The Great Pretender

(For those receiving this via email, this post contains a video that can be viewed on the Wheelchair Kamikaze website-click here)

Yes, I'm the great pretender
Just laughin' and gay like a clown
I seem to be what I'm not, you see
I'm wearing my heart like a crown
– “The Great Pretender”, the Platters, 1955

It’s strange when a phrase or quote that you’ve long known takes on new meaning due to changed circumstances. Such is the case for me with the lyrics of “The Great Pretender”, a song made famous by the doo-wop/R&B group The Platters in 1955. The tune has long been a part of the playlist in my brain. As the song goes, “yes, I’m the great pretender…”, only now I’m pretending in ways most likely never imagined by the lyricist.

A few weeks ago I had a late lunch with a fellow MSer in a famous restaurant nestled on the outskirts of Central Park called Tavern on the Green. We ate underneath an umbrella in the outdoor patio portion of the newly refurbished eatery, an idyllic spot on a glorious spring afternoon. My friend has a sharp wit and is wickedly entertaining, and she and I whiled away several hours lost in conversation and good food. Our chat ranged far and wide, but, as might be expected from two people dealing with multiple sclerosis, the topic of our shared foe came up at regular intervals, not in any maudlin way but more as the subject of information exchange and the occasional sarcastic verbal jab.

While we ate, me in my wheelchair and my friend with her cane resting beside her, the rest of the world buzzed around us, for the most part as oblivious to us as we were to it. Insulated in our own little bubble, we conjured an atmosphere of normalcy despite our abnormal physical situations, just a couple of gimps jabbering away, all the fleet footed and nimble fingered be damned. After lingering for quite a while, we finally finished our meal, paid the tab, and wheeled (me) and limped (her) our way out of the establishment, where we’d pleasantly spent a very rich few hours.

Just a moment or two after exiting the restaurant, though, my friend suddenly burst into tears.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, naturally alarmed.

“Look!” she sobbed, pointing at the broad inner roadway that circles the circumference of the park, which had become a blur of joggers and bicyclists. “I can’t do that anymore, and I want to.”

Our bubble had been burst and harsh reality rushed in to fill the vacuum. Crap. I felt a black hole tearing at the center of my soul. I reached my one good but weakened hand out to hold hers and hesitantly stammered, “I know… I know." Hackneyed platitudes dressed up as words of wisdom just weren’t going to cut it. This great pretender could do nothing more than share the hurt.

Though I like to think that I have successfully mastered the mantle of noble warrior, steadfastly staring into the eyes of the beast that is my creeping paralysis without any cloak of self-delusion, the plain truth is that in the years since my diagnosis I’ve become well practiced at the art of illusion, wielding psychic shields to protect myself from the sharper and sharper barbs of my increasingly dire situation. I guess this is only natural, a survival mechanism hardwired into our brains to help us cope with even the most dreadful of circumstances. Denial may be one word for it, but I think it’s more a subconscious reshaping of reality than a refusal to see things as they are, a sculpting of perception to create a much-needed psychological zone of comfort and safety. Of course, reality is always in the eye of the beholder, cross your peepers hard enough and even the most cockeyed of situations can appear straight as a desert highway.

Safe in the cocoon of my apartment, my increasingly dysfunctional existence has indeed become “normal”, the countless allowances made to the ravages of the disease rendered commonplace over time. Living with progressive MS is an exercise in constant adaptation; with incremental losses come a never-ending series of incremental workarounds. The disease has slowly left me with a right side that is completely on the fritz and a left that is continually weakening, transforming once mundane tasks into exercises in ingenuity and tenacity.

Sheltered within the cozy confines of my sanctuary here on the 18^th floor of my high-rise building, all of the crazy workarounds and elaborate but clumsily choreographed routines that get me through the day seem almost ordinary. Within these walls my rather bizarre life has become the norm, allowing me the luxury of just being me, warts and all, negating any need for pretending. Sure, there are times throughout even days spent entirely alone at home when I’m hit with “holy shit, I’m a cripple” moments, instants awash in incredulity, but by and large, left to my own devices, I can relax and be myself in the self-contained topsy-turvy MS riddled world of home.

