Running with MS, pt. 3

The 8K at the Crim is 12 days away, and here’s the third installment of my essay:

“And it’s about now that I always think to myself that there probably are healthy, able-bodied people out there who would kill themselves if they felt as good as I do …”           

As I get close to leaving the calmness that is Concourse Drive, I sneak an anxious peek at what kind of traffic I’ll have to contend with on the temperamental Crawford Road. Some days there is no traffic at all and I can run right on its peaceful highway pavement, like it’s my quiet Concourse Drive continued.

Other days the onslaught of Central Michigan University students heading into campus for class and commercial asphalt trucks hauling heavy loads back to town force me to the outermost edge of the rocky shoulder. As I turn out of Concourse Drive today I stick to the Crawford Road shoulder, bracing myself for the first of two trucks charging toward me in the northbound lane. They’re just so intimidating. Not even Springsteen playing as loud as the iPod will let him can muffle the thunder of the trucks that are only a matter of 5 feet away as they blow past me at some 55 miles per hour.

I remind myself to keep my eyes on the gravel so I don’t trip over some randomly scattered stone and trip into the truck’s charted path. A fraction of a second after the first truck passes I strengthen my stride to counteract the gust that follows in its windy wake. The encounter with the second truck isn’t as brutal because it pulls over into southbound lane and passes by me with about 9 feet of separation. I quietly thank God that I’m only on this short stretch of Crawford Road twice each run. I eventually will brave it again toward the end of my route as I make my way back home.

MS doesn’t say much as I’m warming up on Crawford Road. Maybe he does, but at this point in my run I usually am too busy thinking about the oncoming traffic and the pride that I feel because I’m actually out running again. My mind pauses to fully appreciate the reality that for one more day, my body has maintained its ability not only to walk but to run, and run well.

MS is such an unpredictable disease, and I am terrified of the unlimited potential it has to relentlessly steal from me whatever physical and mental ability it desires anytime it wants to.

I, like the majority of people who have MS, am forced to live with unusually high levels of fatigue throughout certain periods of the day that make even the simplest of tasks nearly impossible to complete. It’s hard to describe what the fatigue feels like other than saying to imagine how it would feel to shovel three inches of snow to clear off the two front steps immediately after shoveling through three feet of snow to clear off the entire Wal-Mart parking lot. The front steps should be so easy to take care of but you truly can’t salvage an ounce of energy from your depleted body.

In addition to the fatigue, constant numbness in my hands—the kind of numbness like when your hands fall asleep—limit my dexterity and make it difficult to do everyday tasks such as typing a quick e-mail, buttoning the top button of my dress shirt, and double-knotting my running shoes. It’s almost as though I’m wearing thick cotton gloves every time I try doing something that involves using my hands. I also have perpetual numbness in my feet and legs, but we can talk about that later when my left foot starts to drag the farther I am into my route.

I turn off of Crawford Road onto the Wellness Central trail along Denison Drive. This marks my half-mile warm-up and it gives me a chance to stop and stretch my muscles one more time before my timed training run begins.

And it’s about now that I always think to myself that there probably are healthy, able-bodied people out there who would kill themselves if they felt as good as I do, while there are others out there living with more progressive forms of MS who would kill others to feel as bad as I do. These are among the groups of people who push me to run my regular route at least three times each week.