I want…
© Willeke Van Eeckhoutte and Ireland, Multiple Sclerosis & Me, 2011-2016. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner are strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Willeke Van Eeckhoutte and Ireland, Multiple Sclerosis & Me with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.
What you might not be aware of
"Walking on a staircase can be a bit of an E=mc2 moment in my life, meaning I can’t remember what those things at the end of my legs are for. They look cute in my tall Dr Martens boots, but every so often, I do wonder about them. Do I lift, drop or kick them sideways or not, or are they for decorative reasons only?"
Hot town!
“There’s always the floor?” my mum asked. With a brain fried like a piece of KFC garbage, thinking intelligently seemed hard to do. “Of course there is always a floor, go figure!” But I was getting desperate, water streaming from me and no place to cool down. Aside from the floor, that is.
Debunking CCSVI, or not?
Last night I had the bright idea to write something about the frequently talked about, always fought over treatment for CCSVI, Chronic Cerebrospinal Venous Insufficiency, named so by Dr. Paolo Zamboni in 2008. According to Zamboni, he “cured” his wife of her own MS because he found a compromised flow of blood in her neck veins, draining her central nervous system and that a cure was reached by having simple angioplasty surgery.
The worst snoring secret is out!
So yes… I snore. Considering how much weight I gained after too many MS steroid treatments, one side effect was completely overlooked. I am now the owner of a good habit of sounding like Miss Piggy at night. Steroid treatments should lift energy levels, not snoring. But I do… Like Miss Piggy.
Philosophy of Friendship
Don’t walk behind me; I may not lead. Don’t walk in front of me; I may not follow. Just walk beside me and be my friend. Albert Camus An empty white page on my laptop. Too warm to write, too warm to make sense out of nonsense on my own. In fact, even when I’m not on my own, my non(sense) seems to consist of bouts of gibberish fueled by a brain roasted like a Kentucky Fried Chicken. No need to travel to the Mediterranean to have heatwaves; I never said life in Ireland would make sense. In between July 1st and today there’s been the birthday of yours truly. No, I didn’t spend it drinking, smoking and getting high. As you know, said yours truly is of the non-party-animal…
Pride
Take care of your body. It’s the only place you have to live. (Jim Rohn) Being unwell? For those who only have an odd cold or flu, they believe they cannot possibly feel any worse. For those who battle cancer, ‘being unwell’ becomes a triumph over adversity if their treatment is successful. I often find myself floating in between the mere feeling of the flu or the worst pain possible (trigeminal neuralgia, remember?). On days like that, my illness feels like my body betrays me, day in, day out. Unlike people who have cancer and have the possibility of having their illness ‘cured,’ the course of my multiple sclerosis can only be ‘modified.’ Therein lies the betrayal. Modified becomes a permanent word in your vocabulary. Modified. Not cured, only modified.