change-of-seasonIt’s a grey spring day here in New Jersey.  I have the doors open to air out the house.  It’s gets musty in here over the winter days with doors and windows closed, shades and curtains drawn, for the most part, with an overall sense of needing to batten the hatches over the cold.

We have arrived at spring so now we do just the opposite.  Windows and doors are opened, shades and curtains are pulled up or opened, with the sense of, cleaning the house and welcoming the sunshine and warm days.

Interposed with spring are days like today.  Somewhat balmy, not quite warm, and grey.  The wind that blows still has a chill to it.  Easter is this weekend.

For me it’s winter all year round.  The seasons don’t change in my life.  I sit here typing in front of a big bay window and look at the work that needs to be done in my back yard.  I used to love doing it, but I no longer can.  I still have to live with battened down hatches hiding in the world of Multiple Sclerosis.

I believe the worst thing possible about this disease or any disease, for that matter, is the sense of winter’s isolation.  It’s one thing if you choose to be alone, but it’s another when you don’t have that choice.

I was outside this morning, attempting to rake up some of the twigs scattered from fall and winter’s barrage on the trees in front.  My poor trees fought to keep their branches attached but succumbed to the invasive heaviness of winds, snow, and rain.  The trees stand tall but sway to look at their fallen limbs strewn across their roots.

I was there with my tiny rake, (I can’t handle a big one) scraping across the ground in tiny motions attempting to appear strong, in case a neighbor was peeking out at me, realizing that what I could do last spring was now an attempt at moving boulders around with my tiny rake.  I managed to rake about a foot around where I stood before I almost fell.  I decided it was much too dangerous to do it any longer and wobbled inside to the refuge of my desk.

It was either music or writing.  Which one do I do to let out the frustration I felt at the realization that this disease, over winter’s cold, took progressive strides trying to strike me down like the fallen branches outside my door.  I chose to write.

My spin on this.

“What a bummer!  What?  How dare it try to depress me!  It’s enough that yes, it has succeeded in giving me a reality check, but it won’t succeed in making me crawl instead of walk.”

Winter is preferable than summer because the heat will annihilate anyone with Multiple Sclerosis.  It’s called heat intolerance, one of the many weird symptoms of MS.

“I’ll be damned if I can’t take advantage of the spring.  It’s between winter and summer!  Winter is in my house, at least in the sense of being shut in, but spring is outside the door, where gardening gloves and my tiny rake sit waiting patiently for me to handle them like an impatient lover.  I will have my way with spring because I am also impatient.  You can’t make me crawl.  You can’t depress me either.  Well okay, maybe you did for 5 minutes, but look at me now.”

Okay, I’m done yelling at the MS thing.

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