Category: My story

Last autumn, I loudly complained to my neurologist that I had once again somewhat forgotten how a normal Homo sapiens is supposed to walk.

Of course, after 16 years, MS had already chewed through quite a few of my nerves and weakened my neural connections. Some new immunomodulatory medication wasn’t really an option anymore, since I no longer have relapses. And if some nasty little bugger does decide to show up, my third round of Lemtrada is waiting for me, just in case.

Meanwhile, my brain, which apparently enjoys maintaining its reputation for being “lazy”, hasn’t exactly been putting much effort into preserving proper upright posture and the model-walk that should come with it.

Instead, it chose the path of least resistance. Its priority was to preserve as much energy as possible at any given moment, so it started sending uneven instructions to the body machine.

According to my brain, the balance problem had been solved.

Point B had been reached.

Who cares about the quality of the process?

Pelvis left, right, left, right.

Shuffle shuffle.

Bam.

I might even have licked the pavement along the way.

A Call for Some Physiotherapy Sessions

“I walk terribly and I’d like to go to the Soča front for a little while,” I told my neurologist.*

“I just don’t want to be hospitalised while all these airborne germs are floating around.”

She suggested eight physiotherapy sessions that I could get at the Neurological Clinic.

The idea sounded excellent!

I was expecting to start in spring, but they “called me up” earlier. Apparently, I was supposed to report for duty immediately after New Year.

My New Year’s resolutions about becoming more active were frighteningly quick to become reality.

Well, what can I say?

“Say YES to life and opportunities” is flashing rather cheesily in my world at the moment.

I left the very first session completely motivated.

I wanted to become aware of muscles again that I had gradually forgotten to use in my everyday life because of multiple sclerosis.

The first hour of intensive exercise focused on the parts responsible for balance.

Promising!

No, these are not your feet.

The key is to start with your core, the muscles responsible for keeping your torso stable.

Are they called core stabilisers?

Walking After Three Sessions

When you watch me walk, you can clearly see my pelvis swinging from side to side.

I walk really fast.

And I don’t lift my left leg properly either.

This is my unconscious walk.

My impatient walk.

My duck walk.

Walking After Eight Sessions

My walking is more conscious.

More controlled.

I pay more attention to keeping that stupid pelvis a little more still, and I try to keep my stomach pulled in.

(Fucking hell, that is hard.)

There is obviously still plenty of room for improvement!

But my step is more secure.

My step is safer.

I can even manage quite nicely without my stick, although I still get carried away sometimes.

Of course I do.

My brain is busy focusing on the battle being fought between my pelvis and the muscles in my lower abdomen.

Balance is really something …

There is still SO much room for improvement!

And, of course, there are other impairments to deal with: foot drop, a knee that likes to lock itself into my kneecap, and the ever-present good old …

FATIGUE.

“Set your pelvis, tighten your stomach” became my mantra.

Now I have to bring all this “studying” into my home environment.

I have to keep my brain on a short leash and trick it into helping me walk properly, normally, together with the rest of my body.

This has to become my new normal.

Actually, I need to remind my muscles what walking was like back in the days “before multiple sclerosis”.

Because muscles have a memory, too.

We just have to remind them how to access it again.

They’ll catch on quickly.

Alongside all of that, I need to work on strength.

Do my strength exercises correctly.

And eat protein.

A more stable and better-coordinated Darja, here I come!

The bottom line

I want you to know that physiotherapy is powerful and can improve movement, but it is only one of many tools available when dealing with the physical limitations caused by MS.

You can find videos of the way I walk on my Instagram ms.clumsywithstyle !

My walking is … Well, it’s not sexy. Not even remotely.

It’s not elegant, it’s not straight, it’s not relaxed. It doesn’t go in a straight line, and it certainly doesn’t go in sync.

I waddle.

And you can’t really see that in a picture. You see it when you spot me in the middle of a bar, charging towards the bathroom.

It’s not the walk I had 15 years ago, when I casually dragged my feet through the sand in my brand-new Pumas, perhaps half a size too big.

It’s not the walk little Darja took for granted.

“I can’t be bothered to walk,” I used to complain to my parents, who dragged me up a hill every Sunday.

Up a hill!

I don’t go hiking anymore, so I am especially grateful to my parents for all those forced childhood hikes.

