Hope Speaking, Act Two draft 2

Act Two:
The woman is in a different position than she was at the end of Act One, but she addresses the audience in the same tone as she repeats the final line of the previous act: Believe it.
I am waiting, just waiting. And mostly going crazy. Dr. McDonald and Angela the ultrasound tech have been to Italy and back to train with Dr. Zamboni. They went directly to the source of a new discovery called CCSVI – Chronic Cerebrospinal Vascular Insufficiency. This means jugular and/or azygous veins are narrowed. Zamboni discovered a way to balloon those veins by way of a simple angioplasty and Dr. McDonald became curious. And I am in their books. I am on their roster. So I check their website, and I wait.

I’m looking inside myself and seeing mixed results. Where am I? Who am I? I talked to my best friend Charlotte the other day on the phone. She is brilliant and tenacious in her loyalties. She is the strongest most accomplished and irreverent mother I know. She has four children. And you think that would be enough. But three of those children were diagnosed as autistic at one point and Charlotte recovered those children through a specialized autism therapy Hum you say, the doctors must have misdiagnosed. No Charlotte saved her children by being fierce and tireless. I still don’t think she sleeps. Now she helps other parents with their children. She was born to make a difference. I admire her so much. However, it needs to be said and acknowledged that she may not have been able to accomplish everything without the help of her amazing husband who brought home the bacon so that she could work miracles.

The Chorus of 4 Women appear, strong and elegant. They are wearing long simple dresses. They weave in and out of each other’s space throughout the next speech.There are amazing women in my backyard as well…
Every Monday I take coffee and tea to the girls at Dr. McDonald’s office. They love it and they don’t kick me out. They are lovely girls, open and honest. Falyn, with the name like a soaring bird, is young and beautiful. She is kind and says “you don’t have to do this.” But I tell her I want to, and in my thoughts I’m saying, “you are my lifeline, my strength to go on.” Sara sits in the middle. She is a raw spirit. Today her face was troubled because her boy has gone to live with her ex-husband. But she knows it’s the best thing. As I look at her behind the partition I can tell her heart is breaking. She won’t tuck her boy in tonight and kiss his sweet lips. Amanda is lovely as a catalogue model and sits at the end, closest to the door. She likes steeped tea with milk and came to this country 20 years ago to look after Dr. McDonald’s children. She is tethered to her position by strong memories and unwavering loyalty. Angela is the manager and doesn’t sit down. I wonder if she really knows that she is on the cutting edge – that she is making history. She has a particular way about her – professional and no-nonsense. But there is something else. It’s like she’s been through things. Tough things that she’s kind of buried. But she’s good you know, and ethical. And you can tell she wants to do the right thing and take no credit. I love these people and I don’t even know them. I love them because they are in a zone. An incredible focused zone identified in the jobs they do. I guess I kind of envy their path. I wish I was on their team – and that’s why I volunteer to bring the coffee and snacks.
The Chorus exits.Dr. Sandy McDonald. They say he is a genius. They say he is a meticulous surgeon – the best. He is in my back yard and I cannot believe my good fortune. I am his patient and I am waiting every day to be called by him again to discuss the possibility of an angioplasty to open my veins. I’ve talked to God a few times about this MS thing. Is this the miracle I’ve secretly been dreaming of? Has Dr. McDonald been appointed by God? Some days I’m so mean about my condition. I can’t walk well and that makes me so mad. I get tired and sore and fed up. I trip and sometimes fall. I try to see the good side and appreciate that “it’s not so bad, it couldn’t be worse.” But I have to be honest. I am so sick and tired of “MS” – whatever that is. I wish Dr. McDonald would call. I’m like that girl in High School waiting for the popular boy to notice her. And no one is more popular than Dr. McDonald right now. He is the Hollywood heart-throb, the High School quarterback, and the brilliant guy with the beautiful mind all wrapped up in one. Call damn-it, call!
I have been sitting by the phone a lot. I signed up for the procedure in Poland and I am waiting to hear. There is also hope of having the procedure done in Albany, New York and I am waiting to hear from a doctor there. But last night I went on line and I found out something very devastating. Some people who have been liberated aren’t feeling the best, and they don’t know if their veins are closing up again or if that is part of the healing process. And it occurs to me that that is what the medical community is talking about when they say they need more research - they don’t know what to expect after the procedure. And in a dark moment I think, can I handle this forever? What if I am never cured? What if I get worse? I need to find myself pronto, even before the procedure. I have to be ok one way or another. I want to lead a normal life.
I've been working at the College and I have been so god-awful tired. Don't get me wrong, I love the work and I want to continue working there but the fatigue is a tough one. I only teach there two mornings a week but after work on Wednesday I can barely breathe. I drag my body through the campus trying to remember what it was like when I was strong. I try to conjure images of me capable and fearless. Was I ever like that? I thought I was. I have been kicked on my butt by this and still it will not take me. It will not win. Last week I had to pick up 100 copies of a 5-page test written by the students. Heavy. It was pouring rain and I had a cane. A nice woman, weathered and kind, suggested I hang the blue bag I was carrying, the one with the college’s logo – around my neck to carry it. Is this funny or pathetic? The students don't even notice. They are busy huddling under the awning and sucking on their smokes. They don't care. So I head to the car, bag over head, leather purse slung over my shoulder and cane in right hand. The weather is fierce. Wind blowing, rain stinging, god-pushing fierce. I figure this is my Everest, my mountain to climb. Epiphany. See, we all have our challenges, everything is relative. I am not an Olympian. But on this day I am a survivor, and I make it to the safety of my dry car.

Countdown to Liberation!
Surrender. I love that word. I said a prayer to St. Joseph today and that was part of my petition. Can you pray for more than one thing in a sitting? I prayed for peace in my heart and for the ability to surrender to the will of God. And I think it's working. Then I looked at a small prayer sitting on my dresser across the room -it sits like a little book etched in glass. It was from Charlotte. Imagine that. I have carted it with me from house to house and it has survived. It is the Serenity Prayer, you know the one. "God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference." The funny thing about this prayer is that my brother Mike says it at his meetings and I say it for strength too. So my day has started off on the right foot. And this all before I have let the dogs out and sang to my girl. I sing her "Morning has Broken" mostly every day. Today is Tuesday and on Sunday we travel to Albany, New York. On Monday November 1st I will have the angioplasty procedure. Monday is All Saints Day and my friend Father Mark says that's a good thing. He says all the Saints will be praying for me. Cool.
We leave for Albany Sunday, it’s Halloween. Well at least I can find an appropriate costume – maybe a drunken bride of Frankenstein, I’ve got the walk down. Just need the dress.

I got a call today from Nancy, a Nurse Practitioner in Albany. She advised me to take some Valium, because "it'll take the edge off." So I think I will. My sister Mary says to do it just for the high. Once she had to take Valium for some serious aches and pains – she has battled arthritis for many years. Anyway, the valium stayed with her until the next day when she found herself giggling in her aerobics class and feeling no pain.

