Five

Saying goodbye at 26

I'm coming up on my fifth year here in Finland. I started this blog in February of 2011, in anticipation of my move. I was about to turn 26. I'm 31 now.

I'm regularly astounded by how much weight is placed on that particular decade shift. Although I'd like to think I've matured, there's little difference between me as a person in her 20s and me as a person in her 30s. I still have the same interests and desires as well as comparable flaws and insecurities (aside from the added neurosis derived from hearing and reading that I'm suddenly old). I still love shoegaze, video games and NPR, I still laugh (a lot) at poop jokes, and I still don't want children.

There, of course, have been a handful of life-changing events that have served to demarcate the before and after. Among them are my move to Finland and, I believe, this relapse. 

I'm still fighting my way through it - if I focus on relaxing my leg, my limp is only slightly noticeable, and I'm able to produce scrawl enough to mark exams - so I'm not really sure yet how and in what way these changes will take shape. Except, I know this: I will never again walk, climb stairs or write without a sense of thankfulness. 

The fact I'm no longer in my 20s might be obvious in that this happened at all; it's only now, in my 30s, that my motor skills have suffered. And that's what I'm most afraid of - that this is the ushering in of a new, less-mobile normal. That it's all downhill from here.

In the meantime, that thought is hereby banished from my mind.

Selfish

I opened my last post with a metaphor I've often had in mind: MS as an abuser. The weird thing is, this relapse, while mostly something I wish never, ever happened in the first place, has also been something of a friendly slap in the face or a bucket of ice water over the head.

When this happened, I was treating myself, well, like shit. Did you happen to catch when I compared myself to a Podling, drained of her essence? "Oh, yeah, I haven't been able to write or whatever, but I'm pretty sure it'll be okay."

It, as I well knew, was not okay.

So, here is what I must do from now on:

1. take my medication. Before, whenever it might have decreased my productivity, I didn't take it. Medication will now take top priority in this equation, without exception.
2. listen to music more. It keeps me in touch with who I am, which is someone other than an expat, immigrant, imperfect speaker of Finnish, 'different' or somehow unable to fulfil (mostly my own) expectations.
3. read more books (of my choosing). I can't teach if I don't learn. I can't learn if I don't take the time to do so.
4. write. I'll hate my life if I don't.
5. find a way to ditch the anxiety at any cost, save my motor skills.
6. rest. Relax.
7. be prepared for it to show. Up until the first of this month, revealing the fact of my MS was always met with surprise. It may well not be so anymore.
8. be selfish, and make more selfish decisions. If you want that in self-help speak, I should work on prioritising my own needs.

tl:dr, Some things have to change.

Untitled umpteen

Well, the brute (MS) backhanded me sometime around March 31st. At least, that's when I first noticed that something was wrong.

I decided to go into work a little later - 8.30 rather than my usual 7.30 -  that morning. I drank my coffee a little more leisurely and I eschewed my ride to work in favor of walking. On my way, I noticed that navigating the terrain was difficult; for some ineffable reason, I was afraid I might fall.

I almost fell straight backwards a couple of times throughout the day. My balance was noticeably off. This might be very bad, I thought. But I put in a full day's work and then some at home, too.

The next day, I had promised myself a day of working remotely. I'd been feeling immensely stressed, and I had no lessons or exams that day. I wouldn't say the day did much in the way of relieving stress, but I did manage to accomplish a lot, and I suffered few distractions. Typing, however, was strangely tiring.

At 2 or 3, I decided to take a break and go for a run. It would be a treat. I donned my workout clothes, took a last-minute phone call and was out the door.

It was only after five minutes or so that I noticed I was running with a distinct limp. This is just psychological. This is not happening, I told myself before giving up.

That weekend, things worsened. I went in for treatment the following week, and they worsened still. At my worst, I was unable to do much other than walk myself short distances (My foot crumpled up and dragged beneath me, my right arm was out of commission, and my balance was awful - I'd say I was at major risk of falling.) shower, eat and sleep. This lasted almost a week, during which time I tried to distract myself in my waking moments by streaming TV shows on my laptop. All I could think, watching those people on the screen, was how easily they moved, how effortlessly they walked.

Today, I seem to be improving. Physical improvement has brought hope, which, I must admit, was only desperate sadness not two days ago.

I'm lucky to live in Finland, where doctors prescribe sick leave for a bad sniffle. Still, I'm American, and missing work makes me feel anxious and guilty. I'm doing my motherfucking damndest to return to work on Monday. (How does one use crutches?)

I'm not going to end this on a positive note just yet; I am too wary. Let's just say, I hope beyond hope that things can return as closely as possible to the way they were.