Fatigue

Feeling MS’y: Trapped In A Bad Multiple Sclerosis Day

 
Get me the hell out of here.
 
I feel MS’y; which is to say, I feel lousy, useless, beat. Like I’ve been mother-fucking voodooed. Of course, I have multiple sclerosis and it affects many parts of my life every damn day; but, that doesn’t mean I feel MS’y every day. Feeling MS’y is when you just can’t. It’s the worst of the worst of what fatigue can do to you, and it just shuts you down. Feeling MS’y is what stops you in your already slow, drunk-walking tracks.

I knew this was gonna be a rough day when I woke up at 4:13 am to pee. Not because I don’t always wake up at 4:13 to pee (and at 1:35 for that matter). No. I knew it was gonna be a rough day when, even after lying down for 5 straight hours, I twisted out of bed at 4:13 to find my legs weak, stiff, and straight-up refusing to point in the same direction at the same time. 

I sighed knowing this was bad news; 4:13 is normally when my stems are their strongest; chilled out from doing nothing all night, with enough pre-bedtime Baclofen still in my system to keep them from seizing up. 
 
Seizing legs is 8:00 am’s problem. 
 
At 4:13 I can usually make it to the bathroom sans Blanche (my classy new walking stick). But not last night. 
 
I lurched my way to the ensuite, like the graceful goddess I am, and realized it wasn’t just my legs that were uncooperative. My whole body was feeling the kind of tired, that is way beyond tired. I was suffering full on MS fatigue. That underwhelming bullshit word that is all we have to sum up what it feels like to have been visited by a pack of Dementors. Surely the Germans must have a better term than “fatigue” for this soul-sucking vibe; but since I’m too wiped to even google what that word might be, I’ll just stick to what I’ve been using for years, and that is to simply say 
 
I feel MS’y. 
 
Now I’m trying to go about my day, fighting with myself back and forth about the decision to go or not to go to my 2:30 massage appointment. On the one hand, I only need to rally for a few steps to and from the car. Then again, there’s the physical energy it will take to haul myself onto that skinny massage table, or the emotional energy it will take to have the therapist haul my weak heavy legs up for me. And let’s not forget the effort it takes to get undressed and dressed again, and all of this suddenly feels impossible. Sounds pathetic, I know, but putting on pants has become a once-a-day on a good day deal. 
 
The struggle is real. 
 
Figuring out how best to look after myself when it affects others is always overwhelming, and I can’t even hear myself think right now because I’m breathing through my right ear, which is another thing that creeps up when I’m exhausted, and please tell me someone else with MS experiences this annoying af phenomenon, because my docs just shrug their shoulders like I’m making it up. Obviously if they don’t understand it, it must not be real.
 
So it’s an MS’y day. Which means listen to my body, but not my emotions. 

My body says stop, but my emotions say freak the fuck out, you’re never getting better. 
 
My body says clear your sched, but my emotions say you’re gonna let everyone down and if you cancel your massage they’re for sure gonna kick you out of the clinic.
 
My body says have a nap, but my emotions say have a cocktail, it’ll take the edge off, it’s summer, and you deserve it. 

My body says good point, but who’s gonna make that cocktail? The Banker’s not home for another three hours and you’re too messed-up to walk to the kitchen. 
 
You’ve won this round, Body.
 
This is Day 3 of this most recent MS slump, caused by who knows what. Did I over do it on the weekend? Yes. But only by old lady standards. Like, I went to the Farmer’s Market on Saturday. It’s not like I picked my own fruit, nor is Farmer’s Market a code name for a rave. On Sunday, I sat on my bum at a stadium for four hours while the Yankees kicked the home team’s ass. And I only drank water. 
 
Even if these tiny attempts to live like a normal have a price to pay, it seems excessive that I should still be footing that bill three days later. And despite all this hard living and partying, I’ve been going to bed early, saying my prayers, and eating clean. It’s just that sometimes, MS doesn’t give a fuck. Or, I dunno, maybe Jesus doesn’t like how much I say the F-word. 
 
So I give in, lay down, and ride it out. I’ve been here before. In the end, I bailed on my basically free massage and laid down quietly in my room for two hours while someone else cleaned my apartment. 
 
 
I still haven’t learned to meditate, but I have learned a thing or two about tempering my hysteria when things feel dire. Just because I felt like this today, and yesterday, and the day before yesterday, doesn’t mean I will feel like this tomorrow. This is MS.
 
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Why Is MS Fatigue So Hard To Believe?