Every now and then I challenge myself to tackle a hill anyway. I push myself beyond my limits, and then suffer for another three days after the adventure.

Happy, though.

Happy that I managed those 50 metres of elevation gain.

Don’t take walking for granted.

Appreciate every step.

I envy you for it.

That physical lightness you feel when you set off into your day.

The fact that you can casually wander from one shop to another in a shopping centre, checking out what’s new on the shelves.

That you can walk through town eating an ice cream, lazily watching passers-by through your sunglasses.

That you can hop on your bike when you realise you’d be too slow on foot, or jump on your scooter and wave at a friend on the other side of the square as you whizz past.

Don’t take it for granted. Don’t take that ability for granted.

Just as I don’t take for granted the fact that, despite stumbling around in flat-soled shoes, I can still walk.

I browse the shelves online or push a squeaky shopping trolley carefully through the supermarket.

I eat my ice cream sitting on the edge of the pavement in a car park.

And when I wave at a friend, I stop and lean against …

A pole.

That works, too.

I always think of this comic, where the driver dreams of having a helicopter. The cyclist dreams of being able to afford a car. The pedestrian who is in a hurry dreams of having a bicycle.

And the person in a wheelchair dreams of …

Walking.

It is designed to tug at your heartstrings. To wake you up. To shake your brain around a little.

Of course it makes you think.

The slogan “Nothing should be taken for granted” can very quickly become an empty cliché if you don’t actually stop and think about what it means.

After all, even a person in a wheelchair has plenty of things they shouldn’t take for granted:

• the personal assistant who helps them get out of bed every morning,
• the mother who brings groceries home from the shop,
• the friend who keeps them company in the evenings,
• and, above all, the will to live. The fact that they are alive.

Despite the disability that makes them face more obstacles than a healthy person might ever imagine, they are still important to someone.

They have found something they are good at, something that makes them feel useful to themselves, something through which they can contribute their own value to society.

I’m not just talking out of thin air.

I’m speaking from experience.

From thoughts I had already as a child, when I would look through the bars of the windows at the Paediatric Clinic on Vrazov trg and watch people walking down the street.

From up there, those people in the distance looked incredibly lucky to me.

They could walk wherever they needed to go.

They were free.

What about you?

Is there something you take for granted that someone else might consider a privilege?

Ten years ago (wait, wasn’t it fifteen already?) … I went everywhere. I walked a lot, and I walked fast. My new university classmates didn’t even notice that there was anything wrong with the way I walked until I told them about “The Thing”.

Oh, that first beer we had after those late lectures … And then, naturally, we partied into the night like proper students.

Just like the woman on the trolley bus didn’t notice. She stared daggers at me because I had sat down in the only free seat right in front of her (and I was almost crying with relief on the inside). Back then, my disease was pretty well hidden, a sneaky little thing, except when stress and colds triggered yet another relapse. And when I occasionally went to the clinic to get hooked up to some chemotherapy or carried a disinfected bag full of injection needles to dirty music festivals.

On the other hand … nightclub bouncers always noticed my unsteady walk and, presumably worried about potentially vomit-covered chairs, preferred not to let me go any further.

“How unfair!” I thought back then (and I still think so now), while secretly admiring their dedication to doing their job properly.

Over the years, I became increasingly hesitant as I shuffled through little streets, shopping centres and bureaucratic buildings. But when a stranger first spotted me, any potential stumble, crash or wandering eyes was usually attributed to confusion because, you know … there are plenty of naturally scatterbrained people around.

You can imagine how wonderfully that did wonders for my self-confidence!

The fact that I could barely stand in line to buy my monthly bus pass, that walking in the heat to catch a train made me feel sick, that my blurry vision made it difficult to figure out which trolley bus was going where … those internal battles were invisible to a stranger.

They didn’t notice. They couldn’t notice.

Through all of this, I stubbornly insisted that, apart from my glasses, I didn’t need any additional aid.

After all, I’m doing fine – until I’m not.

And when I’m not, I grab the arm of whichever important walking companion happens to be nearby.

After all, I can see perfectly well – until I can’t.

And when I can’t, I ask some random passer-by for the information I need.

Of course, I admire this fighting spirit of mine and always support it. Still, something about it makes me a little angry …

That feeling of indignity.

The feeling I always had when the world around me gave me that certain condescending look.

The feeling that somehow I was to blame for the way I walked.

Stumbling.

