Like A Father

I was going to do a vlog, but I just woke up. My hair is all over the place and if you have ever seen me wake up from sleep, it is not pretty.

So I have thought about how I will write about my experience at the hospital and rehab.
Before I start:
Hospital: The place I stayed at for 4 days receiving IV steroid treatment, received absolutely no rehab and was stuck in bed. Hospitals suck, the food sucks, but the TV channel selection rules.
Rehab: The place I stayed for 3 weeks. You are allowed to wear clothes. The nurses know me from before, so I get A+ treatment. I have my own room, with one bed. The food is better. The staff is awesome. But you receive hardcore physical, occupational and speech therapy from 9 am to 4 pm every day. Saturday and Sundays were only 2 hours of therapy.

I’ve decided to write about a person I met in rehab. I probably shouldn’t use his real name, so I’ll call him Sam.
I met Sam my second day in rehab. Sam was there because he suffered a massive stroke, his left side was paralyzed, his right was weak, he had trouble speaking and he was sentenced to the wheelchair. Sam was also 87 years old. Now, most men in rehab are around Sam’s age with the same diagnosis. It isn’t something new. But Sam was different.
A week went by before I even spoke to Sam, even mentioning to my mother, “there is a man here who is always alone. He seems like he’s checked out, like he is so sad.”

The next day, Sam and I had occupational therapy together. Usually, the therapist will give us something to do (lift weights, 3 sets of 15, play with pegs in holes, etc.) so I was sitting there with Sam. Everything was quiet until Sam spoke.

“Look at me. What am I going to do with my life now? I am 87 years old. I can’t have my wife take care of me. That’s not how I wanted to grow old with her,” he says, crying.
“Do you have family?” I ask.
“Yes. My wife, a son and two daughters,” he responds.
“Do they come visit?
He begins to cry again. “Yes, they come visit every day after work.”
“You are lucky, Sam. Most people here don’t have anyone. Look at me, I am 28, my own father has a hard time coming to see me. You have to find your strength in your family. They love you, and I doubt they have any problem taking care of you until you get better!”
“Yes, they would take care of me,” he begins to sob, “I am a lucky man.”
I cried hard. I hugged him. A grown man crying gets me every single time (and I don’t see it very often).
After that, I started becoming his cheerleader.
“Put anger into it, Sam! Punch!” I would say, as he would try to lift his arm and weight into the air. “You can do it, Sam! Next time your family comes, you have to impress them!” I say, as he does more lifts with weights.

Sam worked harder at recovery than any other person in rehab after that.

Every day, Sam and I would talk. Even if he saw me wheeling around in the hallway, he would take his weak hand and wave hello. We would watch each other during physical therapy, both cheering each other on. Others began to notice.
“Look, Sam, you have a groupie!” his therapist Molly would tell him.
His face turns serious, looks at Molly and says, “she is NOT a groupie, she is a young woman who has a big heart and she cares about me. I would be honored to call her my daughter.”

I cried again.

Apparently, Sam was the sweetest guy on the planet. Not only did he steal my heart, the nurses all loved him. Me and Sam's relationship would go on like that for weeks; us rooting each other on, updating on progress and about our day.

Then one day, Sam isn’t in rehab. Molly, Sam’s therapist, comes to me with tears in her eyes, “Natalie, I am not supposed to give these details out, but that rapid response code this morning was for Sam. Sam is in ICU right now, fighting for his life.”
I wailed. I sobbed so hard in the middle of rehab, and all the therapists wailed with me. Sam’s near death affected the whole rehab; nurses were late on medications, therapists could barely concentrate on their rehab and everyone was crying. Everyone would start to cry more when they saw me. Nurses would come to me, updating me on his status (something they shouldn’t really do).

Later after rehab, I found a blank “Get Well” card left on my table in my room. The head nurse bought me a card to give to Sam. I wrote to him how he was my inspiration, how wonderful of a person he was to affect so many people in rehab, how great of a man he was and how he was a father figure to me when I needed one.

The next day, which was the day I was leaving rehab, a nurse came to me and said, “Sam’s family has your card. It’s hanging on the wall.”
I gave his family my number to update me but I’m sure they won’t. I really do hope he is well.