My Mom held a fundraiser for me by contacting my siblings and gently twisting their arms. This is why it is awesome to come from a big family. Well wishes and inspirational thoughts all round. With a big family you don't have to go far for a fundraiser. And it will help immensely. Now that takes the edge off. I know many people like to praise their mothers and there are some who like to blame their mothers too. But my mom really is a special, caring and selfless woman. I know this because I have witnessed it first hand and I have heard many others sing her praises. And here is another proof – truly loving and exceptional human beings don’t even know they are unique, don’t even know the pedestal they stand on and the light surrounding them. She doesn’t falter and has stayed remarkably positive through thick and thin. When I was a young woman in Toronto struggling to find my way as an actor, every phone call ended with “stay strong.” And so, she’s the one I turn to. She listens to every crazy scheme and hair-brain idea I have, and laughs at my stories. She never dismisses me and when I finally told her I had MS, she didn’t cry and neither did I. She told me a story about a guy named Burt Messer. Burt was doing some work down at my mom and dad’s camp. This camp is a rustic summer cottage built by my dad and I went there every summer the moment school let out. Anyway mom and dad needed to put in an oil barrel underground at the camp and Burt Messer was the man for the job. Burt came with a back hoe and went to work digging in to the earth just beside the camp, as my dad looked on. My mom was in the camp puttering, sweeping, keeping busy. Burt started to struggle a little with the back hoe. He hit something underground and it got caught up in the machine, he tried to pull it loose; he kept pulling as the back hoe labored making desperate hissing sounds. Suddenly my mom comes tearing out of the camp – “Stop Burt stop, the oil stove is up against the wall!” My dad runs to her and says “for God sakes Pauline, what in hell are you screamin’ about!” My mom tells them to hurry and come look; sure enough the oil stove has migrated across the kitchen to the far wall. It seems that Burt had got the oil line caught up in the back hoe when he was digging in. After they all surveyed the damage and sorted it out Burt stood back and said, “Well, it’s not so bad it couldn’t be worse Bunny.” Bungie is my dad’s nickname; Burt has always called him “Bunny.” So whenever I have a bad day or I’m sad about my lot in life that’s what my mom says – “it’s not so bad it couldn’t be worse, Bunny”. And she’s always right.
Family is highly under-rated and often unappreciated. When you have a big family there are big opinions, big love, and big realizations after you get beyond a certain age. My brother Mike just called. We have a special connection. He's going on a spiritual retreat on the Magaguadavic River in New Brunswick and I get that. He has a camp that he built on that river and for a month he is going there alone to get back in touch with himself and the river. The Magaguadavic is a spirit place. You can feel the purity and peace. I think it changes people. You can be close to God there - if you only listen. Michael is going there to listen. Mike is several years older than me and we didn’t grow up with the same circle of friends. He went out west at one point, married young and had a son. I was off doing very different things, going to school, growing up. We always talked at Christmas and most birthdays and we believed that the family was close and functional – at least I did. Years later it was Mike that enlightened me about his side of the family story, and he made me understand why I left home at such a young age. But we bury things so far underground it’s tough to unearth the truth sometimes. I didn’t know Mike was an alcoholic, I just knew that mostly everyone in the family was a drinker. Mike and I started reading the same self-help books. He went to AA and we both became big fans of Dr. Wayne Dyer. We started talking about enlightenment and spiritual journeys and getting back to nature. I confided to Mike that my childhood wasn’t always that good. I hated the alcohol and the sickness, the way people changed when they were drunk, and I hated always feeling angry and neurotic. He said, “Why do you think you left at 17?” and a door opened for me letting in a thin breath of understanding. Of course. I left because I couldn’t take it anymore. I couldn’t take the thin walls, the truth hidden in an alcoholic haze. Everyone in denial. And it still is hidden by some. If you ignore things for long enough will they go away, vanish like dust? No. Sometimes they fester and become disease.
The wall of self-help books appears. The woman picks up her latest book and sits at a desk.
I’m reading a new self-help book called Healing Multiple Sclerosis by Ann Boroch. So far it is the most enlightening book yet – I can’t believe the similarities in Ann’s journey and mine. The difference is, she was much sicker than me and she healed herself. She also became a Naturopath and a Clinical Hypnotherapist, among other things. In the preface to her book Ann says, “…health is a choice,” and she goes on to say “But this is not enough to maintain health if you are making unhealthy choices, entertaining negative thoughts, bombarding your body with depleted foods, overwhelming it with stress, and holding on to it with fear-based emotions.” Wow, that’s it. There is my Holy Grail. I think that is me in a nut shell. But where do I begin? Reading the entire book will be a start. I went on to Ann’s website and she’ll even do sessions via Skype. More baby steps. More hope. Sign me up.
Woman opens laptop at desk, lights dim
I am typing in the dark. This won't go on for long - my eyes are bugging out. Today is Nov 1st - the big day. I'm going to take my camcorder with me to the procedure to see if they'll let me roll it while they fish around my veins. This is what we have come to - this is the new normal in operating theatres; "say can I bring some high tech equipment in with me while you do your work? Honestly it's small, it won't get in your way." We are so bold these days, like Americans. And guess who is doing the angioplasty procedure? Big bold Americans, and I couldn't love them more. I am looking forward to meeting Dr. Mandato. We joked about George Clooney playing him in the movie. I think after this whole CCSVI/MS veins versus auto immune madness settles down and doctors begin to publish their work, there must be a movie made. It will be a co-production with the U.S. and Canada of course.

My husband is going to record me walking down the hall today. I'm feeling fine. I have come to terms with this. But if I can lose the fatigue that would be awesome. Whatever, I'm just going down the road. I stuck my thumb out to the passing cars and one stopped. Thanks for the lift buddy, don't mind if I do.
Wake up, shower, go to Walgreens for Valium, proceed to clinic. Easy as pie, and if you’ve got a credit card with enough credit, get an angioplasty.
Projected images of angioplasty on wall. Chorus comes in to perform the procedure.
The procedure is simple – overseen by an interventional radiologist and performed by a nurse practitioner. The nurse makes a small incision in my groin, I don’t feel it, and he proceeds to fish a catheter with a small camera on the end into my body. Fishing in another world. A sea of twisted veins and mystical things. The unknown. There is another nurse, Michelle I think, close to my right ear, watching me and talking to me –
Chorus “you okay? You’re doing fine. Did you feel that?”
And I am fine. They watch on monitors as dye is sent into my veins. They watch for stenosis, a narrowing of the vessels. I feel calm and safe. I noticed a slight burning in my neck as the nurse balloons my right jugular vein and then my left jugular but it is not unbearable. They fish around some more looking for a new path on the way to the azygous vein in my chest. They began to balloon and I searched for Michelle with my eyes. “That kind of hurts, is it supposed to feel like that?” She says that is perfectly normal and I believe her – I have no choice.
The woman sits up and the Chorus leaves with equipment.
You’re in a pretty vulnerable position when there’s a catheter dangling from your groin. And what I came to realize later, after my procedure, was that my veins were uncharted territory. The medical pros knew how to fish a catheter but they didn’t really know what was going to happen. It was all kind of experimental and I was just another guinea pig. But they treated me as nice as any pet in their care. I think they hoped for the best and so did I. I didn’t feel anything profound on the table, like some do. Some people move fingers and toes for the first time in years, some feel and see their faces flush. Blood flow, it does a body good. After a 45 minute procedure I went back to my hotel.
I spoke with the Dr. Siskin the next day. He said "call me Gary." He’s the guy we’ve been following since the beginning. He’s like McDreamy from Grey’s Anatomy, but a little older and a lot smarter. He heads up the unit that performs the angioplasty’s and we want to send him chocolates and flowers, and tokens of our love and appreciation. Instead, we hand over our credit cards and hope for the best. Hope. The first time I called the clinic in Albany this is what I heard on the other end of the line – “Hello, Hope speaking, how may I direct your call?” I was stunned. I said “what is your name?” “Hope,” she replied sweet as sugar. Wow I thought, this can only mean good things. They checked my veins one more time and found they were holding, they hadn’t collapsed. So with fully functioning jugular veins I got in my car with my husband and little girl and bid Albany adieu!

The Woman is now at home after her angioplasty procedure.
New legs? Not yet.
We live in a time of quick fixes, fast food, and I want it now!
My procedure went incredibly well but I have not climbed Mount Everest, yet.
Today I woke up and did not feel like I had been hit by a truck and that's a good thing. Baby-steps. That's what it is all about . And hope.

Yes there have been changes since my angioplasty but I think I am still optimistically cautious. Good days, great days. No really bad days unless my emotions get in the way. One thing I have learned along the way is this: if your emotions are in a tizzy, if you are neurotic like me, it will affect your legs. Weird science.

The first night back in my own bed, lying with a pillow under my knees, my legs started to tingle. And then they burned so that it was almost uncomfortable. Blood flow?

Twelve days after my procedure we went out to dinner (me without a cane), and when we got home and I was relaxing there was something very odd. I took off my socks and my right foot was bright red and almost hot to touch. My left foot was white and cool. Hummm. This has since happened one other night.

Yesterday I felt amazing. I stretched on the rug with Ella Grace working on my balance. My energy level is way up there! My only problem is that I am trying to do too much at once. Something dawned on me as well. I just turned 46 and I am not a kid. I don't have to feel like a kid. It will take me a bit longer to feel myself again. And that's ok. That makes me slow down a little and realize I must be patient.

Ella Grace wants to make snowballs on the deck, gotta fly!

Hope Speaking Act One, draft 3

Hope Speaking,
A Journal Play About Living Life in Moments






Characters

Woman

Chorus (consisting of 4 women who play various roles within the play either as a group or alone)



The Woman in Hope Speaking is journaling about her experiences living with Multiple Sclerosis, a disease with no cause or cure. The play is situated in real time as the Woman’s journey progresses towards a genuine quest for contentment and spiritual enlightenment.

