Cinderella: Why, it’s like a dream. A wonderful dream come true.
Fairy Godmother: Yes, my child, but like all dreams, well, I’m afraid this can’t last forever. You’ll have only ’til midnight, and then…
Cinderella: Midnight? Oh, thank you.
Fairy Godmother: Oh, now, now, now, now, now, just a minute. You must understand, my dear: On the stroke of twelve, the spell will be broken, and everything will be as it was before.
Since my Stiff Person diagnosis in 1994, it has taken years for medication, immunosuppressant therapy, and life adjustments to achieve a fragile ‘stability.’ The early years of an inching painful shuffle while contorted in relentless spasm have eased into a relative comfort maneuvering within the familiar security of home, interrupted with occasional symptom reminders.
Part of my life adjustment strategies have been planning my ‘out of home’ activities to coincide with medication peaks–an estimated 3 hours of seemingly unhindered normalcy barring any unexpected SPS cameo appearances. My hiking pole does not denote disability like a cane. Pulling a backpack on wheels gives me an assumed perception of walker security while carrying miscellaneous items, freeing my overdrive nervous system from multitasking the simplicity of just entering a public building.
Three precious hours. If planned right, an activity may overlap times of medication dosage, giving me some extra oomph or a brief extension of pharmaceutical magic.
As always, medication peaks decline at the clanging stroke of midnight. My coach turns back into a pumpkin, horses into mice, gown into rags–Stifferella once again.
Laying in syndrome cinders, I bask in the glowing memory of the ball and I dream. My Prince Charming is a cure, riding in on a white steed with a glass slipper custom-fitted for me. We ride off at the stroke of midnight, no longer a clamoring end to medication magic but ringing in a new day, a new life.
Copyright © 2012