That MS Look: Nuisances of Nuance

It's funny how we know what stares mean, those looks, you know what I mean. Scientists will tell us we are built to recognize these nuisances of countenance, maybe a way to make sure we survive an angry mob or a deceiving lover. My mother had a glare and all of her kids knew exactly what it meant: "knock it off!" Wouldn't ya know, that part of our brains MS leaves intact. Have you ever been given the "MS Look?"

The "MS Look" starts around the time you start using a cane, at least that is when I got my first one. I GAVE my first one when I saw a man with foot drop. He was entering my favorite grocery and I looked, wondering what was wrong with him, knowing I couldn't raise my foot in the exact same way. Probably the "MS Look" is around before we recognize it. I didn't know I had MS yet. After I started using a cane---the looks began in earnest.

This co-worker was just one of thousands (I was employed by the city of Seattle), but he was a loud, always trying to be funny kind of guy. He was the kind of guy you don't want to be stuck in an elevator with, unless he is your type. We must have had our breaks about the same time, because I kept bumping into him on the elevator over the years. (I had worked at the city for four years before I was diagnosed with MS, inconvenient symptoms would just come and go during those years.) 

It was an anxious day for me, what with using a cane around people who had never seen me with one. Most people were very polite; or I should more accurately say, very quiet about what they saw. Oh, they gave me the MS Look, but they shut up. Not Mr. Jokester. I took my spot next to him on the elevator.

Smiling so big that he is almost laughing, he says loudly (loudly is NEVER necessary in an elevator, by the way) "Why do you have THAT thing?"

Calmly, while doing the eyes to the front elevator stare, I respond, "My legs need the help." He laughs as I exit at my floor.

Next day, there he is as I enter the elevator. Same delivery, "What are you gimping around with that thing for?!"  He can barely hold back a laugh. This time there are others on the elevator. I am in the mood to hold back nothing.

Turning to look directly into his eyes, I say calmly, "I have multiple sclerosis, a chronic progressive disease with no cure and I find your question intrusive and unkind."

His face loses its smile. I turn and exit stage right, oops, I mean I exit the elevator at my floor.

Next day, there he is as I entered the elevator. We are alone. His usual obnoxious grin is gone, "Hey, hi, I didn't mean to upset you. I just wondered why you needed a cane." I say nothing, still facing the elevator door. There is a moment of silence, then he continues.
"I've seen you at your desk and you really don't seem to need a cane.  I knew a guy that used a cane and it only made him worse. It's better to use your muscles or you will be in bad shape down the road," he laughs his snarky laugh, "besides, you are too young to use an old man's cane, sweetheart."

Diane exits the elevator, swallowing her anger, fighting her own fears of becoming weaker with a cane, and suppressing her strong desire to swing her cane hard into his family faux-jewels.

A week later Mr. Jokester is in my office building's lobby with his leg in a cast, being held up by two crutches. He is surrounded by his co-worker friends and he is so sad, he has fallen while skiing, breaking his leg. His smile and loud bravado are gone. He looks like a beaten man. All of his friends are patting him, offering their assistance, telling him how horrible it is to be him. He puffs and groans as he moves. "This is the worst thing that ever happened to me," I hear him say, "the doctor says it could be months before I get this cast off." His friends shake their heads and sigh for him.

The next week he is on the elevator as I enter. He is relaxed on his crutches, sucking on a lollipop which he immediately pulls out of his mouth as I turn to face the elevator door. His loud voice has mellowed, "Oh hi, I'm glad to run into you. I wanted to apologize for how I acted when I saw you with that cane," he laughs, " I sure understand now what it is like for you! I was skiing and..." at this point I turn to face him.

"You understand nothing about what it is like for me!" I am no longer calm, my voice is loud and angry. "You will be out of that cast and away from your crutches in a few weeks. YOU will simply heal. The only thing you understand is that it is wrong to judge people whose life you can't begin to imagine. At least I HOPE you understand that!" With that I exited the elevator, hearing his soft voice say, "I'm sorry."

After a few more weeks, he was back to his old self, just a little quieter, a lot less obnoxious, and he avoided me like the plague. Matter of fact, I don't recall he was ever on my elevator again, and we had no further words. Once I saw him laughing with a group of men, all recapping some ski trip they took, his leg long ago healed. His eye caught mine and he quickly averted his glance.

**** DIANE!, you just posted yesterday that you had to stop. Are you crazy?

After scouring my black hole ridden shrinking MS brain yesterday, I started thinking of a few more MS stories that I have not shared. One was a prize winner and one of the first stories about my MS that was ever published. The magazine's owner bought my rights to it, but I certainly can retell it in fewer words, blog style. Yes, I still have a few stories to share. The sorry lot of a writer is that we are always writing. In our sleep, during dinner, bridge games, while someone is talking to us...rude, I agree, but until we put it to print it is that song in your head that won't go away. Sorry, finger, vacations are not easy for me.