The Chorus will act to emphasize the women’s joys, fears, and frustrations as she attempts to understand her plight living in her “new normal.” The Chorus will show the beautiful side of struggle and inner turmoil by moving effortlessly through different stages of the Woman’s life. The Chorus ultimately portrays how the Woman wants to feel – free and at peace with whatever life entails.







Hope Speaking:
A Journal Play about Living Life in Moments

By Sheri Astorino

Bare stage. Play opens and we see a large balled up white down duvet centre stage, not revealing the person within. Slowly a head and hands are revealed. She speaks.

WOMAN I was having this dream. Not the floating or flying dream. The walking dream. I was walking on a long sandy beach and I felt strong. The sun seemed to be a part of me, sinking into my pores, feeding me somehow. I was that golden brown sun-kissed colour. Not orange like from a tanning bed. I was like one of those commercials where the girl is walking with a thin cotton dress over her bathing suit, and a tropical breeze teases her legs and lifts her dress. And she’s always smiling and confident and free. I was that girl.
She rolls over, still balled in the duvet. She rests on her elbows, peering out at the audience.
Then I woke up, and fell out of bed. I’ve been doing that a lot lately. Now before I fall out, I try to take preventative measures. Every morning I make a concerted effort not to fall out of bed. This is what I do.
She flips on her back, sitting up on her elbows, then starts to push her feet out of the duvet.
I stretch my legs out, slow at first. I watch my right leg jump back and I wince. Crazy legs. I have crazy legs. This really hurts. My body is so stiff and I always feel hung over in the morning. Like I must have had a good time the night before. Not so. I don’t drink that much. Then I pull each leg up to my chest, if I can. And I full out stretch like a surf board, trying to feel my legs attached to me. Willing them to co-operate. I am angry at my wobbly legs, they have abandoned me. I don’t know what they are thinking when they spasm. I force them to stretch, they want me to cry. They are like a spoiled little child laughing at me. When I was a child, my legs were thin and I never wanted to wear shorts or skirts. I remember one day I was lying face
Hope 2
down on my bed looking back at my bare legs and my mom said, “Look at that, your legs are getting bigger.” And they really were getting bigger, I was growing after all. I was so happy. And now I am so angry at these tired legs.

And the really pathetic thing is, is every day is different. I cannot count on how I will feel each and every day. I remember not long ago, a glorious spring day, and I couldn’t fully enjoy it because my legs were too weak. I couldn’t go for a walk with my little girl, and I didn’t hide it because I’m not one of those pretend moms who keep things from their kids. You know, those moms who pretend they were virgins before they married or those moms who pretend that it’s A-Okay that they are confined to a life of servitude and their lives and careers don’t matter. Liars. So I tell my girl. Mama’s legs are tired. I have to sit down. So we sit outside for a while and I watch her play in the driveway. She’s happy, and I am tired like I have just run a marathon. But really it’s just because I put in a load of laundry and I emptied the dishwasher.

Now I sound pathetic, like I want people to feel sorry for me. Please don’t. This didn’t occur because I’m a lapsed Catholic or because of some kind of Karmic interference, although I know people who would think that. Serious Catholics think Redemptive Suffering is a good thing. Give it to God and all that. Your suffering is your cross and somehow that helps the world. Well that’s one way to cope and still the voices in your head. If I somehow can chant and pray and meditate all day my pain and suffering will dissolve and fly straight up to Heaven. Who am I Kidding? You have to be Deepak Chopra for that, or at least a distant cousin of his. You cannot be a mere mortal and expect to levitate after one yoga class. Maybe it happened because I’m supposed to
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learn something. I hope so. But what a lesson. Sometimes it hits me hard – the reality – and I think, oh my god this is it, this is my new normal, I can’t walk very far, I can’t over-exert myself or sit in the sun too long, and this is forever? I’m lining up for the blue plate special and putting my teeth in a glass at night. Maybe I’ll take my scooter to the legion and play cards with Marge and the girls. It’s not like I broke my leg and it’ll heal. There is no cure and they don’t know the cause. How did this happen to me?

When I found out I had MS over two years ago I started feverishly studying the cause and potential cures. Of course my family Doc was quick to point out the charlatans trying to offer false hope to the desperate. “Well if someone tells you to hang upside down from a coconut tree and drink your own urine because that will cure your MS, you really should get a second opinion.” Or he says “if a Tibetan Monk tells you to eat yak scat three times a day while simultaneously smoking a doobie bigger than your fist, will you?” He goes on to point out these new so-called “breakthroughs” need to be researched and put through clinical trials that take years and cost millions of dollars. So I continue to research other things, like bee pollen. Bee pollen is something some people subscribe to for MS. Or is it bee stings? I don’t know. I picture myself in a large white mesh hood, arms bare and outstretched to the sides, beckoning the bees to come hither, willing them to sting me. And I like some kind of hero or martyr just stand there, wincing ever so slightly, light sweat on my brow. Desperation. I just want to walk again. I remember walking in Toronto, everywhere. I didn’t need the bus if it was a nice day.


Hope 4
There are a couple things I do subscribe to, and that is diet and exercise. I believe you are dead in the water without those two things. But there are no guarantees and therein lies the struggle. I discovered the Swank diet developed by Dr. Roy Swank over thirty years ago, and at this point they’ve got positive results from the people who followed it. However, being painfully human, I have not followed the Swank diet perfectly because it is really strict. But I do stick to a few basic rules: no red meat (the first year), very low saturated fats (no junk food, processed crap), high good oils (olive, flax), minimal dairy (I love cream in my coffee so I fall off the wagon there), and lots of leafy greens. So the diet is fantastic for everyone, it’s just a matter of changing your lifestyle a bit. Luckily, I have a husband who’s a great cook and doesn’t like my cooking. Clever huh? Unfortunately, when he’s away I tend to eat Kraft dinner (bad) and hotdogs or bologna (very bad).

Oh sadness. Have I touched on that? I get so sad and I don’t know why. Is it because I can’t do normal things for fear of falling over? I have lost the ability to run. Imagine that. I can’t skate or cross-country ski because I fall over and I get so god-awful tired. These are all things I used to do relatively well. So I modify. I got an elliptical, and I do that. It’s tough to get motivated every second of every day but I don’t have a choice. I don’t want to end up in a chair so I have to try and keep my legs strong even though they mostly feel like rubber. Frankly, I am pissed off. I will not accept that someday I will need a walker or a scooter. I will not and cannot accept that. I am not in denial. I am not in denial. I am pissed off.


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The CHORUS enters as a “team” – complete with exercise gear. They also bring out a wheelchair, a walker, and a cane.
I put a team together for the MS Walk, but it wasn’t very organized. Just a couple friends, (Mark and Miranda) and my husband. They walked with the two older kids in tow, and I watched Miranda’s baby Emma. The MS Walk itself was very organized. There were a lot of dedicated people there volunteering and setting up long tables of snacks. They were happy to be there. So I sat and watched the hubbub. There were three older kids getting ready for the walk and pinning signs to their backs. These little white MS Walk signs said “I’m walking for my Mama.” Mama. That’s what my little girl calls me, Mama. My heart sank. My chest felt painful and heavy. My face started to ache with tears and I tried to hide. Pretended I was invisible. Didn’t let anyone see. It was a brief meltdown and I don’t think anyone did see. I didn’t want them to see because I didn’t want to be like them. Okay? I didn’t want to be like them.
The team starts to involve the Woman and push her into the wheelchair.
I’m not a person in a wheelchair. I’m young and fit. I’m strong and vibrant. I’m someone who’s confident and … proud. Well we all know where pride goes. Am I heading towards that great fall? Are people laughing? I see myself spinning in a great black abyss, no wings, no harness, no safety net, just dizzying blackness. Why am I so sad?
The team leave the Woman and start to form a cheer squad.
I take a lot of vitamins: the homeopathic route. The doctors say there is no medication for my type of chronic progressive MS.
“Vitamin Song” sung like a cheesy commercial or “cheer” while pointing out random body parts.
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Vit-amins C and E for E-munity,
B complex for energy
Primrose oil for sanity,
Co-q-10 if you please and MSM for my knees,
Omega 3 and Folic’s good, I eat fish like I should.
Red meat’s bad it’s not for me, just give me double Vitamin D!
The team disperses.
I hate choking down vitamins but at my last neurology appointment the doctor said I hadn’t progressed in two years. Did the vitamins work? I don’t know. No one knows. I cannot believe I have this. Truly, this is ridiculous. I don’t eat red meat. I eat mostly chicken and fish, and lots of veggies and flax and olive oil. But as my sister Mary says, I am a “non-eater,” which really means I am picky and kind of neurotic. So when you are a non-eater it is difficult to eat enough food. Sometimes I just get bored eating and that’s never good, I have to force myself. Sometimes I forget to eat. But I’m not that silly girl who says, “It's two already and I forgot to eat lunch!” in a silly girl voice while eating melba toast as she exits an Extreme Tanning Salon. I am not that silly girl, I’m just thinking of things other than food.

