Health, writing, and a poignant date in my world
First off, I hate this disease. I purely hate it.
Last night, I came out of the bathroom, made it three feet, started to say something, and sat down on the floor. I spent about fifteen minutes propped against the dining room door jamb; left side was gone for the duration. No sensation, hand flopping uselessly, leg not holding me, no sensation in the left side of my face; I was talking to my husband out the right side, as he stayed celestially calm.
No left side. Nothing. It eased up and backed off, finally - just a residual stabby numbness. Today is back to what passes for normal with relapsing/remitting MS: basic detente between my copingness and the pain and imbalance.
Problem is, I don't have the energy to fight it. No reserves. I'm worn too thin.
So I'll monitor this, and see if it does it again. Nothing else to be done. Maybe someday, idiots like Patricia Heaton and James Caveziel won't make television ads telling the voters out there that God! Loves! Stem! Cells!, and therefore, every autoimmune disease in the world should be left to devour whoever they hit. Maybe if some of these god-botherers out there get hit with MS or Crohns or Parkinsons or Alzheimers, they'll shut the hell up? Because, you know, a stem cell is not a human being.
Writing: Can anyone tell me what on earth I was thinking, when I sat down and began this bloody short story? I don't write science fiction, and yet, here it is, making demands of me, that include, well, science. And I can't write it as anything other than science fiction, at which I suspect I suck, not considering the subject matter.
Last night, I watched the slideshow of every image on the Golden Record - on my PC, on software that didn't exist when Voyager was launched. That, alone, boggles me.
The story - which is still tentatively titled Our Lady of Red Dust, with Fig: 1: Possible Statue of Woman as its alternate - is being done in tiny bites, very different from my usual Mach 4 writing speed. My red dust woman is just shaking some of her dust, shaping it into organs and ears, the better to absorb the information on the Record with. She's got Louis Armstrong on there, and Blind Willie Dixon. And of course, Chuck Berry.
And finally, an enigmatic closer: Happy 64th birthday, N. I wish you were alive to see it.
Last night, I came out of the bathroom, made it three feet, started to say something, and sat down on the floor. I spent about fifteen minutes propped against the dining room door jamb; left side was gone for the duration. No sensation, hand flopping uselessly, leg not holding me, no sensation in the left side of my face; I was talking to my husband out the right side, as he stayed celestially calm.
No left side. Nothing. It eased up and backed off, finally - just a residual stabby numbness. Today is back to what passes for normal with relapsing/remitting MS: basic detente between my copingness and the pain and imbalance.
Problem is, I don't have the energy to fight it. No reserves. I'm worn too thin.
So I'll monitor this, and see if it does it again. Nothing else to be done. Maybe someday, idiots like Patricia Heaton and James Caveziel won't make television ads telling the voters out there that God! Loves! Stem! Cells!, and therefore, every autoimmune disease in the world should be left to devour whoever they hit. Maybe if some of these god-botherers out there get hit with MS or Crohns or Parkinsons or Alzheimers, they'll shut the hell up? Because, you know, a stem cell is not a human being.
Writing: Can anyone tell me what on earth I was thinking, when I sat down and began this bloody short story? I don't write science fiction, and yet, here it is, making demands of me, that include, well, science. And I can't write it as anything other than science fiction, at which I suspect I suck, not considering the subject matter.
Last night, I watched the slideshow of every image on the Golden Record - on my PC, on software that didn't exist when Voyager was launched. That, alone, boggles me.
The story - which is still tentatively titled Our Lady of Red Dust, with Fig: 1: Possible Statue of Woman as its alternate - is being done in tiny bites, very different from my usual Mach 4 writing speed. My red dust woman is just shaking some of her dust, shaping it into organs and ears, the better to absorb the information on the Record with. She's got Louis Armstrong on there, and Blind Willie Dixon. And of course, Chuck Berry.
And finally, an enigmatic closer: Happy 64th birthday, N. I wish you were alive to see it.
posted by DebGrabien at
9:59 AM
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