The Great Pretender springs into action once I venture out into the world, where reminders of my mangled reality are everywhere. It starts the moment I leave my apartment. Waiting for the elevator, I sit in my chair hoping beyond hope that when the doors open the car will be empty, saving me the spectacle of watching my fellow building dwellers scramble out of the way of my mechanical monster, my oh too cheerful apologies mixing with their forced graciousness in a perfect illustration of the human capacity for polite bullshit. Once out of the elevator I watch my instantly effervescent doorman rush to open the building’s doors wide for me.

“How are you today Mr. Stecker?” he asks just a little too enthusiastically.

“Better than those goddamned Mets,” I respond, and then we both force a laugh (for those blessedly unacquainted with The Mets, they are New York’s notoriously pathetic baseball team). In truth I appreciate these attempts at perfunctory pleasantries, while at the same time resenting the fact that I require added attention. And then it’s out into the bustling metropolis, where The Great Pretender kicks into high gear.

I love the city, I love being out in the city, but Gotham’s very nearness and dearness to my heart exposes that fragile little organ to the slings and arrows of my outrageous misfortune. All around me there are people doing wondrous things, walking and jogging and climbing stairs, driving and texting and holding hands, all with effortless grace and dexterity. They’ve no idea how lucky they are, just as I didn’t when I was so incredibly fortunate to be one of them.

Ass firmly planted in chair, I take on various roles as I roll through the town: observer, photographer, crazy Wheelchair Kamikaze, speeding through the streets so as not to let envy catch up and turn me green as a Martian. Shields up I deflect whirlwinds of emotion, psychological tornadoes shunted aside by the storm shelter of the Great Pretender. I honestly enjoy careening around the sidewalks of New York, though as my “good” arm and hand continue to weaken even that pleasure is becoming blunted. Still, there’s plenty to occupy the mind while at the controls – don’t hit that pothole, sure hope that pigeon is quick to the wing, watch out for the precocious scooter kid!

Once I arrive at my destination, other concerns take hold as there’s less to distract me from the facts of my broken down state. If I’m out for a jaunt by myself, say to the park or to the river, I mindfully try to soak up the scene and not let my sense of otherness overwhelm and ruin the moment, not always easy but doable while alone and left to my own devices. Things change in the company of healthy friends or family, when I somehow feel responsible for keeping them at ease with the situation, almost automatically conjuring a sense of nonchalant joviality that belies the gravity of my predicament. The Great Pretender wears thin armor and a welcoming smile.

What a great attitude, others sometimes marvel, even as I sit secretly coveting not only their hale bodies but also the problems that occupy their hearts and minds. Is that a horrible admission, that I’m jealous of the very same issues that often had me tied up in knots back in my healthy days? Problems that could be solved either through action, a change of mindset, or simply the passage of time? This implacable illness has no such solutions, thus far defying every effort to even just slow it down. Barring some incredible medical breakthrough, these are wounds that time won’t heal but in fact will only make worse, a truth I hardly want to admit to myself much less discuss with anyone else, other than the closest of the close.

As my disease progresses, maintaining psychic equilibrium in social settings requires more and more conscious effort. It’s hard to get lost in dinner conversation when your increasingly gimpy hand has trouble manipulating a fork. Such social outings are double-edged swords; they offer much-needed distraction and social interaction while at the same time putting a focus on just how much I’ve lost to this slowly exploding atomic bomb. My efforts at illusion aim not only to comfort others but myself as well. The approximation of “situation normal” that The Great Pretender endeavors to maintain is a way of breathing life into the me that used to be, the embers of which I’m afraid are slowly being doused. It’s good therapy to get lost in the occasional game of make-believe, but gosh it can be exhausting when the illusion is so easily shattered, when all that used to be taken for granted sits balanced on a razor’s edge, when looking down reveals an emaciated right hand curled into a claw. A physical and psychological juggling act of increasing complexity, socializing with friends has its rewards but also it's price. I usually find myself totally spent after such activities, needing days to recharge.

When I’m out with fellow MSers, it’s a somewhat different story. Regardless of the stage of their disease we share a common burden, and that sharing helps to lessen the load. Members of an exclusive club that none of us wanted to join, we speak a language that outsiders would at times be hard-pressed to understand. Even out and about in the great big land of the healthy a couple of gimps can carve out a world within a world. It can be exhilarating to talk about the ugliness of MS with someone else who just gets it, no explanations necessary. Speaking of things that to others might seem unspeakable can be a tremendous relief, a chance to purge and breathe deep. This sense of sharing creates its own temporary normalcy, and yet, as was the case with my friend as we left Tavern on the Green, the outside world has a way of shattering even collective illusions.

