Crash

I am not afraid of death. I have never been afraid of death. Death is a theme in my life, and rebirth is right next to it. For those of you who know me, and if you read my blog at all, you might be aware that I have done the whole “died and came back to life” in the past. *See post on “25 Going on 15” which relates the story of my experiment with Stem cells.* But for the sake of this post, let me just say that I am overwhelmed this time. A month ago, I bought a new car, and I was ecstatic about it. I had worked so hard to purchase and be able to drive this car. And yet a week ago, I crashed into a bus, and my car spun around and hit three different times before finally deciding to stop. I was left with bruises and a bad burn, but I came out of it alive. While the crash was taking place, I was thinking “I’m going to die. Yup, I’m going to die in a car crash. Damn.”

I won’t dwell on the gruesome details, because we all know what accidents are like. What happened after the accident is extraordinary. I had been feeling very down and helpless before the car crash. I was struggling with chronic pain (as usual) and I was starting to feel hopeless. After my crash, everything around me also crashed. People. Relationships. Everything either solidified or disappeared. I was amazed by people’s reactions. There were those that let go and those that stayed. There were many surprises. It was a near-death experience, and it crashed into my face, how much I had misinterpreted and assumed I understood it all. I didn’t. I still don’t.

I am overwhelmed with the way my sisters stood by me, with the way my baby sisters (not so-baby anymore) took care of me. I was touched by my best friend’s presence, leaving her baby to come rushing to the hospital, fearing for my life. I was shocked that my students, who I assumed only considered me their teacher, called me, sent me emails, told me how much they appreciated my existence. I cried when I realized that I had touched my students’ lives, that I had made a difference somehow. I kept repeating to my sister, Abrar, that this was all “too much.” It felt like it was too much. I hadn’t just crashed my car, I had crashed into reality. Love was all around, and not in the way I had expected it, from one person, but rather, it was dispersed and distributed. The intimacy and vulnerability of the accident made those around me more open, more verbal, and it shook my soul. Everyone had something to say. Each person had their own take on it. People either stayed or ran away.

So I guess I’m alive, and it looks like there must be a reason. Only the Universe knows how and why. Meanwhile, I know I have to return all this love and appreciation. So thank you, to everyone who cared. And thank you, to those who put up with my blog ramblings.

    

Persevere

Key word. Persevere. Fight. Keep going. Go against all odds. You get the picture. 

But when I am left alone with my thoughts, I question it all. What was the point of difference between you and I? Which part of all this perseverance is mine, and which was yours? To fight means there’s a battle to endure. I had my battles. You fought my demons, but never could fight your own. And as much as I like to believe I was a warrior, I could never fight against you or your chosen allies. 

We choose our allies. And now I am left with the ghost of an ally.  

Below: the theme of it all. 

 

A Dose of Beirut

How many times have you found yourself thinking “Carpe diem” is so cliché? When did it lose its effect? I’m certain Horace would’ve never anticipated that the phrase would turn into a way of life. But the truth is, most of us don’t seize the day. We think we’ll be superhuman today and tomorrow. We think we’ll get yet another chance to do everything we want to tomorrow, tomorrow, I love you tomorrow *sings Annie’s musical for you*…. but the way I see it, the cliché here is assuming we’ll still get another tomorrow, and a bunch of tomorrows where everything works out in our favor. Pessimist? I think not. A few months ago, I didn’t want another tomorrow. I was on medication that was meant to help increase my energy, and it did wonders, but left me immensely depressed and horribly sad. I was angry at the world, at my existence, and I was just unmotivated. I didn’t want to get out of bed in the morning, and when I did, I complained about the possibility of yet another day stuck in a suffering body. 

 But this post is supposed to be about positivity and life. One of the beautiful things I have re-discovered is friendship. I met someone who was eager to get to know me and listened to my complaints, my heartbreaks, and my fears. Sara, my good friend, pushed herself out of her comfort zone to help me out of mine. She was surprised when she found out that there were many things I was afraid of doing, many places I hadn’t seen, and that I was struggling to make sense of pain, in all of its forms. So Sara and I both helped each other recover a sense of youth and positivity. We planned a trip to Beirut, Lebanon, and I was worried I would not be able to keep up with her and her friend, who was also traveling with us. I have not been able to keep up with people my age for years. I simply have learned to avoid trying to keep up. I have felt embarrassed and worried, and I used to hate being called a “party pooper” – the person who goes to bed early and cannot go crazy, as crazy as young and healthy people are supposed to be. Sara was an amazing tour guide, a beautiful friend, and a great deal of support. She has been referred to as “too kind” by those around her. That’s where I think people are wrong. When did kindness become a flaw? Because of this supposed excess of kindness, Sara helped me out of my comfort zone. Beirut wasn’t just beautiful because of its scenery, its simplicity, its people, but it was beautiful because it was an experience that reminded me of the ability to live, to move forward, and to have friends who love you just the way you are. Traveling and sight-seeing requires effort, both physical and mental. I was scared I would not be able to do it, but I did (and it was no easy task). But again, my friend was understanding and supportive, she drove most of the time and kept urging me to take naps in the backseat of the car. 

