God hates me.

I used to have dreams that someone was in my house.

I would creep slowly up to the front hallway where I could hear them coming in just to confirm that suspicion. When I got there, the intruder would jump out at me. I would scream, but nothing would come out. Then, I would turn to run, but my legs wouldn’t work. I’d fall, pull myself up, try again, and fail again. I always woke up right before the intruder jumped at me.

That’s the same feeling I have now. Then, I was only about 6 or 7 years old. Sure, it freaked me out, but I would find sanctuary in my parents’ room for the remainder of the night. Now, I’m not sure when I’ll wake up from the nightmare.

Mostly I remember the dream because of the literal part of it-- my legs not working. The concentration and frustration experienced with each time I go to stand up or to walk is overwhelming. Like it can’t possibly be that difficult to move... but it is.

I already cried. I couldn’t do it at work after the doctor called. I hung up the phone and made myself appear busy shuffling through random papers in my office while I repeatedly swallowed that lump in my throat. After I felt a little stronger, I sent around a text to the family members: "Doc just called. Scans don’t look clear. Indicates MS and not just one time flare up. Diagnosis is difficult and not quick. Don’t call me just yet. At work." I couldn’t have them calling me. Not at work. I knew as soon as someone called, I would break down this barrier I had been trying to build up. I answered a few text questions, gathered my things, and calmly told Brian I was leaving. He gave me almost a pained look, as if he knew it wasn’t good, and said, "I hope you feel better..." I thanked him, turned, walked down the stairs and opened the door and the tears had already started. My sunglasses covered the red watery eyes, but I still hoped no one would be in the parking lot. The further I walked from the door, the harder the tears came. Hard, but silent. I attempted to exchange small-talk conversation with our neighbor through my tears-- it was a weak attempt. In the car, the tears poured faster.

I unlocked the door, opened it, pulled myself inside, and closed it. I slouched back against the door and slid down to the floor sobbing. The house was empty. Quiet. And I didn’t know how I would tell Andrew. I let myself sob loudly to myself for a few minutes, then gathered myself for his phone call. I couldn’t get past "The doctor called," before I was crying. I don’t remember what he said entirely. The only discernible word was, "Fuck," over and over and over. After crying to him for a few minutes, I sat down to try to write and get some emotion out... and a knock came on my door. It was almost expected. I knew my mom would be on her way. Had she called, I would have said no. She knew me. So she just came. I opened the door and she hugged me and we cried some more.

For the next 3 hours, my mom scrubbed my kitchen and started my laundry. I’m not sure what I did. I probably got in her way. I paced. I moved things around. I talked to Andrew again. He moved his plane ticket up to Sunday instead of Tuesday. I just wanted to crawl in bed. I let my mom convince me to go back home with her.

On the drive, she asked, "Why does all this happen to you!?" I answered, "Well, Kara would probably shoot herself. Brea would be too ornery. And Adam... Adam would never leave home. The way I see it, I’m taking one for the team here." She laughed. It was kind of true.

I’m not sure I even believe this is happening yet. I could still wake up. It seems to surreal to think that so much shit can happen to one couple. Shit like that just doesn’t happen...

I like how Andrew put it:

"God fucking hates me."