MS is a culmination of a lot of issues and factors. And I think a big one is susceptibility and sensitivity. Maybe I’m weak genetically or something got messed up in the womb. Otherwise, why would an entire family grow up under the same conditions and only one get MS? I have four brothers and two sisters, and a mom and dad who are very active and healthy in their seventies. Correction, Dad has kind of lost his mind – more than a touch of dementia, but he is almost 80.
Hope 7

I really love my Mom and all the broads she hangs with – Velma, Arlene, Jean and all the rest. But they are a lot older than me, in their 70’s and 80’s. And they seem to be in better shape than
me. That makes me so sad, and jealous. I mean, they have all lived pretty full lives, they’ve raised children, they have life-long friends, they travel, they garden. They are happy. Velma just died. The last time I saw her she was ‘crafting’ with the other gals. She drew lines, without a ruler, straighter than I ever could, she painted wooden Christmas ornaments and talked about everyday life. She never went to the doctor, had no use for it. She was known for trapping squirrels and putting them in her trunk and then releasing them into the wild. But because she lived “in the wild,” those pesky little squirrels always came back. She kind of got obsessed with them at one point and was hell bent on discovering the squirrel ring-leader and his followers. So she trapped them as usual and went one step further – she spray painted their tails yellow before releasing them. In the end all she really accomplished was rounding up a yard full of mutant squirrels because they all came back. Once she forgot a trap of squirrels in her trunk and she drove them across the border. But who’s going to question an 80 something woman who just went across the river for some milk and a tank of gas? Luckily no yellow tails were hanging out the back. Velma. I didn’t even know her well but I loved the woman she was. She was herself, spoke her mind freely, seemed to love life and take it as it was. She died in her kitchen and her son found her. Somehow that was Okay. Maybe that’s the realness of her. The same in life as in death. No sorrow, just a spirit drifting off to another space. An old woman went to sleep on her kitchen floor and those of us who knew her are certain she woke up refreshed and happy, somewhere else. It was a privilege just to know her, even for a short time. What makes people
Hope 8

like that stay in your mind? She wasn’t a Hollywood star, she didn’t try to be anything she wasn’t. She just didn’t like squirrels and she had a lot of friends who loved her. I guess that’s all
there is. It’s sheer acceptance of who you are in the world and what you are meant to do. Be yourself.
She puts on a lab coat, grabs a pointer, and pulls down a white board or sets up a projector screen. Images of McAdam, the famous station, the tracks & trains.
Chorus “scientists” gather to observe, wearing lab coats, glasses, etc.

Let’s pull it apart, down to the bare bones. Let’s go deep into me to see why I have this dis-ease. Was it the well water or the creosote soaked railway town? I grew up in McAdam, New Brunswick, a village that was a thriving junction in its heyday. My grandfather worked on the railway and lived to be ninety-eight years old. My father worked on the railway for thirty-eight years and is now well into his seventies. A couple of my brothers worked there too. Mc Adam was and still is a dusty little village, surrounded by extraordinary lakes and miles of rocks and evergreens. There were obvious landmarks known to all the kids; the pissy smelling tunnel that went under the tracks, the slippery tracks themselves, the train station that looks like a castle and has now been declared a historical landmark. But the dust, soaked with the oily smell of creosote – that’s the most memorable. Was my childhood poisoned? What did we do there? I would say we didn’t roll in the dust, but that’s not true. We’d do anything to change the scenery, shake it up, because we all thought it was so god-awful boring. But we did have fun getting in trouble. The best memory is a winter activity we fondly referred to as roof-a-sliding. We’d wait until the
Hope 9

winter snow was piled so high we could easily walk onto a neighbour’s roof and slide into the bank. We loved it and we’d do this in the dark of night (which is 6 o’clock in the winter). We only got caught by the cops once, and that was because we inadvertently were peeking in
windows on the way to the illegal slide. These memories make me very happy. Roof-a-sliding did not cause my MS. I’ll rule that one out.
Chorus exits
For such a boring town, we did find things to do. I remember roping my friend Stuart into a rather strange activity. It all started because I was watching Dr. Leo Buscaglia on PBS. Obviously, we didn't have a lot of channels in the village. Anyway this turned out to be my first foray into self-help. Dr. Buscaglia was known as Dr. Love. He hugged people all the time and taught a university course called Love 1A. I was glued to his speeches. Once he said, “If you're bored you are probably boring as hell yourself!” He went on to tell us to shake things up in our lives, walk out the door backwards, eat cereal for supper, anything that would get you out of a funk. So I called Stuart. Stuart was one of those friends who didn't question things, he just went along for the ride. I told him this was what we were going to do. At about 5 in the morning we would leave our respective houses and meet in the middle. Then we would just walk and see what it was like at 5 in the morning. We would breathe it all in and shake up our routine. I remember the summer air was cool with the musty smell of old railway ties. Everything was so still, no birds, no train whistles. I wasn't thinking about my legs because they took me everywhere. I took them for granted. We didn't question that 15 year old kids don't really have routines. We go to school, climb trees, eat whatever food is put in front of us, and sleep for as long as possible. But I still remember that morning and I remember Dr. Love. Ironically, he died of a massive heart attack in '98. Some things you just can't explain. Maybe his heart was so full of love that it just burst. And maybe my legs have walked far enough, maybe there's a limit and I reached mine.
She moves to a chair or a stool
You got to hear this one. I lost my legs making shepherd’s pie. Shepherd’s pie! Like I ran a marathon or something. That is what I liken simple tasks to now – Herculean feats. I am an Olympian, a real athlete. It took me over three hours to make a pie. The pie consists of ground beef, mashed potatoes, and a can of creamed corn. It took me three hours because I had to peel myself up off the floor three times. I didn’t fall or trip or anything, my legs just gave out. I sank – somewhat gracefully – to the kitchen tile while gripping a chair or my kids head or whatever was there. The last time I sank my girl was staring at me in her diaper. “What’s happening Mama?” she says. Then this weird thing happens. As I’m sinking and trying to hang on, I feel giddy. This overwhelming need to laugh happens. It’s so absurd to be losing control and laughing about it. But that’s what happens. When I first had the symptoms of MS this would happen after a walk around the block. I would feel weak and have to drag myself up the steps at the end of my walk. It happened then too – this giddy need to laugh. Maybe I’m losing oxygen or something. Or maybe it’s a gift from God. God is saying, “Don’t take yourself so seriously my child. They are only legs. Legs are highly over-rated these days.” Yeah right God. I’ll get back to you on that one.

My left foot. I keep tripping over my left foot. This is not an inspiring film about a man who loses all ability in his body save for the exceptional artistic talent of his left foot. I remember I felt moved by that film years ago. Little did I know that I would have my own “left foot” story. Now I feel less moved and more motivated. Where can I find my inspiration? It must be somewhere. How do I find my way out of this prison? My body will not take me where I want to
go. I am confined. Yet, I am not so confined that I cannot see or breathe or feel. And there’s the problem, the torture, the sadness. I can see, hear, and feel myself as a different person. I don't have the energy I once had. This can't be me. This is ridiculous I say, over and over. I am so angry! I am only 44, not 64. And even 64 is young these days if you look after yourself. My mom is 74 and her life is full and active and she's happy. Is it all just attitude? Will I be gloriously happy if I just change my attitude?
A wall of self-help books, projected.
“You’ve got a bad attitude.” I hear the distant voice of an elementary school teacher. And he’s right. I had a bad attitude. So through the years I turned to self-help books – better than turning to drugs or alcohol I guess. I have a shelf of self-help books, okay two shelves. And I’ve been soul-searching for years but nothing ever seems to stick. Now I worry that the MS has been caused by me being all messed-up and spiritually out of whack for so long. But if we can think ourselves ill, we can think ourselves well, can't we? And there is the 'power of positive thinking,' right? I know all the catch-phrases, “let go and let God,” “it is what it is,” “live in the now.” And I try to convince myself that I actually believe them. I have mantras that I repeat every day when I stretch and meditate. And yes, it does work if I am disciplined enough to study them every day. But it is an ongoing struggle and life does get in the way. And of course I journal. I write it all down.