In a sense we are all The Great Pretender, revealing different sides of ourselves to different people, wearing different faces in different situations. In part, we choose our friends and lovers based not only on who they are but on the person they allow us to be. Chronic progressive illness digs deep, throwing a mass of new variables into the equation, increasing exponentially the complexity of the elaborate social dances in which we all engage. As the disease takes hold fundamental changes take place, not only physical but mental, changes visible and invisible that can be so traumatic that they shake our foundational notions of self. Protectively and instinctively I insulate body and mind, creating pockets in which my new decidedly not normal becomes normal, but the world outside still beckons, the company of others still calls. Though beyond the comfort zone lays the potential for peril, I venture forth with a spirit – at once both real and contrived – intended to bolster myself as much if not more than others.

And so yes, I’m The Great Pretender…

Suspended

A reliable staple of science fiction space adventures is the concept of “suspended animation”, whereby astronauts traveling to far off galaxies are put into a kind of hibernation during which they don’t age or otherwise feel the effects of their long, perilous journeys. Safe in their suspended animation pods, these fictional voyagers are awakened upon reaching their destination, blissfully unaware of the months, years, or decades that have passed since they left their home planet. For all they know, while they were in suspension the world they left may have changed radically, or may no longer even exist. Separated from their previous lives by time and distance, the reanimated travelers now inhabit a new reality, for better or worse (in most pieces of science fiction, it’s usually for worse).

I’ve come to realize that in some ways my illness has had a similar effect on me. As my creeping paralysis has progressed, leaving me less and less able to take part in the ordered chaos of the world at large, I find myself increasingly alienated from the life I once knew, my space in the existence I used to occupy now almost totally erased. I’m still here, of course, part of the world but also apart from it, more spectator of than participant in the game of life. The never ceasing whirl of activity outside of my metaphorical and physical windows continues on, but the threads that once tied me to the self-perpetuating clamor of everyday life have largely been cut, putting me in a sort of conscious state of suspended animation. The gears of the world grind on, but more and more, they grind on without me.

The most tangible examples of this are the changes that have come to the industry in which I once earned my living. I spent 20 years building a career in TV and video production, which culminated in my heading up the DVD Production Department of a huge multinational music/entertainment conglomerate. My group was responsible for the programming and mastering of hundreds of discs, some of which sold hundreds of thousands of copies. When I first started in the position DVDs were such a brand-new technology that most people hadn’t even yet heard of them. Within a few years, though, DVDs exploded, and just as my disease was forcing me to to “retire”, Blu-ray discs had started to emerge as the next generation of consumer media. Now, over seven years later, streaming video (à la Netflix) is all the rage, a development I'd long anticipated  but never got the chance to play a hand in.

The changing landscape of video production and consumer consumption has marched on without me, and the technological infrastructure to which I was a native and used daily to earn my keep has in short course become archaic. If I were to be suddenly cured and tried to reenter the workforce I’d be so far behind the curve that some snot nosed kid just out of college would put my once formidable technological knowledge to absolute shame. As far as my former industry is concerned, I might as well have spent the last seven years on a spaceship in suspended animation. Ground control to Major Marc…

The shock of my diagnosis created a seismic shift in my existence, and that shock reverberates still. You’d think that 11 years after my initial diagnosis, and over 15 years since my first symptoms started cropping up, I’d have somehow gotten used to the idea of my illness and its destructiveness, but no, several times a day I still find myself smacked in the head by the realities of my predicament. This perpetual state of shock has left parts of me petrified, in every sense of the word. Petrified as in scared silly, but also petrified as in unchanged despite the passage of time. I was officially diagnosed at age 39, and now, at 50 years old, parts of the inner me have been left untouched by the intervening years, stuck in a kind of stasis, in much the same state that they were when the disease first took hold. It’s kind of a diabolical case of arrested development; even as my body becomes ever more decrepit, parts of the me encased inside of it have been untouched by the passing years.

