nearly lost you

My head hurts. My head hurts all the time.

My hips, my neck, my ankles, my arms. I go to bed in pain, I wake up throughout the night in pain. It’s getting worse. My thoughts stay disjointed, cloudy. I stumble, I trip, I’m so sleepy. I ask myself a million times a day – is it perimenopause? Is it allergies? Is it the brain lesions? Is it MS?

I’ve convinced myself it’s MS. I’ll find out soon. Not soon enough, but too soon. I feel like yesterday I was 25. I feel like last week I was 8. It’s not fair. I can slip back into my childhood bedroom, see every corner and shelf and ballerina teddy bear. I can walk up the stairs of my grandma’s house and smell and see and hear. I can zoom down the highway in my ’96 Mustang with the window rolled down, a cigarette perched between my fingers, so young! I can’t recall what I did yesterday. I’ll have to ask my husband. What day is it? Is it perimenopause? Is it allergies? Is it the brain lesions? Is it MS?

I don’t like to tell my husband anything. He wants to take such good care of me – and does! In ways I didn’t think it was possible for a man to care for a wife. It’s unfathomable. That’s unfair, too, having this level of love and care and attention, but still, I don’t like to tell him things about my health. He internalizes, then panics, then infantilizes. The kid gloves come out. Should you be sitting like that, you’ll hurt your back. Let me change that light bulb, you shouldn’t be on a ladder. I will drive to the pharmacy and pick up the meds. I will do the laundry. I wish I knew how to cook. Teach me how to cook. No, that’s too much work to teach me, go rest, we’ll go out for dinner. Love, care, adoration. Let me work a little. I’m not an invalid yet.

These are my disorganized thoughts. All thoughts I had today, driving down the highway. Windows rolled up, no cigarettes, but with the kids. They had just gotten haircuts; they look so handsome. The youngest in the backseat, chewing on a straw and deep in his own thoughts. The oldest in the front seat with me, headphones in, scrolling through baseball stats and memorizing them, like his father. “In 3 years, I can drive you everywhere. You won’t have to.” Just like his father.

They’re so handsome and so sweet and funny and kind and amazing. So why did I have the thought the other day – if this is it, it’s ok. If I die, I’m at peace. Am I? Why wouldn’t I want to fight? If it comes down to it, will I? Or will I roll over and give up because I’m lazy and mean and cruel? Is it perimenopause? Is it allergies? Is it the brain lesions? Is it MS?