I called a lady that does Reiki, and she says she’s a practitioner in something called Body Talk. This is all about natural healing, acupressure, and energy psychology. Sounds simple huh? Throw a little Eckhart Tolle in there and you’ll be cured in no time. Years ago, this lady would
have been known as a snake oil salesman or burned as a witch. Today she’s a natural healer, one who’s in tune with the spiritual realm. And I’m buying it. Hook, line and sinker. I’ve tried everything else, and I like her energy and she likes my “radio” voice. My ego is a sucker for anyone who thinks I have a cool voice. She’s not selling oil or dreams, and she is not a charlatan. The Western world just hasn’t caught up with spiritual enlightenment yet – well not everyone. She, and others like her that I know are delving into ancient Chinese medicine. I go to an osteopath slash physiotherapist, I know two or three girls who practice EFT (Emotional Freedom Technique), I have about five yoga DVD’s, two chiropractors, and I see an old Chinese guy in the mall who does acupuncture. Phew! Why are my legs still tired? I know there’s something wrong with me but I’m not convinced it’s MS. I have symptoms that are like MS, but guess what? The same symptoms can be attributed to mercury poisoning. The doctors don’t really know. And the neurologists don’t care. Imagine getting all those brains and losing so much feeling in your heart.
Blackout, then bright light…Chorus member “Dr. Neuro” enters. He is in typical doc garb (white coat and stethoscope). He speaks.

DR NEURO I’ll see you now Miss Whoever.
WOMAN Hello! Extends her hand which he ignores.

He performs a series of seemingly ridiculous tests. The tests are much like the procedures for testing a drunk driver. Touch your finger to mine. Follow my finger with your eyes. Walk a
straight line (toe to heel). The doctor then does a pirouette, the girl lies down and he tickles her belly and her feet. He jumps up like a dancer and strikes a pose.

DR NEURO I have reviewed your MRI and it looks like all signs are leading in the direction of… I think that… perhaps we should consider… I suggest that you consult with a neurologist at the MS Clinic in Toronto. We will set a date to meet again exactly one year from now.

WOMAN A year? But… but… what should I do? Is there medicine for me? Should I be on a special diet? How did this happen? Doctor why are you walking so fast? I can’t keep up with you. I need answers. What about yoga? Should I do yoga?

DR NEURO You cannot exercise MS away. He leaves quickly, with a flourish.

WOMAN I am going to find a way out of this. This is not me. This body is a shell and it is not me. But I have to drag this misery around so I had better figure out a solution. I sit you know. I sit a lot and look out the window. We have trees now, lots of them, because we moved last October and our house backs onto green space. So I sit and look out there, peering into the trees, looking for wildlife. So far I have seen a coyote dancing, playing with mice before he bites their heads off. I have seen rabbits big and small, and I startled a wild turkey behind the fence. But there is one thing that bothers me to no end. There is a clear plastic bag behind the fence that probably blew there by mistake on garbage day. This bag is stuck in some old brush beside a sturdy tree. And this bag stares back at me. It mars my wilderness, my trees, my beautiful green-
space. God knows I want desperately to retrieve that bag and throw it into the recycling bin. But, it is behind a very long fence. I would have to find the end of the fence, go around it and travel along the fence until I found the bag. This sounds like I am talking about some grand trek through the Rockies, a lengthy excursion. This is my back yard. It would take a normal person maybe five minutes. Anyway, so that’s that. I can’t go get the stray bag because I don’t know if my legs will give out half way there or when I try to come back. And I don’t know if my bladder will give out either, so that is a consideration. Although I always wear a pad and they’re pretty reliable – the Always pad. Peeing my pants doesn’t really bother me anymore. Peeing my pants on the road to spiritual enlightenment. You have to embrace the pee – wear a thick pad, and keep on smiling.

The Chorus joins the Woman as she strikes a classic yoga pose and chants ohm… As she goes through the next speech the Chorus will continue with classic yoga poses.

Do you suppose this is it? Is this my new normal? I walked to the pond with my daughter, our ‘nature walk.’ We were looking for turtles and rabbits. And so now we’re back and I’m at the computer and I’ve said to my girl, “I’m just going to have a coffee and try to get my legs back,” like I’ve lost my legs. Like I forgot where I put them this morning. Don’t they attach to my hips? I am 44 years old. I should be sprinting to the pond. But instead I'm waiting for my legs to come back. Is this some kind of joke? Is this some kind of divine intervention? Is this God saying slow down? Stop and smell the lilacs and the freshly mowed grass? Hey, I already did that. This is not God intervening. God doesn’t care about my scrawny white legs. They’re only part of my scrawny white body. And the body is not what I am. I am not my body. God cares about my spirit and my goodness, or my lack of goodness. God?
Chorus exits
I’m having some sort of mid-life MS crisis. Me and the planet. My friend Jamie came by. He’s a plumber and an environmentalist. He said we’re running out of water, and what we have left is laced with birth control pills, antibiotics, and god knows what. Is that why I have MS? Have I been poisoned by our drinking water? That is my latest hypothesis. I am petite and I eat like a bird. I almost never eat full adult sized meals – maybe once a day. I eat veggies and fruit, good right? But it’s all been sprayed, Jamie says, with a fertilizer that is a delightful cocktail of human waste, and over-the-counter meds. He says if we flush old pills down the toilet that a lot will stay in the water system and water is fed to the cows and sprayed on the fields so we can't escape being exposed to unwanted drugs and even hormones. And the best part? The farmers don’t know. Yeah right. Farmers are not stupid. But some farmers are willing to look the other way if they can make a few bucks. C’mon, farmers always need money. This couldn't be more depressing. Imagine falling apart and not being able do anything about it. I mean, you have to eat and drink and breathe the air. Is there somewhere on the planet that is perfect?
Beautiful scene, water, lush environment, oasis, flowers, purity…
They talked about “blue zones” on Oprah, where people live to be very old. They researched what these long-lived people were eating and drinking. Mostly I think they were just living happy lives and they didn’t have cancer causing cell phones. There's no way they would live so long if they were trying to learn how to text, surf the web, and download their favorite show tunes, all while planting an organic garden. You can't live like that. You have to live in the real world. But where's that?
Animal sounds, an elephant and exotic birds…
We went to the zoo the other day, and I thought it would be ok. And mostly it was. We went with friends and I pushed the stroller. I made it half way round the zoo and I was done. I needed a rest. I leaned on the stroller like it was a walker. That name practically makes me gag. A “walker.” And I guess that’s what I need. But my hair isn’t grey. I don’t wear frumpy flowery clothes and my shoes aren’t ugly black practical things. I am not in my 80’s. Why do I need a walker?! But after my husband asked me how we were going to get around Disneyland if we took our girl there, I went online looking at walkers and other options. I just want to ignore that I need help. But I found a walker online. It had a seat on it and a large shopping bag. Kind of cool. It’s not the fact that I need a walker in fact it would make my life a lot easier because I could do more. But it’s the embarrassment. It’s my pride. It’s the time it takes to wonder “what are people thinking?” and “I look so weak and incapable.” I’m acting like a fool who would rather die tripping over her feet than admit that she needs help.