Almost all of my old hopes, dreams, and desires stand frozen, as if parts of my very soul have been put on ice (apologies to Eldridge Cleaver). Now, instead of propelling me forward in an effort to fulfill them, those old longings and expectations only serve to put an exclamation point on just how much the disease has cost me. The physical toll is obvious but the psychic not so much, camouflaged by copious amounts of effort spent trying to maintain a sense of stability and even contentment in the face of this brutal and ceaseless storm. Will I really never get to have my breath taken away by the artistic splendors of Florence, or purchase some ludicrously luxurious and fast automobile, or get stinking drunk on ouzo while carousing on an idyllic Greek island? While healthy, there was always the hope of erasing old disappointments with new successes, of paving over past mistakes with future achievements, but now those previous failings have been transformed from works in progress into set pieces, dioramas in the museum of my mind.

Yes, I dreamed big, and dreams die hard. In fact, I don’t think they ever die at all, but my old dreams now lie fixed behind a set of more humble but – barring any medical breakthroughs – much less achievable desires. To simply stroll through the springtime air, or to hug my wife with two strong arms, or to mindlessly jot down a note with my now-defunct right hand. In my long-ago life I amassed extensive collections of antique cameras and vintage wristwatches, both of which I took much delight in putting to good use. Now they sit gathering dust in boxes, physical remnants of a life suspended, the impulses that lead to my possessing them still existent but now also packed away by the distressing actualities of my stark new reality.

Much like those science-fiction spacemen, I awake to an environment that is resonant with echoes of my past. This new life is often incredibly difficult, to be sure, but the challenges it presents are also opportunities. Though some old friends and acquaintances have drifted away, new ones, fellow travelers on these uncharted waters, have made the journey much less lonely. The loyalty of my wonderful wife alone is reason to have faith in humanity. By extracting me from the hue and cry of my old healthy existence, my disease has afforded me a sense of perspective that informs my  day-to-day life, and, I hope, might even help some of my comrades both healthy and ill to better navigate their own winding roads.

I’ve learned to not sweat the small stuff, and that most of what I used to consider gut wrenching problems are in reality small stuff. As my disease continues its infernal progression, finding contentment in what I have rather than what I once wanted or have lost has become a mechanism of survival. As the Buddha discovered centuries ago, desire, or more accurately attachment to desire, is indeed the root of all suffering. Despite the undeniable hardships within which I find myself stuck, I laugh just about as often as I used to, the sheer absurdity of my situation fodder for more laughter than tears. My mom is dealing with her own sense of suspended animation, courtesy Parkinson’s disease, yet somehow our telephone conversations often find us convulsed in hilarity. We both have more than a touch of the rascal in us, and the juxtaposition of our old pre-suspension hijinks with our new more sedentary and sedate forced existences serve to highlight the farcical nature of our puny little lives. Taking oneself too seriously is perhaps the gravest mistake a person can make.

Don’t get me wrong, despite the lessons learned and perspective gained, there’s virtually nothing I wouldn’t do to regain my health. As my creeping paralysis continues its increasingly destructive march, my tolerance for risk in my search for answers has become almost boundless, but despite my precarious situation there is still satisfaction to be squeezed out of these undeniably frightful circumstances. The old me is indeed in suspended animation, hopefully one day to be roused once again, but there is still life to be lived in this strange new world in which I find myself. It’s certainly not a life I would’ve chosen, but like it or not, it has chosen me. Despairing over my losses is only natural, but giving in to that despair would hand victory to the cosmic pranksters that conspire to make me the butt of their joke. I still have a middle finger capable of being raised, and with that raised finger I’ll continue to poke those pernicious little fuckers right in their beady little eyes. The joke's on them, for although part of me has been put into suspended animation, I'm still full of piss and vinegar…

Changes, Inside And Out

Change (Photo credit: mbgrigby)

For many individuals, change is an unpleasant proposition. Most folks generally strive to maintain stability in their personal and professional lives. Major life changes, such as switching jobs, suffering the breakup of a romantic relationship, or moving to a new location can cause tremendous amounts of anxiety and stress, and studies have shown that some major life events, such as divorce, can have a lasting negative effect on mental and physical health. The simple fact is, though, that a certain amount of change is inevitable, and quite often changes once feared turn out, in retrospect, to have been for the better.

