I thought I was dying.
I’m not dying, don’t worry, I’m fine. But it has been a harrowing month.
When I last wrote in this space, I was pretty freaked out. My body had started going numb—starting with my feet and ankles, up my legs to my upper body and even my frikkin head—just as we were on our way to view a solar eclipse in New Mexico. Since then, things have calmed. The numbness did not go away, but it did stop its steady march up my body; it’s mostly confined to my legs and feet now. I still haven’t had my neurologist’s appointment, but it is next week, and I have done enough self-diagnosis to feel like I have a handle on things.
Most importantly, I can still take my walks.
Franky, that was among my biggest concerns, which surprised me. I didn’t know how much I depended on my walks until I faced the possibility of losing them. My walks separated my days from my evenings, moving from one mindset to the next. Walks were the time I spent thinking about what I wrote that day, and what I wanted to write tomorrow. Walks were where I pounded out the frustrations and triumphs of the day, all left behind me in measured steps as I strode forward. I’d already been figuring out how to walk my way through the winter months, planning to dress more warmly and walk earlier in the day to soak up more sun. And then the numbness started.
I’ve taken five or six walks since this whole thing happened, longer each time out, trying to get back into the groove.
The first walk was a test, right when I first started getting symptoms, to see what I was capable of, and if I’d lost any strength. I hadn’t, though my legs felt weird. I remember wondering, self-consciously melodramatic, if this would be the last walk I ever took.
It wasn’t. The second walk I took was one I’ll remember for the rest of my life.
Why? Because I thought I was dying.
I walked that afternoon with my wife. It was a warm sunny Sunday afternoon, in early autumn, and the trees in our neighborhood were ablaze with color. Quite a few other folks were out that afternoon, walking their dogs, rolling their baby carriages, or like us, simply trying to get one last nice weekend moment before winter came slamming down like an anvil in a Road Runner cartoon.
My wife took pictures, mostly; this was the perfect day for it (I’m in the lower right corner of the photo at the top of this post). I think she was aware of some of my fears, but not all of them. I was still keeping my cards pretty close to the vest, not revealing much of my emotional state (that didn’t happen until the eclipse). Splashes of color leaped from all directions, as the bright leaves rustled in the trees, and fallen leaves swirled in the gusty afternoon wind, hissing through the gutters of the streets like snakes.
Falling in love with the world as you realize your days in the world are numbered is an old trope, and I won’t belabor it. I thought about how beautiful the leaves were. I thought about my wife’s beauty, and how lucky I was to have her by my side as I made this walk. I thought about how, if I were never able to walk again, I’d have this walk to remember. And that if I did walk again, I’d still remember the walk, as an explosion of love and color, of hope and light. I promised myself to remember the walk, and the radiance encountered.
I am walking again, though it’s an uphill battle to get to the mileages I was used to achieving before the numbness. And I’ve still got to learn how to walk comfortably in colder temperatures if I want to continue through the winter.
But I’ll keep my promise to myself. I will remember this walk with my wife.
I will remember the beauty of the day, and the persistence of hope.
Peace.
Jeff, so sorry you are going through this. Sending hope and love to you. Sonia