Perspective

Walking into the infusion center for my bi-annual infusion reminds me of my condition. I am not in denial, but most of the time I frame Multiple Sclerosis as another responsibility to be dealt with, another silent battle to be fought, another task to be finished. But the infusion center humbles you- young, old, seemingly rich, apparently poor- you see it all. The one common thread, the desire to be well. In all honesty, the medicine makes me feel worse than the disease, but it is a necessary evil, a necessary foot soldier to this nefarious condition.

As I sit in my chair, a kind nurse assuages my fears by congratulating my early arrival. My husband and I left Richmond at O Dark: 30 to battle 95 traffic. Hopkins is the best, and we are not taking any chances. The kind nurse offers my pre-meds; a paradoxical morning cocktail.

They instantly hit like the tropical storm brewing out in the Atlantic contending with a hurricane. A mix of Benadryl and a syringe of steroid into my IV makes my heart race and my eyes droopy- my body is not sure if I am ready to sleep like Goldilocks or run the Boston Marathon. Next to me a young man snacks on Doritos at 9:00am, and I wonder if he is fighting a similar battle… or maybe worse.

Perspective is the greatest teacher.

She has taught me numerous times throughout my life whether it was sitting bedside with my son, Matthew, during his 97 days in the St. Mary’s NICU, or standing in the pulpit delivering his twin brother, Michael’s, eulogy twenty-three days after they entered this world 14 weeks too soon. Nothing is guaranteed. Nothing.

Recently I was on a podcast and someone said I was an “inspiration.” I do not see myself that way. I am just fighting like everyone else. Sometimes I tease that being put in this chair has actually improved my quality of life outside of it. I know it is not guaranteed. I know all too well that simply living and having a quality life are also not the same thing.

On the ride up 95 this morning, I opened Facebook to to hear Trump’s desire to “train the military” in our cities. A trek through Baltimore’s dilapidated row houses is a reminder that the wars have been fought daily by residents for decades. They do not need the military to remind them of their own battles: racism, poverty, drugs, lack of sound education.

Amidst this reminder, I clicked on a new message and I was blown away by what I read, “I had you for IB English at Hanover High School either in 2015 or 2016 (I believe it was your first year at Hanover High School). I just wanted to reach out to share how much your class meant to me & impacted me. A decade later, I could still tell you in detail about everything we read & studied. I still regularly reread some of the poetry I found in your class. I don’t think I knew back then how much I treasured what you were teaching us. The authors, poets, history that you taught has become such a big part of who I am and how I see the world, so I just wanted to say thank you! And hopefully encourage you that, wherever you are now, you have made such a valuable impact on your students, even if it takes them a few years to fully grasp it.” God winks when I need it most.

As an educator, I always try to highlight others who fight their own battles; they help me fight mine. It’s not fully self serving though, now I have confirmation that they seep into the learning and the lives of my students. These protagonists are the silent warriors. The unsung heroes. They have been put in their own chairs. Perspective truly is the greatest teacher.

She starts my medicine, and the tears come. My heart physically  pounds out of my body with the steroid. And then the life altering drugs hit my bloodstream with a surge. I take a deep breath; my husband taps my boot.

“I am right there if you need me,” my nurse promises.

I trust her. Her eyes do not lie, and I remind myself, come hell or high-water, I will walk out of this place in four hours.

Perspective is everything.