A few months went by since Monica’s visit and I was feeling better than before. That is, until October came and my symptoms were flaring up. However, this time was worse than before. While I was using the computer, everything went blurry. I rubbed my eyes a few times, thinking maybe I had something in them. Two hours go by, and looking through my eyes felt like someone had rubbed Vaseline in them.
“Do you want to go to the hospital?” says a very, concerned mother.
“No way!”
I also didn’t tell them that my legs were numb again and the sensation was moving upward almost every other minute. My symptoms never moved this fast before.
“Mom, I can’t see! I can’t feel my legs!”
My vision was impaired to the point where I couldn’t make out a face. All I could see were colors and outlines. Back in the same hospital I was in the beginning, it was really late at night so the nurses (who knew me by then) paid close attention to me. When you sign up at the ER counter and tell the lady, “hey, I’m going blind!” gets you a fast pass into a room upstairs. Because of the late hour, doctors were not able to run the tests they wanted to. My parents were not allowed upstairs that late, so I was alone for the night. By 3:00 am, I wasn’t so alone; I was rooming with a woman in her 90’s, wide-awake, and watching a Locked-Up marathon on the television pretty loudly.
“Hi kid, whaddya in for?” she croaks.
“I’m going blind,” that’s all I could say without provoking conversation.
“Well damn, ain’t that a shame. God sure plays mean tricks, huh?”
Shortly after our introduction, she fell vast asleep, with the television on. With the combination of the light in the hallway, the television, and Merdie’s extreme snoring, I couldn’t sleep. The next night, Merdie was watching her favorite show, Gray’s Anatomy. She had me cracking up, calling all the actresses sluts and men were better looking in her day. I realized Merdie wasn’t a bad roommate after all. If a nurse took too long to come to the room, she would yell. If I had food I didn’t like, she would have her grandson sneak some in for me. Merdie couldn’t wait to go home. Unfortunately, she died one day while I was getting tests done in another section of the hospital. I would always hope for another roommate like Merdie, snoring or not, she made my situation feel not so bad. But my situation was getting worse. By day four, the majority of my body was feeling pins and needles. I also couldn’t swallow and my speech was slurred. While receiving more and more rounds of steroids, more weight was being put on.
I also got a new roommate. I never knew her name; she slept most of the time and barely spoke. When my roommate did speak, she would cry out for her husband whom been dead. One night, I heard her walking around (which we weren’t allowed to do) inching her way to the bathroom. A few seconds later, CRAASHH! Nurses came running in, bringing my privacy curtain around so I couldn’t see the damage. Through brief openings in my curtains and overhearing their conversation, I found out that she missed the toilet, hitting her head. She had also defecated all over the floor. Now, I feel bad for her, but living in a tiny hospital room with the smell of feces is no Disney World.
Even though my symptoms were getting worse, the hospital transferred me back to the rehab facility I stayed at before for more intense observation. On the good side, I would have my own room, my eyesight was coming back, and the food was amazing there (Our Lady Of Lourdes).
I was welcomed back by a loving staff. This time around was peaceful. I hadn’t come to terms with my diagnosis, but I wanted to feel as comfortable as possible. Even with an additional diagnosis of Secondary Progressive MS, I thought, what else can I do?
At Our Lady Of Lourdes, I wheeled around like a free agent, talking to staff, the older patients, and even doing makeup for them! One staff member gave me regular, awesome massages. A woman across the hall would bake me goodies down in the rehabs kitchen. My father even bought me a mini-DVD player and a few movies to watch. Nights were never alone; staff would sit with me and watch television, DVDs my father brought, or just to talk.
Everything was going fine until I had to start physical therapy. I dreaded it. I couldn’t walk without support. Rehab had some contraption built that look like gymnast bars, so I could walk between them with my hands firmly planted on the bars with my wheelchair behind me in case I fell. I always fell. My knees had officially left the building.
My speech was terrible and so was my eating. All of my food became puréed, and I had to spent hours with a speech therapist. Not only was I literally learning how to walk again, I was learning how to speak again, too.