Once, while working for a large corporation, I attended a three day symposium that focused entirely on how to deal with change from a business point of view. Since change is inescapable, the symposium leaders told us, rather than fearing and trying to avoid it, workers and organizations are much better served by anticipating and embracing the shifting circumstances that are sure to come. Sticking rigidly to the tried-and-true will sooner or later find a business, no matter how large or successful, facing an existential crisis.

Patients dealing with progressively disabling diseases like Multiple Sclerosis are often forced to navigate lives riddled with change. Some of these changes, the physical, are often abundantly obvious to the outside world. Others, the changes that occur within, which are necessitated by the patient’s need to cope with their changing physical circumstances, are often only perceived by the patient themselves, or those closest to them.

From the moment of diagnosis, change becomes a constant way of life for the stricken, and the uncertainties associated with a disabling disease only serve to amplify the anxieties felt by the patients suffering from it. The physicians call MS a heterogeneous disease, meaning that it can present quite differently from patient to patient. Be that as it may, no matter how the disease presents itself physically, psychologically all patients share a fear of the physical destruction that can be wrought by the disease, and the resulting life changes that may be forced upon them.

I can quite clearly remember the haze of confusion that engulfed me in the days and weeks following my diagnosis, a sense of befuddlement heightened by the fact that the simple act of diagnosis had forced a sudden, irrevocable change in my reality, a permanent alteration to my sense of self. Although my symptoms at that point were largely invisible, I knew that I now stood apart from the crowd, that the so-called problems that I grappled with pre-diagnosis were dwarfed by a larger one that lurked within me, one that had the potential to change my life in ways that were almost too terrible to contemplate.

Though my knowledge of MS at that time was quite limited, I knew from the moment of my diagnosis forward that my life would never be the same. Even as I vowed to fight the disease with everything I had, and consciously told myself that this hurdle needn’t be an insurmountable wall, the research I was obsessively doing to educate myself didn’t paint quite so confident a picture. Yes, many patients were able to fend off significant disability for years and sometimes even decades, but others found themselves caught in the jaws of an insatiable monster, their lives twisted in ways they once thought impossible. Deep inside I knew that waves of changes were coming; it was just a matter of how destructive they would be and how fast they would crash ashore.

Indeed, my life now, just about 10 years later, bears little resemblance to the one I lived on the day I first noticed my right knee buckling ever so slightly with every step I took. A snapshot of my existence taken just before my diagnosis compared to one taken at this very instant would reveal changes so dramatic as to be almost surreal. The path from then to now is paved with incremental changes, each following a logical progression, but as I travel down that path the sum total of those changes seems anything but logical.

Through conscious effort I’ve managed to find a measure of solace and sometimes even contentment despite the effects of the disease, but not a day goes by that I don’t find myself at least once experiencing a terrific moment of shock at the toll the disease has thus far exacted. And then the knowledge that further changes are surely coming briefly crystallizes and compounds that shock, like a sudden chill stabbing through a drafty window frame, until with effort I force myself back into the relative safety of present. There is no getting used to the situation, rather, one learns to live with it largely because there is simply no other choice..

The physical changes inflicted by my disease (which now may or may not be MS, depending on which doctor you ask) that impact my day-to-day existence result from a toxic brew of symptoms. Muscle weakness, spasticity, fatigue, and a storm of other symptoms subtle and possibly nameless combine to grip me in their own diabolical custom-made vise. The progressive nature of the illness makes mentally coming to terms with any current state of disability a difficult proposition, since without some form of intervention it’s almost certain that more losses are to come.

Some patients are fortunate in this regard, and their disease plateaus at a certain point, stabilizing their state of disability, at least for a while. My disability, though, has thus far shown itself to be a constantly moving target. Trying to throw a psychological net around it so that it can be assimilated into at least a semi-permanent sense of self has proven to be an exercise in futility, like attempting to collect soap bubbles momentarily floating through the air. Change, then, has become a constant, and my life over these last 10 years can be charted by the mental and physical adjustments made to accommodate an ever transforming new normal.

Starting at day one and plotting my course to the present, walking with a limp progressed to walking with an ankle brace, and then to walking with a cane, as the distances I was able to travel grew ever shorter. Soon after came a power wheelchair, at first only used outside of my apartment, but eventually inside as well, much to the chagrin of my apartment’s walls, doorframes, and certain pieces of furniture. Walking is now reserved for the few clumsy and increasingly difficult steps between my chair and the bed, or my chair and my computer, or my chair and wherever else my chair can’t quite reach.

