If, You

When the doctor tells you that you might not be able to walk in a year, that you might lose speech ability within two years, that in six months you might not be able to use your hands, you will say, "No." You may scream it. You may say it as a side effect of confusion. You may be determined to survive It. But that's not denial. You say "no" because you have a passion to live, or at least a passion to not die. Not yet. And you can't run down that list of things you want to do before you die. There's no list. You want to keep enjoying what you do. And if there were some vague list, you don't want to rush through everything on it. Nothing comes after that. And what point is there in rushing through life simply because you know you're going to die? And when you get to that list, anyway, and try to figure out what to do first, you only have enough energy to prioritize things according to how you would do them that day. And then you sleep. And you live through your dreams, because thankfully you were smart enough to not have kids whom you'd force to live out your own dreams. And when you wake up, some of your priorities have changed. Some new ideas will be added, too. So every day, you could re-sort this list. Prioritize for each day. And maybe that will be enough, but I doubt it. Making the list is administrative work. It provides the framework, but maybe "resting in an expensive hammock in the fall while reading Edward Abbey" isn't on your list, and that's all you want to do today. Screw the list, then. If you have the energy to read, go for it. If you want to sleep, why not? Sleeping is a glorious part of life. Eventually you'll look at the day's list and think to yourself, "What really seriously truly needs to get done today?" Usually the answer is nothing. Or what needed to get done was exactly what got done. You had a good nap. You did a little reading, and it was good, but you don't need to reflect and analyze it. Enjoy it and explore it, or enjoy it and let it go.

When a doctor tells you that you are going to lose all mobility and muscle control, perhaps due to issues with the myelin of your neurons or perhaps due to strange antibodies that attack any bit of health in any system of your body, when that doctor says you might die from It or Its symptoms, you can say, "No, actually, I don't feel like having that. I don't want it." Say it and let yourself mourn that way. You are mourning comfort. You will have to find a new comfort, and that comfort may be mistaken as denial at first. But you must mourn and process information. And then, then you must plan a timeline. However, this is more like a Choose Your Own Adventure book than a timeline. Or, you could make it a flow chart. "If I lose my sight, hearing, ability to sing and ability to play guitar, give my instruments to J. If I only lose my sight, hearing, and ability to sing, let me keep my guitar so I can learn how to play anew." There's an old ad campaign with posters of smiling people. And all these people have depression. The point is, you can't see it from the outside. Somehow, this idea was seen as a breakthrough. What is the face of emotional abuse? What is the face of an unseen physical disability? What are the legs of a lazy person, and how are they different from the legs that are too old to move? Or the legs that no longer receive clear messages from the brain?

You are invisible, except for your limp.