​Multiple sclerosis? Of course I’d heard of it, but I knew nothing about it. I resisted the temptation to Google it. On December 21, 2015 I met with a neurologist.
 
“Now don’t look,” he said, “but am I pushing your big toe up or down or to the left or right?”
 
I gave it my best guess. “To the left?”
 
“Nope. Down.”   
 
He held his hand under my right foot and tilted it slightly at an angle. Suddenly, it trembled uncontrollably. I felt my mouth drop open. “What in the world?” My extremities weren’t supposed to move without my consent. He let go of my foot with a serious expression.
                                                                                                                    
“It shouldn’t do that,” he said.
 
For the next several minutes, he poked my legs, checked my reflexes and watched me walk around the room.
 
Finally, he gave it to me straight. “I seriously suspect MS. Let’s do an MRI on your brain, neck and spine.”
 
Two days later I checked in at the hospital for my MRI. Once situated on the table, the technician handed me a small, remote-like device. “In case of an emergency, you can push this button,” she said. Then she slid me into the tunnel. I didn’t think I was claustrophobic, but after a quick peek, I decided it best to keep my eyes shut.
 
I had hoped to sleep, but soon realized that wasn’t possible. Even with earplugs the machine was extremely loud. I’d swear someone was pounding the outside of the machine with a hammer. Then came the vibrating. Then thumping. And every now and then, spine-chilling screeching. I was tired, but there’d be no sleeping through that.
 
The first few scans were relatively uneventful. I learned to ignore the noise and remain fairly still. Then suddenly I felt it: an annoying little tickle deep inside my left ear. You know the kind. It’s impossible to reach, but you try anyway because it’s driving you completely insane.  
 
Think of something else ... think of something else …
 
But all I could focus on was that annoying itch. It became more intense. Like a tiny bug slowly crawling inside my ear. I was probably forty minutes into my current scan. I didn’t want to start over. But this felt like cruel and unusual punishment. Thankfully it finally passed. But in that moment, I would’ve given anything for a Q-Tip.  
 
The only thing worse than the itchy ear episode, was the contrast die. For some reason my body didn’t like it. Less than five minutes after getting the shot I was pushing that emergency button.
 
“Is everything okay?” she asked through my headphones.
 
“Uh, no. I’m gonna be sick.”
 
I’ll spare you the details, but I will say this: I’m so very grateful that my wonderful technician had a strong stomach, a heart of gold and most importantly, cat-like reflexes.
 
A couple weeks later it was back to the neurologist to hear the results. It wasn’t what I’d hoped.
 
“Your MRI shows active plaque in your right frontal lobe.”
 
I was silent. He continued.
                                                                                                                                  
“I’d like you to have a lumbar puncture,” he said. A lumbar puncture? I wasn’t sure what my lumbar was, but I felt fairly certain I didn’t want it to be punctured. The look on my face must’ve shown my confusion.
 
“It’s like a spinal tap,” he said. “We need to check your spinal fluid for protein. That’ll tell us for sure if it’s MS.” I wondered how many tests I’d have to endure before we finally figured this out. Besides, what did it matter? I didn’t know much about MS, but I did know there wasn’t a cure.
 
“So what if it is MS?” I asked. “There’s nothing we can do about it, right?”  I knew I sounded negative, but it was a valid question.
 
He looked me straight in the eye. “There’s a lot we can do about it.”
 
If nothing else, I liked his attitude.
 
On January 25th I had a spinal tap / lumbar puncture.  The whole process took longer than I expected. First, they drew blood. Then they X-rayed my back. Finally, a little man in a white lab coat walked in with a long needle.

“Okay, now lean over and just relax.”

Easy for him to say, I thought. He wasn’t exposing his rear and bracing himself for a stab in the back.

“Good,” he said. “Now hold very still …”

Of course that’s when my body involuntarily jumped as I felt pressure.
 
I tried holding very still, hoping he’d soon say the words “all done.” But I waited. And I waited. I was starting to feel sweaty. Nauseous. Lightheaded. I wondered, how much fluid did he need? If I were a car, I’d be at least a quart low by now.  