Waddling.

Bumping into things.

The invisible disease became visible

After three years of renting a rollator “just in case”, it happily returned to the pharmacy from its dark corner in our basement, still unpacked and completely unused.

After some serious consideration, this year I finally got myself a sexy red stick, and only then did I discover what walking with a mobility aid actually means.

It means more freedom.

More independence.

More confidence.

It means keeping your eyes open wider (and your mouth too, because you haven’t seen a world like this before).

It means having more time to look around and take everything in (no, bare ankles in the middle of winter are still not cool).

It means stepping more carefully (and avoiding frogs that have been flattened by bicycles).

It means doing things more consciously (keys and coins no longer magically fall out of your handbag).

It means walking through those doors with more determination, knowing that there is something waiting for you on the other side.

And then you meet exactly the same completely unfazed receptionist.

It means …

That feeling of dignity.

But it also makes your invisible disease visible.

An invisible disease suddenly becomes visible from outer space because there you are, holding a stick that tells everyone you have trouble walking.

But …

Did multiple sclerosis really have to chew its way this far into me before elderly people finally started giving me their seats on the trolley bus?

Did MS really have to damage me so much over the years before the shop assistant at the little Mercator started carrying my groceries to the checkout before I had even properly made it through the door?

Did MS really have to nibble away at me so much before people at administrative offices, social work centres and banks started looking at me much more kindly, much more respectfully, much more HUMANELY?

And on the street. On buses. In shops.

(I’m leaving the disability assessment committee out of this.)

Because young people don’t get sick

Because young people are bursting with energy and life. Because young people are healthy.

No, I know. It’s not that black and white.

Of course I had plenty of positive experiences before my sexy red stick, and of course I’ll have plenty of negative experiences after my sexy red stick.

But one thing is certain:

More solidarity. More tolerance. POR FAVOR.

You don’t know what someone is hiding behind their beautiful, made-up, carefully brushed appearance.

And you don’t know what someone is hiding underneath their neglected, smelly, ragged clothes.

Indifference and intolerance are not chronic illnesses, even though they are invisible.

What does it mean for a disease to be invisible?

The term “invisible illnesses” covers a whole range of conditions that don’t show on the outside and therefore aren’t easily noticed by other people.

Invisible illnesses include chronic conditions such as arthritis, diabetes, fibromyalgia, multiple sclerosis, lupus, Lyme disease, celiac disease, migraines, cardiovascular diseases, cancer …

Okay, stop.

Allergies, various food intolerances, infertility, endometriosis, Crohn’s disease, atopic dermatitis …

Is the list ever going to end?

No.

Add depression and a whole bunch of other mental health conditions to it as well.

An invisible illness comes with a whole bunch of invisible symptoms.

I’m speaking mainly from the perspective of my multiple sclerosis. Every day, or at least from time to time, I deal with:

• fatigue
• numbness in my legs and arms
• tingling throughout my body
• dizziness
• reduced muscle tone
• sleep problems (insomnia and restless legs syndrome(!))
• spasticity (spasms are cramps)
• heat sensitivity
• light sensitivity

Balance and coordination problems are probably pretty damn visible symptoms, too. Unfortunately, we all know whom people would rather blame them on …

People with invisible illnesses face misunderstanding and additional stigma.

Besides dealing with the symptoms themselves and fighting for a good quality of life with a chronic illness, a person also has to deal with other people’s lack of awareness, and sometimes even their criticism and judgment.

We are far too quick to believe only what we can see.

Or, perhaps more accurately, what we think we can see.

So, is it really our responsibility to explain the state of our internal organs to a stranger on the bus?

Maybe explain that we have just spent several hours hooked up to an IV and that the medication has left us even more exhausted than usual?

And would they even believe us?

Sometimes it is difficult to explain your illness even to people close to you: neighbours, colleagues, friends.

It takes courage.

It takes the ability to express yourself.

It takes a lot of knowledge.

[Gran Canaria 2020]

Let’s talk. Let’s raise awareness. Let’s be annoying!

With my own little attempt at being annoying, raising awareness and encouraging conversation, I mainly want to point out one thing:

A person who is smiling and in a good mood does not always reflect their actual condition.

A compassionate question to anyone, with or without an illness, is simply:

“How are you?”

