Last week wasn't really rough, but the spastic muscles in my legs were showing themselves greatly and my feet just burned. When I had my follow up, I had my gait check to see if I needed anything to help with the spastic muscles. But, alas, I guess it wasn't bad enough yet. I am mostly drug free except for the Copaxone. It's been about 6 months since I first started on it, so it's getting ready to move outside that window. Hopefully it works because I'm staying on it for the time being. I suppose if I really wanted to go on Tysabri I could. I checked out the web site and read what people wrote on WebMD. Like al MS drugs, it's great if it works for you, if not, you're probably no better off than before. Granted the chances of death are probably over blown, but because there is a probability there's a possibility.
I had one of those "deep" conversations this weekend. I have always been one of those people who get enjoyment out of anything: going to the art museum, sitting by a lake and reading a book or just doing nothing. A friend of mine lost their dad a couple years ago. While it is the natural order of things, when it happens suddenly, it leads to some introspection. You begin to realize your own mortality. For a majority of your life, mom and dad were always there and suddenly one of them isn't. "Am I living life to the fullest?" Robert Frost called it taking the road less traveled: " Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference."
I have never wanted to work, even though I have been doing it since I was thirteen. I have never wanted to work for a corporation. Where am I? Working and working for a corporation. I can go into the reasons why, and I believe I have done so previously. If I didn't, just watch "Office Space." Everybody has a Milton and some useless, ginormeous tool hack of a boss, some slacker that gets promoted. 'Nough said?
I think part of my so dour mood for the last few months is that the whole purpose of working has changed. It's something I go to every day for the insurance. Instead of living the life that I want to live: stop and smelling the roses, I'm working for the man. If somebody says MS is taking the road less traveled, I'll punch them in the nose.
I work 5 days a week, sometimes 6 and sometimes 7. By the weekend, I'm so tired that going out and doing those things just doesn't seem appealing as compared to planting my butt on the couch and maybe taking a nap. Damn the man.