Over the next couple of days I didn’t feel well. My stomach was nauseous and my head pounded. I spent time in bed, which gave me plenty of time to surf the internet. When I grew tired of Facebook and Instagram, I worked up the nerve to Google “Multiple Sclerosis.”

Multiple sclerosis (MS) is an unpredictable, often disabling disease of the central nervous system that disrupts the flow of information within the brain, and between the brain and body.

Reading the long list of symptoms felt like a punch in the gut. Fatigue. Vision problems. Clumsiness or lack of coordination. Loss of balance. Tingling sensations. Muscle weakness. Dizziness or vertigo. The list went on.

Now it seemed so obvious. What else could it be? I found myself with a strange new concern. What if it wasn’t MS?

However on February 2, 2016, my neurologist officially confirmed it. My initial reaction wasn’t anger or fear. It was actually relief.

I wasn’t a hypochondriac. I wasn’t crazy. I finally had answers. Go figure, I thought. After all this time, my problem actually was in my head. And now I had the MRI to prove it.

​When I first heard the news I told myself I wasn’t going to share it. Honestly, I just wanted to forget it. I certainly didn’t plan to write about it. It was too personal and frankly, a little too somber for my taste.
 
Then I thought about it some more. Why did I start writing anyway? (Many reasons actually). But beneath it all, I had one fundamental goal: to encourage and connect with people. Fact is, I can’t accomplish that goal by keeping my struggles to myself. I want to be real. So brace yourself folks, here’s me being real. ​

Over the last three or four years I’ve had a few minor health issues. Back pain. Discomfort in my right hip. It wasn’t extreme or anything alarming, just enough to limit my walking. I saw a chiropractor. He said I was out of alignment.
 
I also noticed issues with balance. I had joined Jazzercise when my girls were young and decided to try it again. Now I struggled to stand on one foot for more than a few seconds. I wobbled and weaved like a drunken sailor. I blamed it on my back. After all, if my spine was out of whack, it was probably throwing my balance off, right?
 
My biggest challenge was fatigue. I had good days and bad days, but the majority of the time I felt tired and weak. On very bad days I remember thinking, something isn’t right. Maybe I have cancer. But I always found a perfectly good reason to explain it away.
 
Sure I’m tired; all moms are tired.
I guess this is what forty feels like.
I probably should exercise more.
Maybe I’m just lazy. I need to get moving.
It’s probably all in my head.
 
It could've been any of those reasons, so I told myself to suck it up and keep going.
 
But every now and then, some fluky thing happened to me. Like the night I abruptly jumped out of bed (I think Maddie was sick). I felt lightheaded, sick to my stomach and dizzy. Apparently I hit the wall on my way back to bed, which woke Curt. As I slid down the wall, Curt caught me and eased me down to the floor. (My husband, my hero!) Then both of my arms started tingling like crazy. I’m not talking about the kind of tingling you feel when your hand falls asleep. This felt like I’d stuck both arms in a light socket. It continued for several minutes. I’ll admit, it was a bit freaky. But it passed and when I woke up the next morning everything seemed normal. It never happened again.
 
Another time we went whitewater rafting in Colorado. The water was cold, for sure. But it didn’t seem to affect the rest of my family like it did me. I literally shook for more than an hour afterwards. Even after a hot shower, I couldn’t stop shaking. We all laughed it off. Evidently Mom was a wimp when it came to the cold.
 
When it came to walking, something felt off. I found myself tripping several times a day. I stumbled while walking up steps. I tripped while strolling down a perfectly flat sidewalk. It was always my right foot. When I played volleyball with my girls I felt weak and clumsy. Why couldn’t I get my serves over? I blamed it all on my out-of-whack back.
 
More and more, my health issues robbed me of fun with my family. Like the time we took our girls to St. Louis. On the first day we went to a Cardinals game. It was fun, but tiring. We climbed several flights of stairs to find our seats at the stadium. Then we walked around after the game exploring the area. The next morning I felt completely wiped out. We had planned to visit Six Flags, but I knew I wouldn’t have the strength to endure a long, hot day at an amusement park. I didn’t want to disappoint my girls. I felt like a lazy mom. But I couldn’t help it. Curt took the girls while I stayed at the hotel and slept most of the day.   