And that’s the story of my inspiration during rehab -- an 87 year old man who had more hope and faith than this lost 28 year old.

Update

I have the best news.

I am going home from rehab... using a cane!

I will post a giant entry Wednesday.  Lots of trouble, happiness, strife, heart ache and a different physical appearance.

Love.

10 Men

"Nurses - one of the few blessings of being ill." -- Sara Moss-Wolfe

My stay at Our Lady Of Lourdes was pleasant all due to the nurses.

One woman, G, was a single mother working hard to make ends meet. She was very religious, but the kind who wasn’t pushy and made it very endearing. Comforting my mother every other night, G also sat with me in my room to watch television – her favorite, Dancing With the Stars. In the midst of my stay, G gave me a bracelet. The bracelet has wooden squares each connected on a band. The squares are beautifully painted with religious icons.
“Someone needs to watch over you while we aren’t here, honey.”

The woman who ran the nurse department in rehab was very close with me. Instead of taking breaks in the cafeteria, she would sit in my room with a tray, prop up a chair and watch American Idol. We would talk about my friends, about life, about everything and anything that didn’t have to do with Multiple Sclerosis. She told me that I was such a great patient to have; all of the nurses would try to schedule their shifts to be on my part of the floor.
Though, my favorite was K. She was a free agent from the south, lending a hand at the hospital for a few weeks. The second time into my rehab, it was my darkest and hopeless stay. One night, I wheeled my chair out into the hallway to get “air” and she asked me how I was. Breaking down into tears, I told her God was punishing me, which this was my entire fault for things I’ve done. My family was suffering because of me. My future was up in the air; all I wanted to do was go back to college.

“You prove those doctors wrong, ya hear? I know you got the strength of 10 men in there,” she said as she comforted me at the nurse’s station.
“I want you to go to bed tonight with a dry eye, wake up in the mornin’ and think of all the wonderful things you can do with your life.”

Even though I left the hospital still in a wheelchair, I began planning my future – chair or no chair. I would help others, go back to college, respect my family and stop with the self-loathing.

Happy (belated) nurse appreciation.

UPDATE
This post is now printed out and hanging at the nurses' station. Thanks gals!

Redesigning A Real Pain Scale

In The End, Life Is Stronger Than Death

Went to the doctor today. The reason being was I am having a hard time ingesting food, and I constantly feel as if my gag reflux was checking in some over-time. It was not a neurologist, just my internal medicine doctor. For weeks, I had a horrible case of the hiccups, always choking on food, the thought of eating made me gag even though it smelled delicious and eating has become a chore.

For example, eating hard food felt like it was going down the wrong tube. That is the closest I can compare it to.

It was discomforting (to say the least) to find that my symptoms came back to my MS. I was diagnosed with Dysphagia.

Definition: It seems like swallowing would just be second nature, not something we have to think about in order to do safely. However, swallowing is a complicated process that involves all sorts of muscle coordination and feedback to and from the brain through certain nerves and neural pathways. Multiple sclerosis (MS) can damage any of these nerves as well as the area of the brain responsible for coordinating swallowing, the brain-stem. This can lead to swallowing difficulties, called Dysphagia.

And what does Dyspagia feel like?

- Difficulty chewing

- Coughing while eating or immediately afterwards.

- The need to swallow more than twice.

- Choking sensations.

- Food sticking in the throat.

- Weak, soft voice.

- Feeling that it is hard to swallow food or move it to the back of the mouth.

- Aspiration, meaning food or drink is going down the windpipe into the lungs.

And why I'm in panic mode:

Dysphagia can become so severe that people become dehydrated or malnourished. If the tips for managing swallowing difficulties (such as chewing your food thoroughly and adding thickener to your drinks) don’t work, it may be necessary to use a feeding tube. Aspirated food or liquids can also cause aspiration pneumonia. This is a particularly dangerous lung infection, and it is the number one cause of death in people with MS.

This is what my cousin Johnny passed away from.

My doctor called my neurologist immediately and informed him of my situation. It usually takes a pretty damn long time to get an appointment with a specialist, but in this case, my neurologist made me his first priority on Monday morning.

This could go two ways:

1. I could be admitted into yet another rehab for speech and swallowing therapy. They would want to watch me for the next few days because at the rate I'm losing weight and not eating (or picking at food), the idea of malnutrition was brought up. I would also need a scan and ultrasound of my throat.