We went to a place called Faraya, where we rented snowmobiles and drove around in snow. Because my hands are not so trustworthy, and my physical stamina can betray me at any given moment, I wasn’t sure I could drive. Sara understood, but then asked me to just try. The magic words: “Just try.”  Cliché? You’d be surprised. I joked about allowing someone with MS to take control of the wheel (or pedals). But I did ‘just try.’ And I loved it. The thrill for me was not simply driving a snowmobile- it was actually being able to do something different, something I usually cannot do. Of course the pain comes afterwards, but as usual, no regrets, no regrets. 



 Here are some pictures of Beirut . And again, people, seize the day. Really. And that’s all for now.





Breaking Up With My Right-Hand

I am currently in the process of breaking up with my right hand.

A few years ago, precisely six years ago, I lost function in my hands and fingers. I was an undergraduate at the time, a Literature major, and I was in desperate need of functional hands. How else would I write long essays? Our exams consisted of filling up empty pages with as much intellectual jargon as you could possibly manage. Of course there was also the Multiple Choice component, but that was manageable; it’s really easy to form a circle around a letter, even kindergarteners can do that. Messy circles, but hey, it’s no art class. I barely managed to take my exams, and I requested more time to write. My handwriting was barely readable – but then again, it hardly ever is. It was simply more deformed. Fortunately, my professors were understanding and did not acknowledge the sudden dysfunction that arose. I passed, with a flying (and flawed) blue pen in my hand.

Eventually, I regained function. Things went back to normal. Until a few days ago, when I realized my right hand had re-developed a tremor. Wonderful. Not only does it come at the most inappropriate time, but also, it is one of those tremors that medical terminology labels “Intention Tremor.” Simply put, this type of tremor is at its worst only when you want to use your hand; i.e. voluntary movement. When at rest, it is functional and as good as new. Ironic, no?

I depend on my right hand for nearly everything. My left is nearly non-existent. So, as always, I like to have a back-up plan.

I am currently in the process of training my left hand to become my right. Apparently, this can be done. I looked up the term, because as always, there is a word, which doesn’t adequately describe the complexity of this sudden dramatic intrusion. But enough whining. Here it is:

Ambidextrous. adj

1. equally expert with each hand

2. Informal highly skilled or adept

3. underhanded; deceitful

My favorite definition, is naturally, the third. To be deceitful. Who would I be deceiving?

First off, it seems that one needs to trick their brain, the subconscious, into thinking that the left hand is now the dominant one. I am wearing my watch on my right hand now, hoping that this will help fool my brain into re-adjusting itself. Also, I have to buy writing notebooks, the ones that second graders use to learn cursive. I should be practicing my writing. Also, I have to keep my right hand in my pocket at all times. Because it is no longer visible, I hope to deceive my brain into thinking it does not exist.

I am trying to break this cycle of dependency. This right hand of mine has all the power, and it’s time for us to breakup. This will require determination, because I am absolutely in love with my right hand. She’s the one who does everything for me – eats those juicy steaks, writes those long essays, types insanely quickly on my phone, makes my morning coffee – the list is endless.

But, she can no longer serve me the same. I have to move on. Let’s see if I’ll make it.

Socks

 

You wake up one day, and suddenly, your feet do not belong to you. They are, most definitely, separated from your body. But no, that can’t be, because you look down, and yup, they’re still there. You touch, and you sniff them. They feel like they have been suffocating under woolen socks for years on end.

Okay, time to wiggle my toes, before I actually attempt the impossible: getting out of bed.

Each toe feels plastered to the other. And, as if they have plotted to work against my brain’s insufficient commands, they decide not to move.

Ugh. Not again.

I reach over, attempting to massage them. Nothing. They refuse to respond. I drag myself out of bed, knowing exactly what this means. Today, my feet won’t be able to touch the ground without feeling like I am wearing an infinite amount of socks. Blood stops rushing to them. And each step towards the door feels as though I am walking through water, and my socks are drenched in mud –my feet are heavy.

I open the door, to call for my mother. I need to tell her that I need help putting on my socks and shoes, because this looks like just another Multiple Sclerosis relapse.