My feet woke me up this morning, burning hotter than a pig on a spit. I knew not to expect blisters. The sheet billowed when I yanked it off with the flourish of a matador. MS. I have referred to it as “my MS.” I hate acronyms. They reduce the horrific to the mundane. MBC. Does that make Metastatic Breast Cancer any easier? Only for drug companies advertising treatment. COPD? Does that make it easier to breathe when you have Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease? I have Multiple Sclerosis. It doesn’t deserve a nick name. If I refer to it as MS, you might think I am talking about a Masters degree. Although I have one of those, “my MS” refers to the disease which has been my master, as both a blessing and a curse, for forty years. I haven’t talked about it much. Call me a private person. But after joining a writers’ group on Facebook, I found out two things. The first? Nothing is off limits. The second? Talking about living with a monster may help someone else living with one, whether it is an abusive partner, a child in trouble, or Multiple Sclerosis. Be advised. This is not a forum for whining or self-pity. I worked until retirement, work-out six days a week, enjoy good eye sight, and seem to be a thinking human being. Many are not so lucky. That does not mean I haven’t faced the monster on a daily basis and trembled in its shadow. More to come.
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