2. I could possibly have a nurse come to my home and hook up the IV's again. Also, I would have a therapist come to the home to monitor me.

The thought of going into the hospital does not deter my worry -- the thought of death does.

The Ram

Earlier, I was writing essays for my grad school applications. They were all about my diagnosis with Multiple Sclerosis, but I never gave a proper ending to the story on my blog.

I spent 4 more times in the hospital. This is only counting MS related visits; MS lowers your immune system and creates a whole lot of other hospital visits. With every visit, my faith in the universe dwindled down to the size of a pencil tip. But my last hospital visit was different. A very good friend, Astrid, sat down and said, "you need to fight."

"What the hell do you mean 'you need to fight'?"

"Remember when we were watching Animal Planet and the leopard was attacking the ram and the ram was just giving up? Then at the last minute, the ram just runs the damn thing into the wall and sticks it's horns in it?!", she asks. "You need to be the ram."

I had absolutely no idea what episode she was talking about. Although, I did get what she was trying to say and it made me realize that I was walking in pity of myself. This "woe is me" shit had to go. So I worked my ass off. I felt as if I couldn't live with myself unless I tried enough to accomplish something.

I receive a lot of e-mails asking me how I went from a wheelchair to walking again. There is no special diet. There are no cures with bee stings and snake venom (I'm not kidding, Google it). However, I did push myself every single day to walk, talk and function again. And don't just think your actions will take you far; you have to believe it. You have to believe that your hard work will pay off, that you could make your own happy ending.

Be the ram.

The Size Of The Fight In The Dog

A friend recently told me that is it’s not the size of the dog in the fight; it’s the fight inside the dog. It has been keeping me grounded. (Thank you)

Tonight, I had an invitation to a party where the theme was ‘G’ and I was excited about going. I have a beautiful Geisha costume, some parts original and authentic.
This past week, I’ve been driving to and from class but I’ve noticed that I can feel the pedal, I just don’t know where the pedal begins or ends, so my foots slips off. Or my foot feels so heavy, that I speed up quickly or make short stops. To help myself, I’ve been using a cane while at school; carrying a 20lb book-bag can tire a girl with MS out, but my friends haven’t seen me with a walking device for almost 5 years.

The girls I had plans with have seen me at my worst… at the hospital, during therapy and in a wheelchair. What made me so afraid? When one of my best friends asked when I would be arriving, I spent close to 15 minutes trying to respond whether or not, “should I lie and say I’m sick? Or should I tell the truth and risk friendship?”

My flare up is about a 6 ½ on a scale through 1-10 (10 being back in the chair). It starts off as a pins and needles sensation, like that feeling you get when your foot is just starting to fall asleep. Gradually, the sensation increases as if your leg was full-on asleep, like that moment when you try to gain balance from rising up from your seat and you are having a hard time feeling where your foot lands on the floor. This sensation reaches all the way to my lower breast and it’s all on my right side (which means I must have a lesion on the left side of my brain).

I can easily get treatment. Treatment should take 3-4 days depending on the severity. My flare up started a few weeks ago but I’ve been hesitating calling my neurologist. You see, school is ending and it has been the most difficult semester thus far. I had only 2 weeks left; why stop now? I promised that I would get treatment immediately but there is one thing that bothers me.
The last time I came to my doctor about a flare up, the only symptom was loss of vision. He instantly jumped to the conclusion that I should be admitted into the hospital. After some bargaining, I convinced him to do an at-home treatment where I would be set up with an IV. The steroid IV lasts for 3 days, 3 hours a day and you cannot leave the house because there is a temporary IV in your hand that can’t be exposed. If I came to my doctor now and explained that I’m pretty concerned about my health, I know an at-home treatment would probably be out of the question – I would be hospitalized again.

What gives me hope is that some days are better than others. When I used to have flare ups, they would increasingly become worse by the hour, but this time its been prolonged. What bothers me is that my social life is back to normal, I feel comfortable with my friends, I’m happy – hospitalization would destroy my spirit.

I can never explain how lonely it feels when you are experiencing an exacerbation. You’re basically on your own.
So tonight, instead of the party, I spent hours reading and cutting pictures out of National Geographic magazines from the 1970’s, knitting and painting presents for friends.