Of course, mobility issues are only part of the physical damage done by the disease. These myriad physical changes have made necessary alterations to my very definition of who I am and the qualities with which I define myself, as the disease methodically stripped away layer after layer of the superficialities that, over time, I had come to believe were the building blocks of “me”. The impermanence of what once seemed to be the foundational elements of my life speaks loudly of the tenuous fragility of what most consider their reality. In fact, the only permanence I can now count on is change, and living life in a state of constant physical flux requires ongoing psychological adaptation as well.

Unlike the changes to my physical self, which have been decidedly negative, many of the psychological changes that I’ve undergone have been surprisingly positive. I’ve certainly gained a sense of perspective, as many of the problems that vexed the healthy me have been revealed to be mere trivialities. Since the disease itself appears to delight at taking whacks at me, I’ve compensated by trying to be easier on myself, though self-criticism sometimes still does get the best of me. I’ve gained a tremendous amount of empathy for the downtrodden, victims not only of disease but also of circumstance, especially if those circumstances are not of their own doing.

Above all, I’ve learned the immense value of striving to stay rooted in the present, as the now, this very moment, is all we ever truly possess. The past is but a collection of memories filtered through a veil of years, and the future a place populated, courtesy of the disease, by some potentially very real monsters. Even if the now isn’t ideal, you do yourself a tremendous disservice by not attempting to fully occupy every moment. Far more than platinum, gold, or diamonds, time is the most precious of commodities, as it is irreplaceable and grows scarcer with each passing second. Used properly, the past is a tool that can best inform us how to make the most of the present, but it’s so very easy when faced with a present that is wrought with hardship to instead use the past has a sanctuary, attempting to blot out what is with memories of what was.

Though this may provide some temporary and sometimes much-needed comfort, ultimately one must find the resolve to seek the nugget of good that always hides somewhere in the present, even if finding it requires digging through layer after layer of psychological and spiritual pain. For each of us the composition of that glimmer of good might be quite different, but reason to hope, I think, is an essential ingredient. Once this labor is done, and the nugget of good uncovered, it must be held tightly and nurtured, and carried through the next moment, and then the moment after that.

Change is never easy, and the sea of change engendered by a crippling disease can be especially cruel. It can be tremendously difficult to not get caught in its currents and dragged under, and often the more one struggles the tighter gets the grip of its tides. Rather than wasting precious energy fighting the pull of the roiling ocean within, practicing kindness to self and making some effort to accept what is allows one to let go and float along the crests of the turbulent waves of distress, instead of fruitlessly struggling while being pulled under by them. This can be the key to finding respite amidst a raging storm, and ultimately making your way to calmer waters.

Attempting action through inaction is of course easier said than done, especially when the changes are coming hard and fast and it seems that there is no time to even take a breath, but taking charge of the raging elements within to create your own internal reality is the only way I know to soothe the savage psychological goblins of progressive illness. We must never stop fighting the disease, but in order to properly do so we must consciously give up the fight we sometimes wage against ourselves, and focus our efforts instead on the very real beast at hand.

Warning: Blind Curves Ahead

Receiving a diagnosis of MS, or any serious illness, is a reality shattering event. Despite the initial wave of fear, confusion, and consternation, there is one thing the receiver of such news knows innately; life as they know it will very likely never again be the same. Whether the disease eventually takes a mild course, leaving a person relatively intact for an extended length of time, or a more aggressive path, as in my case, landing its victim in a wheelchair within five years, life's future trajectory has been fundamentally altered. If not by the ravages of the disease itself, a patient's reality will be warped by the sudden realization of their absolute vulnerability.

How to deal with this sudden detour is up to the individual, and each person's reactions and coping mechanisms are as different as the ways in which MS can present itself. Some patients go into complete denial, and attempt to live life as if nothing has changed. Others shut down completely, unable to wrap their minds around their new, unfortunate, reality. Reading books, talking to doctors, and chatting on the Internet can only go so far. Ultimately, each individual must make his own peace with the disease. Truthfully, I'm not sure that peace is even the right word. Truce, maybe? Each person must come to a truce with their new reality, must reach an armistice with their illness.

