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Grief takes its seat on a boat in a dark ocean with little more illumination than a crescent moon to witness your pain. The vessel luffs in irons, as though anchored in time, while the ebb and flow of the ocean under and around you threatens to swallow your wholeness.
Fatigue presses on me like a weighted blanket. From beneath it, a thought emerges: No. I am on a four-lane street, at the wheel of a one-and-a-half ton vehicle. Soon the light will change. I need to wake up.
My diagnosis is a part of me, but not my identity. It could swallow me whole and decimate my well being if I let it. But, I won’t. When the suction into the black hole happens, there is always a way out. Or at least I keep telling myself that.
When I was first diagnosed with MS, I was terrified, confused and displaced. No one in my family had MS. My doctor said there wasn’t a cure and we couldn’t yet tell what severity of the disease I had.