Oct 25, 2023 | Personal
It’s January of 2021. I wake up around 6:15 and hop in the shower. As my eyes adjust to the light, I notice something is different about my vision. There seems to be a slight split between the two halves of my eyesight. Like I’m looking through two overlapping panes of glass that aren’t lined up quite right.
That’s weird, but maybe my eyes are just tired?
I get dressed, pack my bag, and scarf down a lightly toasted bagel with cream cheese. As I fall onto the couch to browse the latest marketing news, I notice something even more perplexing. The words on my iPad are slightly doubled.
What’s wrong with my eyes?
This question would be the catalyst for the longest year of my life.
After two months of waiting, I finally see the eye doctor. As all eye doctors are prone to do, she blames my eye problems on my outdated prescription. I’m sent home with a new, higher prescription, and she’s confident my eyes will be normal in a few days. A few days come and go, and I still see twins whenever I look at words on a screen.
My anxiety has been on a slow increase since January, and now that the eye doctor hasn’t helped, it’s really starting to ramp up.
I’m looking up all my symptoms, and unfortunately, the internet tells me I have 12 different types of cancer, 13 autoimmune diseases, and 14 types of blindness.
Next stop, general practitioner.
He knows nothing.
Next stop, neurologist.
He knows something.
I’m sitting in the sterile, white office of my new neurologist when he utters eight words that throw my world into turmoil.
“My hypothesis is that you have multiple sclerosis.”
If you’re lucky enough to be ignorant, multiple sclerosis is a neurodegenerative disease that attacks your brain and spinal cord. Two of the most critical parts of your body, no big deal. There is no cure.
The most beautiful thing about MS is that you can’t really test for it. Most people are diagnosed by omission after nothing else comes up.
My neurologist tells me I’ll have to undergo several MRIs of my brain and spine, and we’ll do additional nerve testing to rule out anything else.
I graduate college. I get married. I start a full-time job.
MS hovers over all these events, like an executioner observing a last meal.
“Is this the last time I’ll be happy?”
One of the weirdest experiences when you’re waiting for a medical diagnosis is the rooting you do for bad, but not too bad, medical conditions.
Even though my doctor is confident I have multiple sclerosis, there’s still a grab bag of diagnoses that I could receive instead. I find myself rooting for nerve damage, diabetes, and similar conditions that most people would hate to have but feel better than MS.
To test for some of these, I play a fun little game where the neurologist shocked different parts of my body to see if my nerves react.
My nerves are good, which is bad. More conditions are omitted, pushing us closer to an MS diagnosis.
The MRIs will be the true test. If I have lesions on my brain or spinal cord, my doctor will have all the evidence he needs to make a verdict. MS will be guilty.
It turns out nobody in the medical system particularly cares if you think you’re dying.
The MRIs, the most significant tests of my life, get delayed by two months.
I’m mad.
Don’t they know my life hangs in the balance? Why doesn’t this deserve to be expedited?
It drags out my diagnosis, giving me too much time to think. About life, about sickness, and about the horrible future that could lie ahead.
The day finally comes. I sit in the incredibly small space of the MRI machine, as the incredibly large magnet takes images of my body.
I stare down the MRI tech as I leave the room, looking for any signs on their face about what they saw.
Did they look like they felt bad for me? Were they shocked at how bad my MRI was?
It feels dark outside, even though there are no clouds.
The MRI results are in, and my doctor’s appointment is at 3 p.m. Today is the day I officially get diagnosed with MS.
I check in at the front desk and get all my vitals taken. By now, I’m a pro at being a patient.
The doctor enters the room, and I instantly want to cry.
“Well, your MRIs are clear.”
What?
“There are no signs of lesions.”
What??
“I think we can safely rule out multiple sclerosis for now.”
I can’t understand. For the past seven months, I’ve been so sure something was incredibly wrong with me. But there wasn’t.
My neurologist says we’ll have to monitor my symptoms, but there is no clear diagnosis to be made.
MS is acquitted.
A couple of years later, I now know that my eye problems result from a severe dry eye issue. I also have other symptoms, but for now, they’re attributed to several benign conditions.
I’m healthy.
If you watch the news or scroll through Reddit, you’ll encounter armies of people who tell you that life is terrible and only getting worse.
But they’re choosing to miss the beauty around them.
When I thought I was dying, I didn’t think about political conflicts or annoying coworkers. It was the little parts of life that I cherished most—sitting on the footsteps of my house watching cars pass by, binging Modern Family with my wife, eating a Chick-fil-A chocolate chip cookie.
Even being able to see with my eyes and move with my legs became things I treasured.
Being healthy is such a gift and one that I took for granted for far too long.
When I forget this, I think about all the doctor’s appointments that don’t have happy endings or cute life lessons. The ones that end with sobbing or a solemn call to several family members.
My happy ending is such a blessing, one I need to carry with me every day.
Life is good.
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