I had an episode in September. I ended up in the hospital for a few days. But really, it wasn’t all that bad. My back went out – I couldn’t walk for two days. My sister Jane made me go to the hospital. When they saw my back was bad and I had MS, they moved me to the front of the line at Emerg. Hey, membership has its privileges. I went on steroids and they were like magic - voila I could walk! Usually I’m against drugs but sometimes they’re brilliant – maybe I can score a few downtown. After having the steroids at the hospital, I was walking pretty good and I felt a lot better. But you can't take them all the time because there are side effects and they can wreak havoc on other organs. So steroids are only a sometimes friend, not a cure.
The Chorus forms a MS exercise group and brings the wheelchair, walker, a chair, and cane.
A little while after this, I decided I would check out the Friday exercise class organized by the MS Society. I kept putting it off, but a regular of the class – Marilyn, got wind that I had been an aerobics instructor in another life and encouraged me to lead the class. Well I found some funky music, grabbed my sneakers and off I went. The class was a blast. I was the only one standing but there was a special energy there. It's a well-known fact that MS affects everyone differently and yet we all have similar stories that we can relate to. The important thing was that everyone showed up, no matter what their state, and that said something. They showed up. I think I was enlightened that day – spiritually enlightened. We breathed in deeply raising our arms in unison, and then I watched as we all breathed out moving our arms down at the same time. It was poetry. A thing of beauty. There we were. Together. Moving to the music and experiencing a rhythm of life. I felt good that day. I felt good enough to carry on, no matter what. Imagine. In a moment I felt acceptance. Acceptance of myself and of others. And then in one fell swoop it was all about to change again. We were all about to welcome the possibility of a new reality.
Chorus exits. Modern electronic music under.
Late last night when my girl was sleeping and my husband was at a meeting, I dropped my housecoat and in my pj’s and socks I started to run…sort of. I picked the longest part of the rug and I kind of sprinted to the end. It was not at all graceful and I was on the rug for obvious reasons, it wouldn’t hurt as much if I fell. But I ran, better than I have in a long while. And I think I know why. I’ll tell you. A few weeks ago there was a news report on the CTV program W5. The report profiled a medical story about MS called the Liberation Treatment. They exclaimed that this was the possible breakthrough needed for MS. Picture all of us watching, across the country, all us MS’ers with mouths agape, some with tears, some with no tears left. What? A cure? A simple angioplasty to clear the veins? A Dr. Zamboni in Italy says MS may not
be auto immune, it may be vascular, and all we need is to put a balloon in our veins. A little balloon that is shaped like a Vienna sausage. Okay, let’s do this.
Dr Neuro appears.
DR NEURO Not so fast. W5 has done a great disservice to people with MS everywhere.
WOMAN Disservice? How?
DR NEURO Hope is a great disservice.
He leaves quickly.
But hope is sometimes all people need. Sometimes it gives you a boost of energy. The excitement can spur you to greater things. You start talking to God again: that’s hope. You start running down hallways when you can hardly run: that’s hope. You feel something swell in your belly, your eyes are always searching the horizon: that’s hope.
So for the past few weeks we’ve all been going crazy. We’re an army of MS’ers calling our doctors, setting up appointments for Doppler ultrasounds and specialized M.R.I.’s. Our family docs are mostly onside but the neurologists have shut it down - they want extensive research done before going forward with the treatment, ‘who does this Zamboni guy think he is?’ They have been doing the Liberation treatment in Italy, Poland, and California, but now many clinics are all shutting it down. The response has been so overwhelming that California has sent a form letter saying they are looking into the risk factors and so on but can’t promise the treatment even when they’ve already been doing the procedure for 6 months! Now you want to research? Now, when we are all at your door offering you money, willing to mortgage our houses for a possible cure! You want to do more bloody research! Okay, calm down. Let’s all have a cup of tea and calm down. Breathe.
She gets down on the floor to stretch and breathe. She grabs an inspirational book and reads.
“Anything that’s not of Spirit, such as fear, illness, worry, shame, anger, and the like, isn’t worthy of your attention.” I find a quote every day that speaks to me and I repeat it over and over until I feel its meaning. And I stretch and breathe and meditate on these imagine having a relatively simple procedure done on my veins. The doctors are handsome and tanned:, the nurses look like they work on General Hospital and are equally beautiful and forever checking out the doctors – with sideways glances, pink pouty lip gloss, perfect breasts. And yet, these perfect Stepfordian nurses are professional and very good at what they do. They are even caring. The only problem is that you feel like you have to spend the day before at a salon coiffing and primping and getting your mani-pedi done before feeling good enough to be in the same room with them.

I imagine that this procedure is the cure. I imagine that in September I will be walking my girl to school. I imagine even skipping with my girl to school. Then I imagine in a few years embarrassing my little girl who has turned into a little lady, by dancing in the school yard. Dancing with wild abandon. Dancing like there is no tomorrow. Dancing without music. Dancing all the way home and collapsing breathless on my lawn. Then, feeling tethered by gravity to the great earth under God’s sun, I stretch and breathe in grass and tree smells. I have surrendered. I am home and completely ready to continue life’s journey. But first, some unfinished business.

Hope 21
Black. Scene change. “Dr. Neuro” is wheeled in Centre stage. He is strapped to the chair and his mouth is duct taped.
Now, you will listen. Now you will be unable to move, unable to speak. If I could rig up a catheter to your bladder, I would. If I could make you feel extreme fatigue or brain fog, I would. If I could make you long for better times, times when you skated on a lake, skied through snowy woods, played hockey with the neighbourhood kids, I would. I was nice to you. I deferred to you. I was told that neurologists were the ‘smartest’ doctors – in the top one percent of their class. Then why did you lie? Why did you deny all of this? You must have known about the venous connection from previous research, you’re supposed to be brilliant! Why didn’t you listen to me, to all of us?
Appearance of Chorus behind Woman, whispering menacingly.
Why were you so busy you didn’t let us speak? Are you only in it for the pay check? Check your Hippocratic Oath Herr Doktor. “First, do no harm.”
We are not stupid, only led astray by medical professionals who want to keep us in the dark. But lo and behold we have the Internet, the magical Internet! And we’ve been reading and educating ourselves. And more than that, we have heightened awareness; we have more senses than you.
The Chorus assumes control of Dr. Neuro’s chair and begins to wheel him off stage. The Woman shouts after him as he vanishes.

Why? Because we are fighting our way out of hell. You can stay there if you like, but we want our lives back.

Hope 21
Okay, that was a bit harsh. I’m sorry Doctor Neuro; I know you’re only doing your job. I know that you can’t get excited every time there is an inkling of a cure for MS. You must follow rules and reg’s and be very cautious. You really don’t want to hurt people; you just want to make sure everything is above board. Right? You can’t jump into anything unless you are absolutely sure.
The Chorus members will play the doctors from the past. The Woman plays the part of professor as she speaks the following lines:
This is the Canadian health care system after all. But Doctor I should tell you I
found a very interesting timeline on the Internet. It talks about the venous connection to MS, and how doctors have known about this potential for a very long time. Here is a summary of what I read:
She moves to a flipchart or power points showing the dates and important names as she lectures:
1863: Dr. E. Rindfleisch noticed that, consistently in all the autopsy specimens of MS brains he viewed with his microscope, a vein engorged with blood was present at the centre of each lesion.

1937: Dr. T. J. Putnam researched lesions and noted that thrombosis of small veins could be the underlying mechanism of plaque formation.
I don’t know what that means in total, but I draw your attention to the word VEINS.

1942: Dr. Robert Dow and Dr. George Berglund continue on with Dr. Putnam's research and continue finding venous connections to MS lesions.

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1950: Dr. Zimmerman and Netsky carry on Dow and Berglund's research, and they note that the lesions are indeed venous in nature, but not caused by small thrombosis as Putnam surmised.

1960s: Dr. Torben Fog, a Danish professor – noted that MS lesions are predominantly found around the small veins.
And the big one -
1981: F.A. Schelling at the Hospital for Nervous Diseases in Salzburg, Austria found a striking widening of the main venous passageways through the skulls in victims of multiple sclerosis. When Dr. Shelling went public with his research, he was dismissed, ridiculed and mocked by the medical establishment.
She turns to the audience.
Is there a doctor in the house?
Hands do, or don’t, go up in the audience.
See, none of us are doctors, but we can understand the discoveries laid out by this timeline. What we can’t understand is the time. 1981? Thirty years ago? Was it a matter of money? Clinical trials aren’t cheap, we all know that. But did three decades really need to go by?

Dr. Zamboni had an excellent reason to take up the charge and pay attention to the forgotten research. He fought for love of his wife: she had MS. If this is the real deal, if MS is venous and it can be helped with a simple angioplasty, we owe that man everything. He will go down in history as saving the lives and dreams of thousands.

Hope 23
I just saw Dr. Sandy McDonald, resident Vascular & Thoracic Surgeon at Barrie Vascular Imaging. Dr. McDonald says I have a vascular anomaly in my left jugular vein. What does this mean? What do I do?
Be patient but persistent. Fight for your right to be healthy. Research and study reports. Go online to the “This Is MS” forum - www.thisisms.com and join “Angioplasty for All” to fight for your right to be heard and healed.
Bananarama’s song “Venus” starts soft under next paragraph.
Connect with like-minded individuals who are hopeful and positive about the future. And most of all, don’t sit down. If you sit down you just may stay there. Exercise your brain and your body as much as you can. Prepare for your future as a healthy and vibrant person without MS. Believe it.
Song “Venus” continues loud and strong as Chorus members in Bananarama gear come in to dance wildly!