Thing is, even without a diagnosis of MS, no person knows what the future holds. We live our lives with blinders on, blithely going about our routines as if those routines were written in stone, stable and secure and steadfast. Almost inevitably, something comes along to reveal that the underpinnings of our existence are not constructed of granite, but of gossamer. The stability of everyday life is an illusion for us all, healthy or not, and can be shattered in an instant. The loss of a job, a betrayal, an illness or accident, or even a simple lapse in judgment can forever consign all that was previously taken for granted to the scrap heap of what used to be.

When I was first diagnosed, I was working at one of the major TV/video/music production facilities here in New York City. The building was filled with folks who were among the world's best at their highly competitive jobs. Two of the people I was most friendly with there were named David and Bob. David was a flat-out genius, probably the smartest person I've ever met, who was paid a very nice living for simply being David. He was an innovator who helped bring about the digital age of recorded music, and was so well thought of that he was the go to guy when the industry's other big brains had problems that they couldn't solve. Bob was a gentle giant of a man, and as chief engineer of one of the world's foremost production facilities, he was no slouch in the brains department either. In an industry filled with tremendous egos, Bob was humble and grounded, an island of stability in an environment that could often turn into a maelstrom of emotional histrionics.

Upon hearing of my diagnosis, both of my friends were visibly saddened, and through the fusillade of "sorry to hear thats" that came at me from every direction, their compassion was palpable, and comforting. They genuinely felt sorry for me, but I knew from my own experience in dealing with other people's bad news that there was an element of "thank God it isn't me" mixed in with their compassion. It's only natural, as hearing of someone else's misfortune serves as an unwelcome reminder of our own vulnerability, a reminder that we quickly cast out like a container of soured milk. In the reality show of life, even the best of us feels thankful that it wasn't me who was voted off the program.

About three years after I was diagnosed, my friend David suffered a massive coronary after having dinner with his elderly mother. He simply got up from the dinner table, fell over, and that was that. Soon after, Bob was hit with a mysterious illness, and he wound up going on disability a month or two before I did. Through numerous phone conversations, we helped each other wind our way through the labyrinthine process and paperwork of applying for Social Security and long-term disability. Tragically, Bob's mysterious illness turned out to be a rare form of leukemia, and he passed away a little over a year ago. Even now, writing that sentence brings with it a sting of grief.

The point of all of this gloom and doom is that nobody knows what's coming. Life is a road made up of nothing but blind curves. Healthy or not, we must all constantly try to make the most of the present moment. The past is gone for good, and the future is unknowable. All we have is now, and even if this now is not what you once imagined it would be, it is still your most precious possession, because you will never have another one.

Those of us who have suffered loss after loss because of multiple sclerosis must concentrate on that which we still have, and not lose ourselves in all that's been taken from us. I can't use my right arm and leg , but I can use my left. I can choose to grimly lament the loss of what had been my dominant side , or I can try to do the best I can with the parts of me that still work. It's all a choice, and the power and grandeur of the human mind is that it can create its own reality. Being stuck with a miserable disease does not relegate one to being miserable. Without making an effort, the misery of MS is always there to sink down into. Avoiding it takes conscious action, the mental discipline to mindfully take control of your own emotional well-being.

This is not to suggest that one walk around brainlessly smiling like an overly medicated asylum inmate. A large part of the ability to cope with a disease like MS is acknowledging how much having the disease sucks, and then deciding that you will find a measure of contentment in spite of it. It's an effort that must be exerted each and every moment of each and every day, but as with all exercises, with time it becomes easier, and habitual.

My friends David and Bob both felt sorry for me, never expecting that within a handful of years I'd be the last of the three of us to still grace the planet. My life is farther from perfect than I ever expected it could be, but I still have life, and enough ability left to overcome my disabilities. This might not always be the case, but right now, at this moment, it is. Tomorrow, or next week, or next year? Who knows? I can try to plan for the future, but I can only live it when it becomes the now.

Despite multiple sclerosis, we are in the very same boat as our healthy friends and family, trying mightily to navigate uncharted waters with an imaginary map. Rest assured that there are rocks and icebergs and maybe even sea serpents ahead, but the only damage they can truly do to your essence is that which you let them.