What’s different now is that I know I have it in me to fight, like my friend said. Years ago, I had nothing to fight for… my life was transient, unstable and had no direction. Now, I want my Doctorate more than anything, I love my friends, and emotionally I feel calm and stability I’ve never felt before.

Tonight, it made me happy to think that the only problems I have in my life are schoolwork and who to kiss at midnight on New Years Eve. I will never let my MS trump me, I hold the cards and it is my decision how to play them.

The Darkest

Just when things were working out so well, I started to develop a pretty bad exacerbation.

It started with my foot. Sometimes when I’m having numbness in my foot, my foot starts leaning towards the side while I walk. I had a brace made for me a few years back in the hospital but it no longer fits me, so I have to be careful while I walk. No heels for a little while.

Then the sensation started to move upwards towards my lower torso. I joke that you could probably stick a fork in my side and I probably wouldn’t feel it. And my hands are very shaky -- not good for business. Someone at a dinner party the other night asked, “Are you okay? You’re shaking!” It’s embarrassing sometimes. What do you say to that? Not to mention that my balance is off, so I appear to look drunk or hopped up on something.

The normal thing would be to go to my Neurologist and set up an at-home IV treatment or spend a few days in the hospital, however I can’t afford to right now. My fall semester is ending very soon and I can’t miss any days. If I miss days, I lose the grant money I was awarded for having MS in the first place – irony, huh? So all I can do is hope that I don’t become worse between now and December 20th.

The worst thing I could possibly do is become negative about it. In the end, all of this makes me even stronger. Having MS puts your will, patience and mind to test. Someone recently told me that good things always come from something bad. That’s the way you have to look at life sometimes. No matter how dark you may think things are.. there will be a light somewhere.

My father once told me three things: don’t ever tell any guys you date that you are sick; they will never want you, to not be disappointed in life because I can’t be successful as other people because I have a disease, and try not to make friends; they will only hurt you in the end.
I can’t help to think sometimes that he may be right and I used to think that I would try my hardest to prove him wrong. That's not the case anymore; everything I try to do, I do for myself. How often can you say that you are truly proud of yourself?

Visual Reference: Therapy In Bed

[permission]

Dog Days Are Over

After my second hospital stay, I was officially living with my parents again, in a new home. My father worked really hard on the house to make it handicapped accessible; railings, bars, even pouring concrete over the outside steps to make a ramp. Even the carpeted floors were ripped up and replaced with hardwood.

I never became used to using a wheelchair. No one really invites you out anymore because it’s a hassle – folding up the wheelchair, shoving it in the back of the trunk, and getting me into the car. So, I was left at home a lot.

I’m the kind of person that needs to be constantly doing something. Any time I’m idle, my mind goes on overdrive, so I try to keep as busy as possible. The wheelchair was holding me back and it was spinning me into a depression.

Since there was nothing else better to do, I started doing my own therapy every chance I had. Any empty minute left to myself during the day, I did everything possible to move my legs. While watching television, I moved my legs up and down, in a marching motion. In bed, I would do leg lifts, and in the bath, I’d work on my muscles. Finally, my sister purchased a treadmill for disabled persons. I was able to pull my wheelchair up to the side, climb on and hold on for dear life. For almost two years, I worked myself to the bone, but I was finally able to walk again. Of course, wheelchair led to a walker, a walker to a cane, but now I’m able to move freely without any assistance.

My father and I put my wheelchair in the attic a few months ago.

I think if you have enough will and faith in something, you can make anything happen.

Sally Sold Seashells By The Seashore

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.

Healing A Broken Heart

My father was never one to show emotions. Since the diagnosis of my MS, he had thought he caused it. Even though numerous Neurologists have shown studies that prove genetics have nothing to do with it, he still believed it.

His sister Joyce had a son named Johnny. Johnny was diagnosed at the age of only 17. Now, I’m not sure if you had any knowledge of this, but when men are diagnosed at a young (or even older) age, their MS progresses much faster with a bad grudge. Johnny did go on to marry and carry on a “regular” life, but my aunt still tried everything in her being to help him. Help would include trips to get self-injected bee stings; snake venom or other rumors that circle in the MS community. His immune system later in life would catch up to him and Joyce would lose a son.

