Dealing with a chronic illness like MS is a multifaceted affair. There's the physical side of things,
each patient having to tackle their own particular hodgepodge of the

wide range of symptoms in the Multiple Sclerosis repertoire. Cognitive

dysfunction, fatigue, sensory issues, muscle weakness, spasticity,

neuropathic pain… the list is almost endless, or at the very least can

certainly feel that way. Many of MS's physical manifestations have some

sort of medical remedy, with varying degrees of effectiveness, most

often in the form of a pharmaceutical product. There's Baclofen for

spasticity, Neurontin for pain, Ampyra for muscle weakness, Provigil for

fatigue… again, the list seems endless. For the pharmaceutical

companies, at least, MS is the gift that keeps on giving. For those

afflicted with it, though, MS is the gift that keeps on taking. Most of

the MS patients I know have a veritable pharmacy in their medicine

cabinets. The amount of pills I take each day is almost comical. Almost.

The frequently veiled side of MS is the psychic beating it inflicts on its victims. Being hit with a chronic illness provokes a
roiling ball of confusing and sometimes conflicting emotions within a

person, so much so that these emotions can often be as overwhelming as

the outwardly apparent physical symptoms of the disease. The emotions

stirred are many layered, some obvious, and others less so. There are

pharmaceutical remedies for some of these ills, too, of course, in the

form of antidepressants, anti-anxiety meds, and the like. Speaking from

experience, some of the drugs prescribed by those in the psychiatric

profession are quite good at relieving freeform angst and anxiety, but I

don't think they're all that effective at putting a dent in the

emotional maelstrom stirred up by a disease that forces many of its

victims to cope with the prospect of literally watching themselves

whither away.

Strangely enough, my getting MS seems to have cured many of the neuroses that I struggled with in my physically healthy
days. Back then, I was quite the world-class neurotic, at times capable

of making Woody Allen seem well-adjusted. I never really suffered from

depression, per se, but from anxieties that could sometimes be

overwhelming, on occasion leaving me almost totally incapacitated. Some

of these anxieties were triggered by genuine emotional traumas, such as

the breakup of a relationship, or some other major life disappointment.

Others, though, were harder to fathom, such as the acute anxiety I felt

whenever a plate of pasta was put in front of me in a public place. No

joke, a big helping of linguine with white clam sauce served to me in a

restaurant was enough to make me hyperventilate and fall off my chair.

Many years of psychotherapy and the use of a very effective medication

helped me carry on despite myself, but I never could quite rid myself of

my finely hewn neurotic behaviors. I made efforts to get hold of my

emotions and rein them in, but more often than not, my emotions stood

triumphant.

Once I was diagnosed with MS, though, most of my vast array of angst ridden tendencies were somehow exorcised. It was as if
the Universe said, "You want something to worry about, schmuck? Instead

of fretting about fettuccine, here, chew on this…" Suddenly, I had

something very real to agonize about, and from this new and dreadful

perspective the founts of my old fears appeared to be quite

insignificant. Not that I wasn't initially completely freaked out by my

diagnosis; I most certainly was, but having an identifiable trigger for

this onslaught of emotions made them easier to gain control of, and made

most of my previous concerns seem quite trivial in comparison.

I eventually discovered that the key to gaining some emotional command,
even when the very foundations of my existence seemed to have been

pulled out from under me, was sorting through the jumble of feelings

engendered by my diagnosis and dealing with each one individually. When

the mind twisting stew of painful emotions remained muddled together,

their burden seemed insurmountable, but if I made an effort to identify

and address them individually, one at a time, though still difficult, I

found that I could create some measure of peace within.

Some of what I was feeling was easy to name. Fear took the forefront, but there
was also anger, confusion, self-pity, and regret. I was fearful of what

the disease might do to me, and of the head spinning medical world I was

now being forced to enter. I was angry at just about everything, the

doctors who diagnosed me, the disease itself, all the incredibly lucky

bastards walking around completely oblivious to their blind luck and

good fortune, and basically at the whole fucking suddenly upside down

universe. I was confused about what exactly Multiple Sclerosis was, the

strange new jargon attached the disease that would soon become a big

part of my everyday language, and how sickness could invade the illusory

fortress of my everyday existence. I pitied myself for being singled

out for disaster, and for the future I had imagined but now seemed

forever lost. And I regretted many of the choices I made when healthy;

not so much the things I did do, but those that I didn't, and would

likely never have the chance to do again.

