “Okay, let’s practice that!” and handed me a slab approximating the size and weight of a cookie sheet to hold while I did modified squats. I realize this leans more toward OT than PT, but I was thrilled to have someone concern herself with something that matters so much to me.

A week ago I was supposed to have my final session in this PT series, the one where I blow Molly away with my ability to step over 6″ hurdles and walk for minutes at a time. I roused myself at 7, pulled on clothes, ran a comb through my hair and a brush over my teeth, and hailed an Uber for an 8 o’clock appointment. I signed in, paid my $30, and awaited Molly. Instead, Rachel arrived and led me through a series of exercises after explaining that I’d have to reschedule the final evaluation with Molly. Annoying? Yes. But I made the appointment.

A body at rest stays at rest.

When calling to re-reschedule (realizing I could not face another 8AM day), the woman I spoke to said, “Okay, you can do 3pm with Rachel on Thursday.” Rachel? Rachel?! I explained that I needed an appointment with Molly and was informed “Molly doesn’t work here anymore.”

W. T. F.

My trainer moves away. My physical therapist disappears without a trace. I think the universe is telling me not to exercise. I’ve certainly behaved as if that’s true of late, but I’m trying to change my ways. Plenty of people exercise without outside encouragement, and I shall endeavor to be one of them.

But, man, it’s hard.

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Separation Anxiety: In Which I Mourn the Loss of a Personal Trainer

A little over a year ago I decided my annual 12 weeks of physical therapy wasn’t cutting it. It was time to consider a personal trainer. The idea terrified me. I pictured hyper, fit ponytailed women cheerfully shouting at me for one more set. I pictured beefy men without a brain in their heads . . . actually, that wasn’t so bad. What I got was entirely different and has ruined me for all others.

LaTasha Barnes is petite but strong AF. Her background includes cheerleading, the army, and competitive Lindy Hop. She has a fierce wit and a delightful knowledge of 90s pop culture. The woman contains multitudes. Even at my fittest, I never enjoyed exercise. I still don’t, really. But Tasha changed my mindset with her good-natured encouragement that never condescended. (The workouts tailored for a body suffering from neurological mayhem didn’t hurt either.) She encouraged me to rest when I needed to and to push a little harder when she thought I could. She helped make me stronger, and, perhaps more importantly, made me believe I could be stronger, which is a really hard thing to believe from the view inside this body.

My perfect trainer was too good and smart to remain nearby for long. She is currently in grad school at NYU, and I am left behind trying to muster up the energy to do some planks on my own in spite of knowing that no one is checking in on me regularly. It’s hard, especially given my recent trough, but I did hit a milestone recently.

That’s the glorious Ms. Barnes in the right corner.
100 workouts in a year is HUGE. It would have been huge for me when I was at peak condition; doing it when I’m arguably at my worst would have been unthinkable without loving and smart guidance. So thank you, dear Tasha. I love you too much to hate you for deserting me. And I promise to keep trying, even without my favorite cheerleader there to egg me on.

My appreciation for Tasha has only increased as I have sought substitutes. I have a physical therapist who is kind and knows her stuff but does not push me. If I wobble a little, I am put in time out, sitting for a full minute to think about what I’ve done. Then there’s the online MS Gym community run by what seems to be a very capable physical therapist and his sweet wife. They send me messages daily telling me that I CAN DO IT! and that THE MS COMMUNITY GIVES THEM LIFE! They are kind and well-meaning, but their sincere youth minister demeanors do not motivate me. 

Were they to watch me exercise and be inspired to cry “Super Rebecca!!” I might slap them.

When Tasha said it, I felt invincible.

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A View from the Trough: In Which I Contradict the Notion That I Am an Inspiration

Two months ago, a knot developed in my right lower back, just above my glutes. There it has stayed in spite of massages, heating pads, and stretching. Bending over both hurts and is a bit dangerous, so I’ve stopped doing it. Dropped things remain dropped until Neal retrieves them.

Portrait of the artist after getting her own breakfast plate.

