"The Dance of MS"

by Victoria Booth Mahon
(c) November 30, 1998

 
When I walk, I sway and wattle,
People think I'm on the bottle.
 
Some nights, I'm lucky, and
sleep comes at two;
Most nights, not until all
TV is through.
 
What did I watch all through the
night? I don't know...
The TV just made the darkness
a bit more bright.
 
Numbness in my hands
is frustrating, you see,
Because I can't pick anything
up for you or for me.
 
The fatigue is as crushing
as an oppressive wind;
I can't stand long and I can't bend.
 
Weakness is a small word to
describe the energy draining
And the constant muscle tremors, twitches and straining.
 
There are no words to describe...

Each day is a feat of endurance,
Just to get out of bed.
 
People say, "But, I'm tired, too.
Why can't you just push
and do what I do?"
 
It's okay. They don't understand...

This kind of tired is deathbed tired--
An effort even to breathe.
 
I'm sitting on the couch,
And some ice water starts to
run under my leg.
 
And then there's the chance
That it's some bees stinging.
 
Then I remember...
It's just the MS dance.


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