“Oh, but this person clearly enjoys her life! She takes life by the horns, travels, socialises, eats well. She probably isn’t suffering that much. And she can stay at home all day! Isn’t that the dream?”

No.

It isn’t.

There is a reason she is at home.

Enjoying life is a matter of perspective.

And when someone with a disability parking permit parks in a disabled parking space, there is a reason for that, too, whether their illness is visible or not.

Disability parking permits are not handed out by local authorities just because someone has a pretty face.

“But it’s all in her head!”

Well, “it’s all in our heads” probably isn’t quite true.

What is usually in our heads is the will, the optimism, the gratitude, the despair, the sadness, the anger …

Our attitude towards the world, things and life.

MS itself is also in our heads, but in a slightly different way.

Physically.

Inside our brains, where it has left its lesions and scars that cause dizziness and fatigue.

Before you ask the next question …

No, resting will not magically make me feel better.

A hundred and one things affect how I feel.

The weather does, even though that may sound horribly superstitious.

Heat does.

A common cold does.

Yesterday’s activity does.

Even a hangover does.

Yes, people with multiple sclerosis like having a glass of wine with dinner, too. You know.

Or two.

Stress-reduction techniques such as meditation, yoga, breathing air and filling your home with the mysterious scent of palo santo are all perfectly good ways to relax.

(Palo santo really does smell beautiful and mysterious!)

They are not-fucking-medicine.

The eating-air thing was a joke.

Oops. I’m getting grumpy.

But honestly, anyone would be if this whole thing about an invisible illness becoming visible only so people would finally notice it and start paying attention wasn’t already completely bizarre.

Shouldn’t every person understand that their whole world can turn upside down at any moment because of one diagnosis or another?

Shouldn’t every person understand that everyone is hiding reasons behind the way they appear in society, whether those reasons are visible or not?

Shouldn’t we all simply enjoy being kind and supportive towards one another?

Why do we always have to invent our own nasty theories about the lives of other people on this planet?

During the first few years, I mostly cried, felt confused and labelled strangers as unfair.

“Maybe they weren’t, Darja! Maybe they had their own story about why they behaved the way they did.”

Now I understand that I’m not the only one dealing with this.

So let’s be mindful.

Let’s be empathetic.

Let’s pay a little more attention to the people around us.

Let’s help.

Let’s be more tolerant of one another.

Let’s listen.

Let’s make the invisible symptom “fighting other people’s lack of understanding” disappear.

It took me so long to realize IT’S TIME!

It’s time for me to accept the fact that I need something to help me run all these very important errands in my life independently and perform all of my activities on my own.

It’s time to regain a little dignity –­­­­­ constantly falling in the middle of a crowded shopping mall just isn’t something that will help me boost my confidence.

It’s time to get back that charming smile on my face and give myself a chance to look around and observe the beautiful world around me. To enjoy the sun, to feel the vibe, to breathe in the fresh air with my head raised up high. To check what cool clothes people are wearing and if bare ankles are still a must for this winter.

It’s time to start enjoying walking instead of spending all of my energy focusing on how I walk!

How the disease sneaked up on me

The thing with relapsing remitting multiple sclerosis is that with all the relapses and remissions the disease can still progress quietly – so quietly that you don’t even notice it.

How could I worry about worsening of the MS when these changes were so sneaky and graduate?

At least my story with MS has been like that. In the first ten years of diagnosis, I had a lot of mild relapses with a pretty good recovery every time – or at least I thought so. I’m definitely in a lot worse shape now than I was after my very first relapse (“Come on, you were able to run again after the first shots of steroids back then!”).

But every next relapse took away another of my abilities, and then another one, and then another one … Each one of them left some sort of a consequence, depending on which part of the brain the new lesions appeared in and whether they were dormant or active.

Slowly I needed more and more help when I was walking – but all of this seemed perfectly normal to me. Every time I went somewhere, I subconsciously took the shorter way or decided to rather take the bus instead of walking. When I wanted to walk a longer distance, I simply used my hiking poles, or if I wanted to walk on uneven terrain, I grabbed my co-walker by the arm.

These things became something completely ordinary and I had never truly worried about them. My mind was focused on the things that had improved – some symptoms really had improved and realizing this had tricked me into thinking that I’m doing even better than before the relapse.

How could I worry about worsening of the MS when these changes were so sneaky and graduate?

