Though I don’t talk about it much, my balance is shot. Since my overdue diagnosis in the fall of 2017, my symptoms have gotten steadily worse. As of late, I am almost entirely dependent on a walker. Despite any issues with said diagnosis, I do my very best to do the things that bring me joy and fulfillment. Earlier this week (Monday, to be exact.) I took a walk over to the nearby Seattle Center. It not far by any stretch. However, being dependent on a walker can make things incredibly difficult and downright risky.
Needless to say, it felt good to get out and explore an area that served as my temporary residence when my wife and I first arrived in Seattle almost four years ago. The further I walked, the more confident I felt. The voices inside my head, repeating, “Come on, you got this.” You know, the one you hear from your personal trainer at the gym? Yeah, that one. It was a beautiful, warm, and sunny day. After months of Seattle rain and fog, I wanted to take it all in. After an extended stay at the Seattle Center, I began to head towards Taylor Ave before crossing Denny Way and heading home. About a block past Denny, my walker hit a curb wrong, and down I went. It must have looked gruesome because a passing car came to a sudden hault, got out, and helped me out, “My God, are you alright?” I was hurt but more embarrassed than anything. I thanked him for his kindness before carefully navigating the several blocks that remaIned. I was clearly exhausted but crossed the avenue to get a picture of this poster that basically says it all. As I arrived home, I noticed the black and blues and the bloodied jeans I was wearing. Looking back, we all fall down, whether it be literally or figuratively.The important thing is that we get back up and never stop trying,
The hardest thing through all of this has been me not giving myself a break, allowing myself to accept things or console with friends, family and loved ones. I’ve essentially been lying to myself and everyone else, under the rouse of protecting myself and loved ones from worrying or even wondering about me. The truth is, I’m only hurting myself by trying to pretend everything is okay. The truth is, I’ve never allowed myself to admit I was sick. The memory of my Mother telling her twelve-year-old son who was hospitalized with an inoperable brain tumor to “Not act like you’re sick.” when people came to visit, left a lasting impression. Although I know it was said with the very best intentions. It’s stuck with me since. A key reason as to why I consider opening up about being sick a form of complaining or weakness In the year or so since I was diagnosed. I’ve gone through every stage of suffering and coping possible. I struggled through depression, thoughts of suicide and anger towards my old doctor who wrote off my symptoms as post brain tumor or post-stroke and failed to schedule the proper tests that would be ordered when I first moved to Seattle. I can’t help but think that if my symptoms were properly investigated early on. Things might have been a little different.
It began with the best intentions. The days and weeks since my Neurology follow up had me feeling angry, lost and somewhat hopeless. I had mistakenly opened up to my doctor, therapist and wife that I had briefly thought of suicide, or commented on how I wished the original death notice I received when I was twelve would have ended me instead of prolonging my suffering through related issues. Falling down and not having the control you once had on your life it not easy to get used to. With that said and fully expressed, I had felt a positive shift in recent days that mad me feel as if I had turned a corner. I had all but stopped worrying about what I couldn’t do any more and started thinking about what I could. My intention was to share with my wife that the fear and negativity were behind me. That, whatever it took, I was going to be open minded and more constructive.
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