Often, I get labeled a "pessimist." This is not wholly absurd, but it is inaccurate. In the recent past, I understand how such a moniker could fall on me. Any positive event would diminish due to my grumbling, no matter how fickle or momentous. To the untrained eye, perhaps, not much has changed. This is not true. I do have an excuse that would make pessimism acceptable--multiple sclerosis is a bitch, so I can bitch. Ultimately, this gets old and boring, and I recognized this and changed my mindset. I'm certainly not a pie-eyed optimist, but I am a staunch realist and, subsequently, a pragmatist.
I still don't wantonly revel in good news. This would not only be disingenuous but foolish. The hammer could come down at any time, and rather than be prepared (which would necessitate a fatalism that would bring me down consistently), I am removed and dispassionate. I received some "good news" earlier today, because my recent MRI didn't display any new lesions on my brain. Like a dentist always telling me that I had cavities (until recently, after I had been using my Sonicare), I have come to expect a doctor telling me that there were new lesions (by the way, I still think of Tom Hanks's character in Philadelphia when I hear that word). Each time I saw a doctor after an MRI, I expected to hear news about a new finding. Or findings. Not this time. Yippee--but it's still early.
That's not necessarily a negative thought. It actually shows an acknowledgment of a possibility, rather than an inevitability. I would not have been stunned if such news had been given, but I was relieved when it wasn't. This shows the crucial distinction between the two mindsets, because a pessimist would have expected only the worst.
One could hardly have been blamed, though, since MS only affects 0.001% of the population. That minuscule wrench has to come from somewhere, or someone. Since whenever I first became formally diagnosed (I have forgotten the exact month/timeframe, because I can and don't want to dwell on precise dates), I have become only more aloof and lazily accepting of the fact that I could be that one aberration, and am, in this instance. Like the Al Franken book of the same title, I proceed with the attitude of "Why Not Me?"
I didn't want to hear about new lesions found on the MRI, but I was prepared to accept them. Next week, I have an appointment with a neurologist at Rush University Medical Center, and would only have added a "Where do we go from here?" inquiry to my litany, which almost certainly will be forgotten. One such question surrounds Tysabri, an intravenous drug administered once a month. It has been fatal in at least two patients, and may cause multifocal leukoencephalopathy--a long medical term, which is never a good thing. I figure, though, that if you're unlucky enough to be struck by lightning once, twice would be poetic overkill. Yes, some people have died, but the numbers are incredibly small and inconsequential, so I've come to regard them as negligible. Furthermore, chemo is more likely to be fatal, and I've already done that, so another brush with remote death seems nowhere near as frightening as it might once have been.
Like Hillary Clinton and later John McCain, I've adopted a "kitchen-sink" approach to my treatment. I figure that's less disturbing than "scorch the earth," although I recognize the natural inclination to do that.
R