I am a mess.

There is shit all over my house. Each room has two to four items on the floor — discarded clothes, a rogue noodle, an eyebrow comb, a tampon that leapt from its cabinet like a story from the “It happened to me!” section of YM magazine, etc. As I type, I wear a bra attached by a single hook (which took four attempts). I pulled my hoodie on backwards initially, leaving me briefly blind and disoriented.
My legs ache. It’s a soft ache, humming along my IT bands and pulsing quietly in my calves and ass. I’m no stranger to MS-related discomfort, but I’m not used to hurting. Walking is awkwarder than usual with the added bonus that sometimes the aforementioned knot will shout “WHAT ABOUT ME!” inspiring a wince and a need to brace myself on whatever is nearby.
Do you know that I started a new job at the beginning of October? I work from home *and* part-time. It’s magical, freeing me to both make and attend daytime appointments without worrying about nearby cubicle dwellers wondering why I disappear for hours or keep whispering about Botox injections into my phone. This is nice since I have made FIFTEEN calls over the past two months trying to get approval for bladder Botox. I recently was told we’re “very close.”

A disadvantage to working from home is realizing just how horrible the stairs in your charming row house are as you haul your uncooperative body up and down them throughout the day.

An advantage to working from home is randomly bursting into tears without scrutiny, which I have done frequently of late.

I am in a trough, friends; it’s a sort of mini-depression inspired by circumstance. I have at least ten ideas about how to improve my lot, from meditating to eating less meat to alternating cardio and strength training to reading more. What do I do instead? Play gin rummy on my phone while listening to podcasts.

Please remember that image next time you think of me as an inspiration. Sometimes I’m strong and brave. These days I’m more likely collapsed on the couch kicking myself for being undercut with a matching Ace.

P.S. I edited this the following day with a properly fastened bra. Perhaps things are looking up?

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Devastatingly Awkward: In Which I Flail Around CVS

I have many things to tell you, dear reader, but we’ll start with an anecdote from today and see if I can still do this writing thing.

Fall is finally here, and I am delighted. Temperatures in the 60s mean a more mobile, energetic Rebecca. I had lunch with a friend today, and, emboldened by the cool air, I walked 2/3 of a block to CVS afterward to retrieve five prescriptions. (Five! That’s not the point of this story, but jeezy creezy that’s a lot of drugs.) I don’t know if it was because I’d been sitting a long time beforehand or what, but my gait was the same step-draaaaaag-step-draaaaag that made me think “I feel you, man” when watching the Mummy move across the screen during Monster Squad.

See ya later, Band-Aid Breath!

I briefly considered buying a “President Evil: Four Years of Hell” t-shirt from the street vendor thirty feet from my destination in hopes of briefly sitting  in his folding chair, but I soldiered on, mummying my way into the store and to the prescription counter. When I got there, two people were in line and another, older woman was occupying the sole chair in the handicapped waiting area. As I swayed near the foot health supplies, I saw that the woman had summoned a pharmacist to our side of the counter to offer his thoughts on the very products I was on the verge of collapsing into. “Please. Vould you look at these toes?” she said, REMOVING HER BOOTS. I averted my eyes and focused on staying upright.

At last another pharmacist arrived at the register, and it was my turn at the counter. The podiatry consultation continued to my right as I collected my purchases in a collapsible bag, which is marvelously portable but its soft straps make getting them on my shoulder nigh impossible. Keeping them there? Ha. As I fumbled with the bag, the pharmacist asked if I’d like a flu shot. Why yes! Yes, I would. Go down to the other counter? Sure. Step-draaaag-step-draaaag, don’t drop the bag. (My new cheer!) Bend at the waist and fill out these forms? No problem. I’ll just lean on my elbows while I sign here. Oh, and here, too? Awesome.

“It will be twenty minutes. Is that okay?” “Absolutely. If I can sit.” Shoeless Joanna was still in the handi-chair, so the cashier gave up her stool for me. I was thrilled to have a seat, but hoisting myself onto it after an extended period of standing was tough. Once I got up there, my seated companion notice me and my cane. “Oh, vould you like this seat?”