Why is MS fatigue so hard to believe?

Fatigue might not be the first F-word that comes to mind when you think about multiple sclerosis (hint: rhymes with suck), but it’s probably the second, and it’s definitely in the top 5 (falling, faking, fear, forgetting; take your pick). MS fatigue is a powerfully debilitating symptom that not only destroys your energy, but has the added magic of making your existing symptoms worse. 
 
Why Is MS Fatigue So Hard To Believe?
Fuck MS
I’ve barely written about MS fatigue, because frankly, it’s difficult to articulate and if you’ve never experienced it, near impossible to understand. Chronic illness or otherwise, everyone feels tired every damn day, and everyone feels frustrated and invalidated in the un-winnable game of Who Is The Most Tired.  
 
But why do I need to prove to you that my tired is the literal worst anyway? That MS fatigue isn’t just tired, it’s crushing, soul-sucking exhaustion that feels like failure at life. 
 
Well, for one thing, I’m bailing on our plans at the last possible minute. 

Again. 


And I don’t want you to be pissed at me, or worse, stop making plans with me in the first place. MS fatigue is wrecking my week, maybe even my fortnight. And perhaps more than your forgiveness, I need my own. We live in a world where we’re constantly expected to show up no matter what ails us; where most people wear the “I’m so busy” badge like a complaint and a brag all at the same time. Fatigue is the invisible symptom that makes those of us that have it doubt ourselves the most.   

 
But I can’t prove it, can I? There’s no standard test for MS fatigue, and there’s no objective way to measure it, so when I say I’m bagged (cause, really, except for the French, who ever says I’m fatigued?), it’s my word against your idea that maybe I’m just not trying hard enough.
 
This next-level tired that’s been plaguing me lately, came to a head yesterday. Convinced I’d feel better after working out the muscle tension I’d made worse when my legs had violently spasmed that morning, and happy to have an hour to just lie down, I rallied to get myself to my massage appointment at the clinic that happens to be around the corner from my apartment. Normally I’d walk, but this week I’ve been more effed than usual, so I Uber’d. I specifically Uber’d, because I knew from experience that a traditional cab driver, who doesn’t live or die by passenger ratings, would have been pissed to basically take me across the street, and I was way too emotional to deal with any surly, ableist bullshit. 
 
I asked my student therapist for a modified treatment knowing I wouldn’t have the energy to flip myself over on the narrow table at the half-way point. In fact, I had trouble just getting on that table, and had somehow arranged myself on my back so that my right foot was tucked up under my left knee. When I realized I needed help undoing this contortion, I felt so tragic and pathetic, that I almost cried. Fortunately, I was able to pull myself together, knowing that even a discount student-massage is neither the time nor the place for a proper meltdown. 

A scant hour later, as my treatment was ending, I was glad I’d left the house and made what felt like an enormous effort toward self-care. The knots had been worked out, and I was ready to drink my lemon water. Namaste. But when I went to sit up, I couldn’t. Flat on my back and mostly naked, I realized I couldn’t move either of my legs. As I was slammed back to the reality of the moment, I almost cried again. Almost.
 
I called the therapist back and asked him to bend my knees for me, thinking that would give me enough traction to push myself up. It wasn’t. With much difficulty, my inexperienced practitioner found himself having to lift my upper body to get me into a sitting position. He seemed at least as uncomfortable as I felt, and barely survived under my dead weight.  
 
If you’re thinking this is the part of the story where I actually cried, you would be wrong. 


I pointed out his scrawny arms and told him he needed to hit the weight room. I for real said this, and feel kind of shitty about it now. Kind of. In my defence, he huffed and puffed like he was lifting a bloated walrus instead of a delicate fucking goddess; and let’s face it, MS fatigue makes me fangry (like hangry but impervious to snacks), and I cannot be held responsible for my emotions while in this state.  

I feel an attitude approaching.
Rapidly accelerating MS fatigue is my number one cause of mood swings. Fanger, is the emotional impact that strikes when the smallest task feels monumental. It’s the frustration and rage at my own failing body, that gets unfairly re-directed at whomever and whatever happens to be in my way, or in the room. Ask The Banker, and he will discreetly blink twice to confirm this. Go home, PMS, you’re not needed here.  
After my massage, I Uber’ed home and somehow managed to take the dog out before falling asleep sitting up, and then waking, only to cancel plans with my new friend Andrea. I rescheduled our theatre tickets for two nights later, because I’ll definitely be feeling better by then, right?

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