First there was a rollator …

In the beginning of 2015, I had a pretty rough year behind me: I was finishing my studies, moving into our new home with my partner, another hairy four-legged member joined our small household (which wasn’t stressful at all), and MS wouldn’t be MS if it didn’t take the opportunity to be particularly brutal during this period.

So, they put me on new DMD’s. At the same time, I started visiting a rehabilitation centre to … well yes, to learn how to walk properly again.

It was hard for me to accept that this monster, the MS, may get worse one day.

After five weeks of physical rehab I returned home with a rollator. Quite embarrassing, even if it was meant only for “bad days”. It was hard for me to accept that this monster, the MS, may get worse one day. So, I rolled it in the darkest corner of our basement where it remained for three years! Unmoved. Untouched. Unpacked. Covered with dust. Never used, I eventually returned it to the medical supply store. It was my little victory (“You just wait …”).

And then came the sexy red stick

For two more years I sort of dragged myself through the old town centre without any aid. I didn’t even think about using one, but after some really bad incidents, I finally reached the point when it became inevitable and I had to admit it to myself that, yeah, perhaps I do need a stick. Some kind of a fashionable collapsible stick that I could carry in my bag in case there comes a moment when I don’t have an elbow to grab or the next bench is a mile away (since I know the location of every single bench in town).

So, I finally found the courage and will to accept this new necessity into my life.

My first experience of walking with this stick, my sexy red stick, felt amazing; it was like I was suddenly walking with such ease! I no longer feared that I will bump into someone. I no longer needed the walls to support me. I no longer had to walk with my head down. I suddenly noticed the looks of others (realizing they are all passing me by, barely or not noticing me at all).

And then it hit me: I feel happier with the stick!

Why did it take me so long?

Maybe because I was too stubborn to admit that I need a mobility aid, maybe I was in denial. Maybe I was too afraid what other people might say or think. Maybe because this would mean a sort of a defeat for me— that I’d have to admit it to myself and my closest ones that I have failed. That I’ve thrown in the towel. Maybe I just didn’t see this option beneficial. Maybe it would end up being just one more thing out of the (many) things I keep forgetting at random places (like my umbrella – but who doesn’t?!). Maybe, maybe, maybe …

“You should not see the mobility aid as failure. You should see it as a new way of your independence.”

In some way, I was somewhat proud of myself that I was still able to walk without any aid, even though I knew it deep down that I should have one; because you know – I am a warrior. We are all warriors!

I remember the words said by my physiotherapist back then: “You should not see the mobility aid as failure. You should see it as a new way of your independence.”

And it’s true: a mobility aid gives you the freedom to move around normally, independently and with more confidence. It makes you feel safer. It makes you feel more self-aware and it gives you strength to carry on.

This doesn’t mean I stopped fighting MS. I’m still a warrior. But from now on, I’m fighting with a new “weapon” – my sexy collapsible red stick.

It’s not that I’m a total smartass, but it’s clear to me that the words that come from the doctor’s side of the desk, “You have multiple sclerosis,” aren’t easy to digest.

Every reaction is a normal reaction

Getting diagnosed with a new chronic illness kicks off our defence mechanisms. We suddenly experience unpleasant feelings completely unknown to us, and our reactions are totally different than in other situations. And when it comes to this chronic illness … No reaction is wrong reaction (“Just don’t go on a murder spree.”). After the first shock (or not), we can develop denial. Disbelief. Apathy. Sign our own death sentence. We give in to depression, an enduring anger. We keep asking ourselves: “Why me?” We may also feel relief finding that our symptoms are really not made up. You finally have a name for what’s going on – a name for it. The name of the nemesis you can now fight. But isn’t it uncurable? It may be, but you can always fight for “the good life”. For better quality of life. For general well-being, social security, social inclusion.

You can always fight for “the good life”.

It’s going to be 15 years since I got diagnosed. Me, a teenage girl with black hair and black make-up around grey-blue eyes, wearing all black, of course. According to my lumbar puncture results I have the following condition: demyelinating disease. WTF does that even mean? Mister Google wasn’t as wise as he is today. I wasn’t even able to type the phrase in the search bar correctly. There were only two results. After some more clicking I discovered the term “multiple sclerosis”. Excited that I finally found something, I went to my mother and said excitedly: “Mom, I have multiple sclerosis!”. She just nodded unsurely and I could catch a hint of fear in her eyes (“Not exactly the words you’d ever want to hear from your daughter, are they?”).