Folks, it goes on. I had to get up AGAIN to fill out more flu shot paperwork during which time an able-bodied someone sat on the stool, so I returned to the newly-abandoned chair. Foot lady disappeared only to reappear with two pints of ice cream and a Metro Weekly she desperately wanted to give away.

I finally got my damned flu shot and cannot sufficiently thank the woman who came to where I was seated to administer it. Feeling victorious, I tried to stand, bracing myself on the arms of the chair and promptly being pulled back down.  Twice. Because my bag, which I had at last successfully pulled onto my shoulder, was resting on the arm of a chair. A lady in line offered help. I cheerly declined and slunk out of the store to climb into the awaiting Uber. (And I mean climb–it was an SUV.)

Even amid the colorful population at our local CVS, I felt like a complete mess. Some days my body does not feel like my own. Man, this is one of those days.

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Leaky Guts and the Power of Prayer: In Which No One Is a Real Doctor, But They Play One in My Life

As I discussed in my World MS Day Video, I’m a big fan of throwing things at the wall until something sticks when it comes to improving my physical condition. If a treatment is safe, reasonably priced, and promises not to be too painful, chances are I’ll give it a try. I love it when friends send me articles about new MS-related drugs or procedures. I cannot be bothered to keep up with every MS-related development. I have recipes to make and tv shows to watch, dammit! Information is good, and it’s nice to be thought of. A friend got me to try acupuncture, which wasn’t my jam but was definitely worth pursuing. A friend, who also has an auto-immune disease, recommended cryotherapy after trying it herself. It sounds a little bonkers, but I may give it a shot (especially since I have a coupon). 

Advice from friends is easy to take because I know it comes from a loving place. And because my friends are not preachy know-it-alls.

Yesterday at work, I told a colleague that my recent fall was the impetus for our new kitchen first aid kit. He immediately replied, “You know what you need to do. You need to seal up that gut! I’m telling you, look at the GAPS diet. Cut the carbs. It’s all leaky gut!” I smiled and said, “Well, I’m working on lowering my sugar intake for now.” “Yes, sugar is bad! But the carbs . . . ” I have heard this speech before. Every time I smile. Feign interest. Thank him for his thoughts. I know his need to share this information comes from a kind place, a desire to share what has worked for him . . .  so why do I find this conversation so frustrating?

A few reasons. First, we are not friends. A friend would know that the day I give up carbs will be the day cryotherapy is offered in hell. Also, his tone is awful – this is what you need to do. I don’t mind being presented with an alternative therapy, but phrasing it as a suggestion rather than a foregone conclusion goes a long way. Finally, we’ve done this dance before. If I haven’t cartwheeled to his office shouting about the wonders of bovine colostrum by now, perhaps it’s time to let it go.  

This is an “empathy card” from Emily McDowell. You should buy her stuff. It’s awesome.

A different and yet same-ish encounter happens every twenty or so Uber/Lyft ride. The driver will look in the rearview mirror and say, “What is wrong with your leg?” I explain that I have Multiple Sclerosis. And then the fun begins. “I have an aunt who had Multiple Sclerosis, but she had faith and prayed. And the family prayed. Now she is well. You must pray!” “Jesus will take care of you! You have to pray! And He will care for you!” “You know, scripture says . . . ” I smile. Thank them for their kindness. Exit the car carefully.


I know people say these things (Everything happens for a reason; God will not give you more than you can handle; Jesus take the wheel — just kidding about the last one) because they believe them and believe they will comfort the listener. And I imagine many listeners are indeed comforted. But if, like me, you’re one negative news report from making the transition from agnostic to atheist, these interactions are awkward at best.



I am happy to accept strangers’ (and friends’!) prayers, blessings, and even wacky treatment suggestions. I do so with an open heart. Just please don’t tell me what I should do with my body — or my spirit.



More from Emily McDowell. Seriously, her cards are the best.