My aunt Joyce truly loves me. I feel she sees Johnny in me, so do my father, sister and my brother Frankie. I couldn’t be any luckier to have such a person in my life; my aunt is a true super woman.

Since the stress was aggravating my MS, I was using a wheelchair again. However, I was also using a walker (with pink balls at the tips) to walk short distances. This would become a problem with my living conditions. My parents realized the nice (but cramped) apartment would have to be traded up for a home. As quick as you could say, “move”, we were living in a 55+ over community in really nice suburban town. The house was very modest but homely. My father had the carpet ripped up for hardwood floors, door frames were ripped out to make room for wider space and my father even built me a wheelchair ramp. For a man in his early 60’s, he sure broke his back (literally) making a better home for me. My parents are not the most financially stable people. Their paychecks went directly into my well-being. I will be forever grateful to them.

My sister would also buy something that would be key to my recovery. Since I no longer had a private gym to do my therapy, my sister (Carly) invested in a very expensive treadmill. The treadmill was designed for the therapy I needed; with large handlebars for support, emergency break and a large tread. It was also easy to move from wheelchair to an upright position. Every day I would walk for 15-30 minutes on the treadmill, practicing the “marching step”; knees high, land toe to heel. Between the treadmill and using my walker for short distances, I was making process.

My father became my safety, my mother became my, well, mother figure, and my sister would become the ear I needed since she lives in Buffalo.

I would also have one other person for support; my best friend Monica who I have known for almost 20 years now. We met as kids on the Internet in grade school and kept in touch since. During the late summer, Monica paid me a visit. By that time, I was walking on my own and with a cane if I really needed it. Monica’s visit would prove to me that there are truly beautiful people in society and I am fortunate to call her my best friend, even something close to a sister.

During a visit to New York City, I bumped into J (the on/off again boyfriend). As nothing happened, I would visit him a few days later after Monica left. While my visit at his new apartment, I couldn’t think of anything else but his hanging up on me in the hospital. I had an awakening looking into that face I once loved more than anything. That visit would be my last, our communication would be nothing but cordial, and I would stay the hell away from men.

Throughout those four years, my dating life came at a standstill and J became the poster boy of how my wall was built. My efforts in love would be dedicated to helping others with Multiple Sclerosis and earning my Ph.D., in Clinical research Psychology. Easily one of the best things that has happened to me. Thanks J.

Breaking The Girl

Six weeks of intensive physical and occupational rehab was enough for my insurance company. I left the hospital in a wheelchair, only to come home to two flights of stairs, carpet and very slim door frames. It's safe to say my mobility was very limited in my own home, which was back with my parents.

I had at-home therapy almost every day of the week. Luckily, my parents lived at an apartment complex with a gym so I was able to have equipment to help with recovery. I also had four IV-steroid transfusions and gained close to 20lbs. Instead of throwing away all of my size 2's, I kept them tightly packed in plastic as a promise to lose the steroid weight. On top of that, the steroid's left my cheeks swollen like a chipmunk. Staying in a hospital for close to three months limits a girl's ability to keep her hair A+. My color grew out and my natural red hair grew back in. I looked very different from the girl who first checked into the hospital.

As time passed, I went from a wheelchair, to a walker and then finally to a cane. Not wanting the cane I'd see in a retirement home, I picked out a nice black one with map detailing on it. I was ready to get back into the world and continue on with my life. Having the ability to walk again gave me strength and confidence to wake up in the morning. I also figured my friends would realize I was still recovering so I wouldn't be in tip-top shape. I was wrong.

"What the hell is that thing?" Maria scoffed.
"It's my new cane. Cool, huh?" I coolly played off.
"It's kinda ugly!"

Still, Maria and I had plans to go spend the day together. My parents told her to be careful with me and to keep it slow. They were very over-protective of my health since my coming home. Since I was walking with a cane and slightly gimp, I could tell she was embarrassed. Maria always would walk 10 steps ahead of me wherever we went that day. Even though I should have known, our day out was cut short and I would never hear from Maria again.

