I’ll admit it: Contrary to my usual positive, inquisitive approach to multiple sclerosis, I cried last December when my MS symptoms flared. I cried long and hard.
I remember returning home from work, my left leg stiff and weak, stride slowed, with nobody home but the dog and a very demanding cat, and it just poured out of me, the kind of sobbing thrust from the gut, deep and low. It kept coming and coming. I let it. I cried because nobody could hear me. I cried because I felt I hadn’t appreciated walking enough when I had the ability. I cried because I felt responsible for all of it.