Do the research

Later on, I googled “multiple sclerosis” and got more results. Some forums, descriptions of the disease …; “ok, it’s an advancing one, maybe you’re going to end up on a wheelchair, but you’re not going to die from it”. Browsing the web reminded me of a commercial that had been playing on the television a couple of years earlier: two actresses – a young woman and an old lady were sitting on the porch, chatting and laughing like any other day. There was a stick leaning on the table, and as a viewer one’d think it belongs to the old lady. But no; when saying goodbye, it was the young woman who took it. A pretty powerful commercial, wouldn’t you agree? I admit I have a somewhat blurry memory of this period in my life, but thinking of it now, the fact is that I obviously accepted my “new normal” more calmly than I could have (ever) imagined. The next day, I went to school with the usual smile on my face.

The next day, I went to school with the usual smile on my face.

Keep going

I’m not sure how I was able to cope with my diagnosis the way I did (“Well you didn’t cope with it at all!”). My mild reaction was probably a result of indifference that can be felt only in adolescence. Looking naively into the future, like it is so far away (“Look at you now, living that future!”) Back then, all it mattered was my teenage freedom. I kept living a normal life. With the support from my family, friends and schoolmates, I was doing everything what an 18-year old girl was supposed to be doing, but perhaps in a slightly different style:

• If I wasn’t able to walk long distances, I grabbed the first elbow that walked past me. (“Is this carelessness?”)
• If I went on a night out with my friends and was too tired to dance, I quickly got a chair under my ass. (“Is this spoiling?”)
• When I was afraid to go to the dancing class for my prom because I didn’t trust anyone with my clumsy dancing skills, I asked a friend to be my dancing partner. (“With whom I fell in love later. And kept him to this day – is this possessiveness?”)
• If I couldn’t walk up the stairs, I went for an IV with steroids. And then for another one and another one … (“Is this drug addiction!?”)

Ok, let’s be serious.

Relapsing-remitting multiple sclerosis: the name itself says it all – it comes with relapses and remissions. Such specific nature of this disease made me believe that life with multiple sclerosis is … well, is actually not that hard as long as I feel better after a shot of steroids. As long as I can still enjoy life with road trips across Europe and shamelessly show off my stumblebum dancing moves at rock festivals (after a nerve-wrecking examination period) – as long as I can do all of these things, everything is alright.

 As long as I can still enjoy life with road trips across Europe and shamelessly show off my stumblebum dancing moves at rock festivals – everything is all right.

Surround yourself with positive people

When I started studying at the university, I began using a more conscious approach to coping with my illness. My desire to work in the field of Educational Studies seemed to fit perfectly into my new normal; I obtained all the possible knowledge of social sciences and applied it to my situation. But discovering different facts about life with chronic illness also led to more and more fears, inner conflicts and identity crises. It made me think a lot about future (“Well, this is the future you live in now!”). My process of coping was definitely long and slow, but I can’t say it was brutal. From thinking naively at first to just letting it be, from falling hard to the ground over and over again (literally and metaphorically) to being completely confused and stressed-out. But in the midst of all the turbulence caused by the disease there was something very still: the people around me.

My life would never be so positive and fulfilling if I didn’t have the incredible support from human beings close to me. Without them, I would never have so much fun and experience so many crazy things. Without them, I would never ski again, I would have never seen the world I’ve seen, I would never wander around European cities. And I would definitely never be confident enough to talk so openly about my feelings.

Love yourself 

Yes, we have managed to live through some stormy years of searching for my true self – me and my MS. I like myself now. I like myself because I can talk about “us” openly. Because I can accept my feelings no matter what they are. Because I have accepted my disease but don’t allow it to get to me. I like myself because I want to always know more about it and because I am living the words “Knowledge is power”. I happily share my knowledge about MS and its invisible symptoms with everyone, whether they want to hear it or not. I like myself because I know how to live a full and active life despite the obstacles that come with MS. I’m taking control over all the things I can control – what I eat, what I do for my health, who I spend my time with etc.

Bearing all this in mind, it’s important to remember there will be always ups and downs in life. The process of coping never ends. Just like MS will never leave me. Oh, how I wish it would! But hope dies last, and what matters is to never give up.

I have accepted my disease but don’t allow it to get to me.

Take care.