A few days later, I had plans to spend the day with a group of girls to film a music video. I was cast for the video before the MS even happened, so my appearance from size 2 to size 6 was surprising. I also decided to leave my cane at home and pretend I was in perfect shape, leaving the house in 5" heels. I thought if I took baby steps, I would be safe. I didn't think about balance problems that came from Multiple Sclerosis.

The girls at the video shoot avoided me. I was left standing alone most of the day while the other girls ganged up together to poke a little fun at me. What a nightmare of a flashback from grade school. To make matters worse, we were shooting in June and it was in the middle of a heatwave. I never shot a music video before, so I didn't know there would be a lot of sitting around in-between takes. Not only could I feel my makeup melting off, my legs started to shake in my heels and I became very unsteady. Three hours in, we had to shoot a scene where all 5 of us girls had to walk down a tiny stairwell on itty bitty steps. On the first two takes, I did okay but I knew my body was giving up on me. Take three, I felt my legs give under me and I went flying down the stairwell like a dumb drunk in high heels. Once I was on my feet, I hung onto anything to give myself support. To my embarrassment, about 40 people watched and laughed. I struggled to get up from the dirty, cigarette covered bar floor but my legs felt as if my muscles had dissipated. No one came to help and the crew kept on filming me. The video is somewhere out there, shots of me here and there, but I was mostly cut out.

After a few more incidents of either being embarrassed or doing the actual embarrassing, I swore to never leave the house again (to my parents approval). I would stay in every weekend with my parents watching a movie and spend my weekdays at the apartment's gym strengthening my legs again.
On the flip side, the anger I had built in me gave me incredible motivation to get myself in better shape than I was before. I told myself I would be better person, have better friends and I wouldn't let this nightmare break me, but make me stronger.

See Her Tumbling Down.

A week into physical and occupational therapy, I met a girl named Star. She was 24 years old and in bad shape; the kind of patient everyone gawked at. One day on 295 in New Jersey, she fell asleep at the wheel and hit another car head on with her baby on board. Her head went through the windshield and her baby was luckily unharmed. Wearing a helmet due to brain surgery, her only way of communicating with me was through notepads. Her mouth had been wired shut due to a shattered jaw and she was in a wheelchair even bigger than mine, the kind they make stroke victims use.

During physical therapy one day, I was learning how to walk all over again. The therapist would carefully guide me step by step, how to raise each leg. Now, my parents never went to my physical therapy. They admitted to me that it was painful to watch so again, I was left alone to cheer myself on. At just the moment I'm beginning to get the right steps, two girls visiting a friend were laughing loud enough for everyone to hear and it was directed towards me. One girl would imitate the way Frankenstein would walk while patients looked away.
Star's mother raised from her seat, heading toward the two girls in such a heated manner, I couldn't believe this woman would stand up for a stranger that was kind to her daughter.

"May God punish you for this! You cowards!" she screamed.

Even though Star couldn't speak, she sneaked a smile through her metal grin. We became very close after that. I would bring her fancy pens to write with, my crossword books and any other things left over from my get well basket so we can communicate via ink and paper.

I went around in pity of myself. Crying wasn't an option at this point - I was completely hollowed inside. Until I met Star, I felt like the unfortunate one and always asked, "why me?"
I finally understood that no matter how bad off I think I am, there is always someone even worse. That mantra would stay with me to this day.

Though, things were looking positive, I still refused to see the friends left over. I was embarrassed to have them see me like this, wanting them to remember the girl before the wheelchair. A cell phone call was my limit. I had a goal to get myself back to the person I was before. To make matters worse, I was put on an IV steroid drip. Standing 5' 8", I gained 15 pounds, going from 122lbs to 137lbs.

My mother would come every other day just to bathe me and give me fresh clothes. I can't begin to tell you how embarrassing it is for someone my age to be bathed by their mother like a child. Father still stayed his distance. He thought this was his fault. The MS my cousin had was from his side and he had thought this was his doing. My father went from happy-go-lucky to despondent and extremely depressed. My health would lead to a downward spiral in his mental state.

On the other hand, I was prescribed the pain killer Percocet. Not only killing my physical pain, Percocet was killing the emotional pain too. For someone who never was into the drug scene, the effect of Percocet was dreamy (and itchy). It was an instant up, I was talkative, happy and floating above it all.
Eventually, I would learn that my body would become tolerant to Percocet, opening a gateway into the world of opiates.