Last week’s storm brought steady and unrelenting winds for days on end, and with it heavy showers of cold rain and pea-size hail. Unlike the cyclonic storms we get here in the winter months, this one felt more like an atmospheric stage surge at a punk concert. RELATED: My MS Is Like a National Weather Forecast
Sometimes My Body’s ‘Weather’ Predicts Weather to Come
That’s not how I usually experience multiple sclerosis. My life with MS is more tropical storm weather. Sometimes little changes in my body’s “weather” suggest changes coming. I call one of them “popcorn legs” because of the appearance of the muscle spasms in my legs. Others include mild dizziness, just not feeling “right,” or even a sense of disconnection from my body altogether. It’s the sensory equivalent of flocks of seagoing birds gathering inland, a shift in the wind, or the scent of the deep ocean and a temperature change. When those things happen, we know a storm is brewing. But as in the days before radar, satellite, and accurate forecasting, we just don’t know how strong a storm or if we’ll take a direct hit.
Sometimes the ‘Weather’ Is Just in My Body
As with those swirling storms outside, as our disease progresses, the bands of interior stormy weather can increase. A few showers can turn into downpours. Stiff breezes can turn into gales that can, literally, knock us off our pins. During the relapsing-remitting phase of MS, these storm bands can be followed by periods of relative calm before the next band hits, often with more force than the last. Then, as before, the showers abate and the winds decrease, but less so than before and with the next band hitting before we’ve fully recovered from the last.
When We’re Lucky, We Dodge the Worst of It
In 2017, our little corner of this island took a direct hit from the former extratropical storm Ophelia (still packing hurricane-force winds, but not technically a tropical hurricane). When we went to bed we were preparing for the fullest of assaults from the storm. About 50 miles out to sea, however, and as the first bands of hot rain began to fall at varying acute angles to the surface, the storm began to wobble (I’m assured this is a scientific term for the occurrence.) It was not unlike when we get a reprieve from a relapse via medical intervention or happenstance: MS can wobble a bit as well. Fifteen miles to our east saw roofs ripped from buildings, and 40-foot seas were recorded headed toward the coast. Here on our peninsula, however, we stood under variable skies and watched the storm slip over us as Ophelia wobbled her bandy bits to each side of us.
But the Uncertainty of It All Makes Me Uneasy
It was an uneasy feeling — particularly as the bright blue eye of the storm passed directly overhead. It wasn’t unlike the feeling of not knowing what MS will take from us next. Though disease-modifying medications, lifestyle modifications, or complementary treatments may keep some of the storms from our shores, people with MS know that we live in a storm-prone region and that the next freshening breeze may be “the big one.” But we mustn’t let that keep us locked in storm shelters. Life in storm zones goes on, it rebuilds — often time after time — and we learn not just to survive the next onslaught, but rather to thrive in spite of what may or may not be over the horizon. That’s the trick I’ve found to living with multiple sclerosis: Focusing on the “living” part. Wishing you and your family the best of health. Cheers, Trevis