End of Act One

Gravity

Had I not fallen on my ass about 20 times, and flat out on my belly at least twice, I would not truly comprehend the meaning of gravity. Gravity is hard and it happens fast. It doesn't care if you are carrying your favorite tomatoe plant or if you are walking your dogs. And almost always there is evidence of gravity; for example moist soil in the back of your pants from falling backwards on said tomatoe plant. Or muddy grass on your chin and hands from slipping while walking those dogs. Other evidence includes minor scrapes and bruises, but never sorrow. I refuse to feel bad or sad about falling down. In some twisted way it is a priviledge; how many people do you know who fall down regularly and get to experience the joy of getting back up? Or, who do you know who knows what it feels like to fall on concrete and scrape their wrist so it bleeds? There's a quote from a song I like, "you bleed just to know you're alive." I love that quote. It's like, what's the alternative to getting old? Getting dead. What's the alternative to gravity? Falling down and staying down. No way.

Draft #2 Act 1 of "Hope Speaking"

Professor Tanis MacDonald has been working as Dramaturge for me, as I write my play. She sent me notes, and I thought they were fantastic and very helpful. My play is starting to take shape with her experience and insight. Here is the second draft of Act One of "Hope Speaking." Tanis thought of the name because that truly happened to me when I called Albany, New York to book my procedure - the lady on the other line answered "Hope speaking, how can I help you?" I would also like to acknowlege the generous support of the Ontario Arts Council and for reccommending me to them, Eric Coates,the Artistic Director of the Blyth Festival.

Hope Speaking:
A Journal Play about Living Life in Moments

By Sheri Astorino

Bare stage. Play opens and we see a large balled up white down duvet centre stage, not revealing the person within. Slowly a head and hands are revealed. She speaks.
WOMAN I was having this dream. Not the floating or flying dream. The walking dream. I was walking on a long sandy beach and I felt strong. The sun seemed to be a part of me, sinking into my pores, feeding me somehow. I was that golden brown sun-kissed colour. Not orange like from a tanning bed. I was like one of those commercials where the girl is walking with a thin cotton dress over her bathing suit, and a tropical breeze teases her legs and lifts her dress. And she’s always smiling and confident and free. I was that girl.

She rolls over, still balled in the duvet. She rests on her elbows, peering out at the audience.Then I woke up, and fell out of bed. I’ve been doing that a lot lately. Now before I fall out, I try to take preventative measures. Every morning I make a concerted effort not to fall out of bed. This is what I do.
She flips on her back, sitting up on her elbows, then starts to push her feet out of the duvet.I stretch my legs out, slow at first. I watch my right leg jump back and I wince. Crazy legs. I have crazy legs. This really hurts. My body is so stiff and I always feel hung over in the morning. Like I must have had a good time the night before. Not so. I don’t drink that much. Then I pull each leg up to my chest, if I can. And I full out stretch like a surf board, trying to feel my legs attached to me. Willing them to co-operate. I am angry at my wobbly legs, they have abandoned me. I don’t know what they are thinking when they spasm. I force them to stretch, they want me to cry. They are like a spoiled little child laughing at me. When I was a child, my legs were thin and I never wanted to wear shorts or skirts. I remember one day I was lying face down on my bed looking back at my bare legs and my mom said, “look at that, your legs are getting bigger.” And they really were getting bigger, I was growing after all. I was so happy. And now I am so angry at these tired legs.

And the really pathetic thing is, is every day is different. I cannot count on how I will feel each and every day. I remember not long ago, a glorious spring day, and I couldn’t fully enjoy it because my legs were too weak. I couldn’t go for a walk with my little girl, and I didn’t hide it because I’m not one of those pretend moms who keep things from their kids. You know, those moms who pretend they were virgins before they married or those moms who pretend that it’s A-OK that they are confined to a life of servitude and their lives and careers don’t matter. Liars. So I tell my girl. Mama’s legs are tired. I have to sit down. So we sit outside for awhile and I watch her play in the driveway. She’s happy, and I am tired like I have just run a marathon. But really it’s just because I put in a load of laundry and I emptied the dishwasher.

Now I sound pathetic, like I want people to feel sorry for me. Please don’t. This didn’t occur because I’m a lapsed Catholic or because of some kind of Karmic interference, although I know people who would think that. Serious Catholics think Redemptive Suffering is a good thing. Give it to God and all that. Your suffering is your cross and somehow that helps the world. Well that’s one way to cope and still the voices in your head. If I somehow can chant and pray and meditate all day my pain and suffering will dissolve and fly straight up to Heaven. Who am I Kidding? You have to be Deepak Chopra for that, or at least a distant cousin of his. You cannot be a mere mortal and expect to levitate after one yoga class. Maybe it happened because I’m supposed to learn something. I hope so. But what a lesson. Sometimes it hits me hard – the reality – and I think, oh my god this is it, this is my new normal, I can’t walk very far, I can’t over-exert myself or sit in the sun too long, and this is forever? I’m lining up for the blue plate special and putting my teeth in a glass at night. Maybe I’ll take my scooter to the legion and play cards with Marge and the girls. It’s not like I broke my leg and it’ll heal. There is no cure and they don’t know the cause. How did this happen to me?

When I found out I had MS over two years ago I started feverishly studying the cause and potential cures. Of course my family Doc was quick to point out the charlatans trying to offer false hope to the desperate. “Well if someone tells you to hang upside down from a coconut tree and drink your own urine because that will cure your MS, you really should get a second opinion.” Or he says “if a Tibetan Monk tells you to eat yak scat three times a day while simultaneously smoking a doobie bigger than your fist, will you?” He goes on to point out these new so-called “breakthroughs” need to be researched and put through clinical trials that take years and cost millions of dollars. So I continue to research other things, like bee pollen. Bee pollen is something some people subscribe to for MS. Or is it bee stings? I dunno. I picture myself in a large white mesh hood, arms bare and outstretched to the sides, beckoning the bees to come hither, willing them to sting me. And I like some kind of hero or martyr just stand there, wincing ever so slightly, light sweat on my brow. Desperation. I just want to walk again. I remember walking in Toronto, everywhere. I didn’t need the bus if it was a nice day.

There are a couple things I do subscribe to, and that is diet and exercise. I believe you are dead in the water without those two things. But there are no guarantees and therein lies the struggle. I discovered the Swank diet developed by Dr. Roy Swank over thirty years ago, and at this point they’ve got positive results from the people who followed it. However, being painfully human, I have not followed the Swank diet perfectly because it is really strict. But I do stick to a few basic rules: no red meat (the first year), very low saturated fats (no junk food, processed crap), high good oils (olive, flax), minimal dairy (I love cream in my coffee so I fall off the wagon there), and lots of leafy greens. So the diet is fantastic for everyone, it’s just a matter of changing your lifestyle a bit. Luckily, I have a husband who’s a great cook and doesn’t like my cooking. Clever huh? Unfortunately, when he’s away I tend to eat Kraft dinner (bad) and hotdogs or bologna (very bad).

Oh sadness. Have I touched on that? I get so sad and I don’t know why. Is it because I can’t do normal things for fear of falling over? I have lost the ability to run. Imagine that. I can’t skate or cross-country ski because I fall over and I get so god-awful tired. These are all things I used to do relatively well. So I modify. I got an elliptical, and I do that. It’s tough to get motivated every second of every day but I don’t have a choice. I don’t want to end up in a chair so I have to try and keep my legs strong even though they mostly feel like rubber. Frankly, I am pissed off. I will not accept that someday I will need a walker or a scooter. I will not and cannot accept that. I am not in denial. I am not in denial. I am pissed off.

I put a team together for the MS Walk, but it wasn’t very organized. Just a couple friends, (Mark and Miranda) and my husband. They walked with the two older kids in tow, and I watched Miranda’s baby Emma. The MS Walk itself was very organized. There were a lot of dedicated people there volunteering and setting up long tables of snacks. They were happy to be there. So I sat and watched the hubbub. There were three older kids getting ready for the walk and pinning signs to their backs. These little white MS Walk signs said “I’m walking for my Mama.” Mama. That’s what my little girl calls me, Mama. My heart sank. My chest felt painful and heavy. My face started to ache with tears and I tried to hide. Pretended I was invisible. Didn’t let anyone see. It was a brief meltdown and I don’t think anyone did see. I didn’t want them to see because I didn’t want to be like them. Okay? I didn’t want to be like them. I’m not a person in a wheelchair. I’m young and fit. I’m strong and vibrant. I’m someone who’s confident and … proud. Well we all know where pride goes. Am I heading towards that great fall? Are people laughing? I see myself spinning in a great black abyss, no wings, no harness, no safety net, just dizzying blackness. Why am I so sad?