Some of these feelings were easier to relieve than others. I confronted fear and confusion by
almost obsessively educating myself about everything MS. I devoured

every word I could find about the disease, rooting out esoteric tidbits

of information from whatever sources I could uncover. As with all things

in life, fear of the unknown is far greater than fear of the known, and

I was determined to know, intent on staring even the most unpleasant

facts about the disease squarely in the eye. Anger slowly subsided as I

realized the futility of being angry at everything and nothing, as there

was no identifiable culprit to focus my fury upon. The truth is,

sometimes the anger still bubbles up, but I've learned to allow myself

to feel it without letting it consume me. Self-pity got old quickly,

even though I might be a victim, that didn't give me reason to retreat.

Instead, attack became my operational mode. Regret, I think, has been

one of my hardest emotions to wrangle, as in many a quiet time I find

myself drawn into contemplating all of the roads not taken. Would they

all have eventually lead to MS, or would some of the paths that I left

untrodden have circumvented this fate? Impossible to know, of course,

and the variables seem endless, a latticework of converging and

diverging fortunes.

Recently, I've come to recognize yet another emotion birthed by the disease, one that I have at times openly
expressed, but never put a name to: guilt. Throughout this whole

experience, underneath the louder and more histrionic emotions, guilt

has resonated in a low but steady hum. Completely illogical, I know, as I

didn't choose to get MS, but there it is, nonetheless. MS has an

insidious and wicked gravity, at its epicenter the patient themselves,

but its destructive influences radiate outwards, touching all who orbit

the afflicted. MS doesn't only distress the person unfortunate enough to

suffer from it, but also all those around them, friends and family, who

are left helpless to watch their loved one struggle with a relentless

enemy.

My wife and I were married only one year at the time of my diagnosis; there would be none of our happily dreamed of journeys to
Pompeii or Tuscany, replaced instead by trips to medical facilities and

doctor's offices. In addition the husband-and-wife, we've now become

patient and caregiver, and although we said "I do" to the words "in

sickness and in health", we never had an inkling of the impact with

which sickness would soon slam us. My illness has caused endless worry

to my family members, and especially to my mom, who has her own

struggles with diabetes and Parkinson's to contend with. My friendships

have also borne the strain of the illness. I long ago learned that

family is in many ways defined more by love them by blood, and I'm

blessed to have a handful of friends who long-ago eclipsed the

boundaries of that title. They too have been stricken by my MS, and

though we all do a marvelous job of playing make believe when we get

together, it's impossible to ignore the realities of my situation.

I've always considered guilt to be one of the most worthless of emotions.
Its only purpose is to teach those feeling it to never again commit the

act that brought on the reaction. Unfortunately, many of those who most

deserve to be shackled to an anchor of perpetual guilt seem oblivious to

the emotion, and continue to repeat their offensive behaviors again and

again. Liars lie and cheaters cheat, and though some may loudly profess

the guilt they feel, their actions always prove otherwise. Once a

person accepts repugnant behaviors in themselves, guilt is completely

taken out of the equation. People sensitive to guilt generally live

admirable lives, not so much because of the specter of guilt, but due

rather to a fully functional moral compass.

Yes, MS provides challenges aplenty, both physical and emotional. The physical challenges
tend to attract the most outside attention, and can be addressed, with

varying degrees of success, by a multitude of physicians. The emotional

pitfalls of the disease, though, can only be navigated by the patients

themselves. Even a trained counselor or therapist can only help nudge

the patient along the trail to self-awareness.

I've discovered that kindness to self is a powerful medicine. Strangely, many find it
much easier to be kind to others, even strangers, than it is to be

gentle to themselves. The emotional tsunami created by a disease like

Multiple Sclerosis provides plenty of instruments for self torture, and

though the feelings produced should not be ignored, they must not be

embraced, either. The key is to acknowledge each emotion as a natural

response to a terrible circumstance, allow yourself to feel it fully,

and then show it the door. Our emotions are products of our own psyches,

after all, and with practice and fortitude we can learn to control our

creations. It's never easy, and as the disease progresses the degree of

difficulty increases still, but as with any exercise, the more it is

worked on, the easier it becomes. As Shakespeare wrote, "to thine own

self be true", and, if I might take such liberties, to the Bard's words

I'd like to add, "to thine own self be good"…