The Things I Couldn't Say #wattys2016

Part II

The days were long. They bled into each other without distinction. Every day, void of joy. Time moved bitterly slow. I was empty. It was strange, feeling nothing at all.

Every day I sat with the pain. Every day I sat with the emptiness. Every day I sat on the sidelines of my life, watching it go by. I tried to hang on to hope that one of these tests would eventually reveal this invisible monster that'd taken up residence inside me.

I'd been to every doctor imaginable. Neurologists, check. Psychologists, check. General practitioners, ENT's, allergists. Check, check, check. So I continued to wait. Nobody had been able to put the pieces in place, the ones that would put me back together.

Every doctor wanted to take the easy way out. To fall back on the Multiple Sclerosis diagnosis given three years earlier. I knew it wasn't that.

John thought I was in denial. After all, he reasoned, they were doctors. Who was I to disagree?

I wouldn't allow myself to get lost in a label. I knew my body. It wasn't MS. Something else was causing the muscle spasms and constant headaches. There was another reason for the weakness, weight loss and blurry vision. They hadn't found it yet, and I wasn't about to let them stop looking.

A knock on the door startled me. Scout barked and whined, turning in circles in the foyer. My Physiotherapist, Jen, had arrived. She came every Tuesday and Friday for one hour.

John opened the door and let her in. Scout's tail thumped the wall while he whimpered for her attention.

I pushed my walker towards the foyer. Heel, ball of feet, hips straight. Heel, ball of feet, hips straight. Slow and steady.

Jen laughed and knelt down and allowed Scout to smother her with kisses. "How's my favorite German Shephard?" She rubbed Scout's ears and belly and then looked up in my direction. "Woah, look at you."

I smiled. Jen was such a supportive, kind person. She belonged in her field of work. I was grateful the hospital had assigned her to me. "Yeah, look at me. I'll be able to beat my 90 year old grandmother in a race soon."

She laughed again. I envied the way she could do it so easily.

We made our way to the living room. The short walk winded me. I plunked myself onto the sofa. John let the dog outside.

"Did you meet all your goals this week?" she asked.

"Sure did. I got to the end of the driveway and back, twice. Every day."

"That's fantastic. Have you tried it without your walker yet?"

I looked down at my lap.

"Not a problem. We'll try walking without it today."

My stomach dropped and my pulse quickened. I wasn't ready. The image of me falling down the stairs still fresh in my mind. My tailbone remained bruised, my wrist still swollen. I had thought I could manage the stairs without sitting on my butt and bumping myself down. Big mistake.

The progression of our therapy always started the same. I'd lay on the floor and Jen would massage my legs, and perform trigger point release in my hips. It was painful, but I always felt more limber afterwards. Then we would stretch, followed by balance exercises.

She had me stand on one foot and made notes in her log book about how long I was able to retain my balance. One foot, then then other. Eyes open, eyes closed.

"I'm always amazed how well you perform these exercises," she said.

I raised my right eyebrow and smirked. "I'm not really feeling like an Olympic athlete at the moment," I joked.