Our anniversary … Me and my mistress in Chicago

As I’m closing in on 10 years since I first learned that I most likely had MS, here’s a previous reflection about a rendezvous I had with my “mistress” on our anniversary …

As we stroll down Chicago’s Christmas-decked Michigan Avenue, you squeeze my hand and remind me that this day is our second anniversary. Not the anniversary that formally solidified our future together, but the anniversary of the day we were introduced.

In these two years you faithfully have been with me every day, and my mind can’t stop thinking about you. Thinking about what you do for me each day of my life, and dreaming of what our future holds. Just as parents in some cultures decide on the unions of their children, it was two years ago this day that I first was told that you likely would be with me till death do we part.

“The radiologist said the cause of your symptoms most likely is multiple sclerosis,” my physician told me over the phone at 9:25 a.m. that day, exactly one week from Christmas Eve. Our relationship officially was confirmed by my neurologist on Valentine’s Day. What a fitting day to remember the one that will be with you through everything – from here to eternity. Unconditionally.

But it is our first date that I remember most. How with one telephone call you altered my life. And two years is quite some time for this close a relationship. Granted, we’ve had our fallouts and spats, but in the end, I’m reminded that you’ll never leave me, and I can never leave you. So we deal with it and move on with our life.

While most unions utilize wedding bands to remind the couple of their commitment, you’ve added a twist to that tradition and have made my hands constantly numb, as though they have fallen asleep. An unwavering reminder that I am yours, you are mine.

We walk amid the noon pedestrian traffic, against the flow. You hamper my strides because you want to go back to our hotel room and spend some time in bed. You think we’ve done enough for today. You let me go out with some friends for lunch and so far you haven’t said too much about me drinking a beer. But I insist on going to the downtown music store in search of rare-to-find Springsteen gems.

We scour the Virgin record store, and much to your delight, we don’t find anything worth buying. You hate it when I find good music. It makes you so jealous because if only for a little while, I forget about you and our relationship. I don’t know why you worry. I’m not going anywhere.

We meet some friends who are attending the same conference we are. They’re walking a little faster than you would like us to, but I remind you that by walking our slower pace, they’ll become suspicious of what we have going on together.  

I think about how monumental this day is for us and how I want to share the milestone with them, but I know they won’t understand. You are like my mistress – I just call you “Ms.” And while others know about us, it would make them uncomfortable if I revealed intimate details of our relationship. No one but us can truly appreciate this moment.

One more workshop, and the day’s conference activities are over. I convince you that we can go out for a night on the town with my friends. You plead to celebrate the anniversary alone in our room, order some room service, and go to bed early. But I want to go out one last time and make the most of our anniversary.

We go with friends to an Italian restaurant, and I order the Italian sausage dish. And a beer. You didn’t do too much to me following my luncheon pilsner, so I anticipate you will lower the boom with excessive fatigue after a Heineken for dinner. But let’s be real about this. I am in the mood to order a second beer just to spite you, but it is the price I have to pay the waiter, not you, that keeps me from indulging on our anniversary.

Dinner is over, and we continue visiting with my friends. You’re getting anxious to get back to the hotel. All you want to do is get me in bed. But I’m enjoying myself on the town tonight.

I’m so committed to denying you, on the walk back to the hotel, I stand in line for nearly an hour for some cheese-flavored popcorn. Hey, everybody else was waiting in line outside the store, and my friends and I just had to get a taste of this highly sought-after treat. You’re like a whiny little kid pulling on my pant leg because you want to go home. You make my feet burn with numbness as I stand in line. “Whatever,” I think.

Alas, we make it to the hotel room, and much to your delight, I change into my shorts and T-shirt and pull down the sheets. Finally, you seem content. My hands and feet still are numb because you like to hold a grudge. But you’re not making anything else worse.

So we turn off all the lights but one, crawl into bed, and watch Monday Night Football – the Saints against the Rams. You even allow me the energy to stay up for the whole game. That, or my adrenaline has overpowered you because I have two of my fantasy football league players going tonight.

So here’s to two years. A constant struggle? No, not constant. But more often than I’d like. I’ll admit it: You’ve made me a better man because you’ve enabled me to put everything in my life into the proper perspective. And when I can’t do that and feel you overtake my will and spirit, I find strength to overpower you through another fantasy in my life: That someday, they’ll come and take you away. Let’s be honest: I, and nearly a third of a million Americans, don’t deserve you.

Happy anniversary, Ms.