​Over a period of two or three years I experienced several random symptoms. I briefly had vertigo – a horrible experience even if it was just one night. My family doctor said it should pass. I became depressed. I talked to my gynecologist about that. I had trouble with my vision. The ophthalmologist couldn’t find anything wrong. I had six weeks of physical therapy, hoping to improve my balance issues and muscle weakness. It didn’t help.
 
Not only was I tired and frustrated, now I was seriously afraid I was a hypochondriac. And I still had back and hip pain that my chiro couldn’t figure out. That’s it, I thought. It must be in my head.  
 
Then someone gave me the name of a different chiropractor. I really wasn’t interested. I had basically lost faith in the medical profession. But this guy was highly recommended, so with great hesitation I gave him a try.
 
And that's when I finally got some answers. After a long line of doctors and chiropractors, Dr. Shepherd was the first to start piecing my symptoms together. He asked probing questions. He listened to my answers. And he was the first doctor to look me in the eye and say the words: multiple sclerosis.

One of the coolest things about being a ghostwriter (besides getting to use the word ghost) is having the opportunity to tell someone else's story. Many of the stories I write for Guideposts are ghostwritten. This means my name isn't listed as the author. But I'm okay with that. After all, I wrote it. I didn't live it. 

Telling someone else's story can be a challenge, but it is also rewarding. Like the time I wrote a story for my friend, Stacie. I was so excited when I saw the magazine in my mailbox - and Stacie's story was right on the cover! Guideposts did such a lovely job with the artwork, I decided to frame it and put it in my office. 

Stacie has a great story, and I felt privileged to help her tell it. Today I'd like to share it with you. Check out 
A Blessing from China which was published back in July/Aug of 2013. 

Thanks for stopping by. Have a great week!

​Sheri

Do you have a dream? I did. But I also had an annoying voice inside my head that tried hard to discourage me.

Today I'm sharing a recent blog post I wrote for the Quad City Moms Blog. It's all about my writing journey. From the morning my Pastor preached a message I couldn't ignore - to the day I found out I'd won a nationwide writing contest. Check out my post, Dare to Dream. I hope you'll be encouraged. 

​When I was a kid growing up on a farm, my parents dragged me along to all kinds of places. I’ve written about making my own fun while Mom and Dad left me with a bunch of cows (Keeping Company with Cows), riding on the tractor with my dad (Tractor Tunes) and checking fence with Mom (Lost).
 
Well today I’m remembering a very noisy (and smelly) place from my childhood: the sale barn. It was the place my parents took cattle for auction.
 
One step inside and you were hit with the strong aroma of manure. I followed my parents up the steps and took a seat. All around us were men in coveralls wearing seed corn hats and manure-covered boots.
 
The whole place was a flurry of activity. Cattle bawled from the ring. The auctioneer scanned the crowd, shouting some strange language I couldn’t understand. Old farmers bid on cows. Finally the auctioneer would stop and yell the one word I could understand. “Sold!” 

In a way it was fun, listening to the rhythm of the auctioneer and trying to figure out what in the world he was saying. But as a quiet little girl with a big imagination, it was also terrifying.
 
I always sat very still, convinced that if I raised my hand or even scratched my nose I’d end up bidding on a cow. Dad would be so mad if I bought a cow. I always breathed a sigh of relief when the auctioneer yelled, “sold” and he wasn’t pointing at me.
 
Some guy in a plaid shirt and a long switch prodded at the cows and followed them out of the ring. Like clockwork another bunch came in and took their place. Dad gave me a nudge and pointed. “Look Sis, there’s our cows.”
 
I gave him a nod. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that “our cows” looked like every other cow I’d seen that day. 

My favorite part of the sale barn was the restaurant. Actually, it was a greasy diner that smelled like pork tenderloins. I’d crawl onto a tall barstool and sit at the counter. Then I’d spin around and around. That is, until Mom told me to stop it.
 
I usually ordered a cheeseburger, which felt like a treat. Mom always made stuff like roast, potatoes and gravy and creamed peas. As I ate my lunch, men talked of market prices and the weather forecast.  
 
Finally, it was time to go home. On the way, mom and dad discussed their thoughts on “what the cows brought,” and discussed which chores should be done as soon as we got home. Honestly, I didn’t pay much attention. I was just glad I didn’t accidentally buy a cow.