I take a lot of vitamins: the homeopathic route. The doctors say there is no medication for my type of chronic progressive MS.
“Vitamin Song” sung like a cheesy commercial while pointing out random body parts.
Vit-amins C and E for E-mmunity, B complex for energy, primrose oil for sanity,co-q-10 if you please and MSM for my knees. Omega 3 and Folic’s good, I eat fish like I should. Red meat’s bad it’s not for me, just give me double Vitamin D.

I hate choking down vitamins but at my last neurology appointment the doctor said I hadn’t progressed in two years. Did the vitamins work? I don’t know. No one knows. I cannot believe I have this. Truly, this is ridiculous. I don’t eat red meat. I eat mostly chicken and fish, and lots of veggies and flax and olive oil. But as my sister Mary says, I am a “non-eater,” which really means I am picky and kind of neurotic. So when you are a non-eater it is difficult to eat enough food. Sometimes I just get bored eating and that’s never good, I have to force myself. Sometimes I forget to eat. But I’m not that silly girl who says, “It's two already and I forgot to eat lunch!” in a silly girl voice while eating melba toast as she exits an Extreme Tanning Salon. I am not a silly girl, I’m just thinking of things other than food.

MS is a culmination of a lot of issues and factors. And I think a big one is susceptibility and sensitivity. Maybe I’m weak genetically or something got messed up in the womb. Otherwise, why would an entire family grow up under the same conditions and only one get MS? I have four brothers and two sisters, and a mom and dad who are very active and healthy in their seventies. Correction, Dad has kind of lost his mind – more than a touch of dementia, but he is almost 80.

I really love my Mom and all the broads she hangs with – Velma, Arlene, Jean and all the rest. But they are a lot older than me, in their 70’s and 80’s. And they seem to be in better shape than me. That makes me so sad, and jealous. I mean, they have all lived pretty full lives, they’ve raised children, they have life-long friends, they travel, they garden. They are happy. Velma just died. The last time I saw her she was ‘crafting’ with the other gals. She drew lines, without a ruler, straighter than I ever could, she painted wooden Christmas ornaments and talked about every day life. She never went to the doctor, had no use for it. She was known for trapping squirrels and putting them in her trunk and then releasing them into the wild. But because she lived “in the wild,” those pesky little squirrels always came back. She kind of got obsessed with them at one point and was hell bent on discovering the squirrel ring-leader and his followers. So she trapped them as usual and went one step further – she spray painted their tails yellow before releasing them. In the end all she really accomplished was rounding up a yard full of mutant squirrels because they all came back. Once she forgot a trap of squirrels in her trunk and she drove them across the border. But who’s going to question an 80 something woman who just went across the river for some milk and a tank of gas? Luckily no yellow tails were hanging out the back. Velma. I didn’t even know her well but I loved the woman she was. She was herself, spoke her mind freely, seemed to love life and take it as it was. She died in her kitchen and her son found her. Somehow that was Okay. Maybe that’s the realness of her. The same in life as in death. No sorrow, just a spirit drifting off to another space. An old woman went to sleep on her kitchen floor and those of us who knew her are certain she woke up refreshed and happy, somewhere else. It was a privilege just to know her, even for a short time. What makes people like that stay in your mind? She wasn’t a Hollywood star, she didn’t try to be anything she wasn’t. She just didn’t like squirrels and she had a lot of friends who loved her. I guess that’s all there is. It’s sheer acceptance of who you are in the world and what you are meant to do. Be yourself.

She puts on a lab coat, grabs a pointer, and pulls down a white board or sets up a projector screen. Images of McAdam, the famous station, the tracks & trains.
Let’s pull it apart, down to the bare bones. Let’s go deep into me to see why I have this dis-ease. Was it the well water or the creosote soaked railway town? I grew up in McAdam, New Brunswick, a village that was a thriving junction in its heyday. My grandfather worked on the railway and lived to be ninety-eight years old. My father worked on the railway for thirty-eight years and is now well into his seventies. A couple of my brothers worked there too. Mc Adam was and still is a dusty little village, surrounded by extraordinary lakes and miles of rocks and evergreens. There were obvious landmarks known to all the kids; the pissy smelling tunnel that went under the tracks, the slippery tracks themselves, the train station that looks like a castle and has now been declared a historical landmark. But the dust, soaked with the oily smell of creosote – that’s the most memorable. Was my childhood poisoned? What did we do there? I would say we didn’t roll in the dust, but that’s not true. We’d do anything to change the scenery, shake it up, because we all thought it was so god-awful boring. But we did have fun getting in trouble. The best memory is a winter activity we fondly referred to as roof-a-sliding. We’d wait until the winter snow was piled so high we could easily walk onto a neighbours roof and slide into the bank. We loved it and we’d do this in the dark of night (which is 6 o’clock in the winter). We only got caught by the cops once, and that was because we inadvertently were peeking in windows on the way to the illegal slide. These memories make me very happy. Roof-a-sliding did not cause my MS. I’ll rule that one out.

For such a boring town, we did find things to do. I remember roping my friend Stuart into a rather strange activity. It all started because I was watching Dr. Leo Buscaglia on PBS. Obviously, we didn't have a lot of channels in the village. Anyway this turned out to be my first foray into self-help. Dr. Buscaglia was known as Dr. Love. He hugged people all the time and taught a university course called Love 1A. I was glued to his speeches. Once he said, “if you're bored you are probably boring as hell yourself!” He went on to tell us to shake things up in our lives, walk out the door backwards, eat cereal for supper, anything that would get you out of a funk. So I called Stuart. Stuart was one of those friends who didn't question things, he just went along for the ride. I told him this was what we were going to do. At about 5 in the morning we would leave our respective houses and meet in the middle. Then we would just walk and see what it was like at 5 in the morning. We would breathe it all in and shake up our routine. I remember the summer air was cool with the musty smell of old railway ties. Everything was so still, no birds, no train whistles. I wasn't thinking about my legs because they took me everywhere. I took them for granted. We didn't question that 15 year old kids don't really have routines. We go to school, climb trees, eat whatever food is put in front of us, and sleep for as long as possible. But I still remember that morning and I remember Dr. Love. Ironically, he died of a massive heart attack in '98. Some things you just can't explain. Maybe his heart was so full of love that it just burst. And maybe my legs have walked far enough, maybe there's a limit and I reached mine.
She moves to a chair or a stoolYou gotta hear this one. I lost my legs making shepherd’s pie. Shepherd’s pie! Like I ran a marathon or something. That is what I liken simple tasks to now – Herculean feats. I am an Olympian, a real athlete. It took me over three hours to make a pie. The pie consists of ground beef, mashed potatoes, and a can of creamed corn. It took me three hours because I had to peel myself up off the floor three times. I didn’t fall or trip or anything, my legs just gave out. I sank – somewhat gracefully – to the kitchen tile while gripping a chair or my kids head or whatever was there. The last time I sank my girl was staring at me in her diaper. “What’s happening Mama?” she says. Then this weird thing happens. As I’m sinking and trying to hang on, I feel giddy. This overwhelming need to laugh happens. It’s so absurd to be losing control and laughing about it. But that’s what happens. When I first had the symptoms of MS this would happen after a walk around the block. I would feel weak and have to drag myself up the steps at the end of my walk. It happened then too – this giddy need to laugh. Maybe I’m losing oxygen or something. Or maybe it’s a gift from God. God is saying, “Don’t take yourself so seriously my child. They are only legs. Legs are highly over-rated these days.” Yeah right God. I’ll get back to you on that one.
My left foot. I keep tripping over my left foot. This is not an inspiring film about a man who loses all ability in his body save for the exceptional artistic talent of his left foot. I remember I felt moved by that film years ago. Little did I know that I would have my own “left foot” story. Now I feel less moved and more motivated. Where can I find my inspiration? It must be somewhere. How do I find my way out of this prison? My body will not take me where I want to go. I am confined. Yet, I am not so confined that I cannot see or breathe or feel. And there’s the problem, the torture, the sadness. I can see, hear, and feel myself as a different person. I don't have the energy I once had. This can't be me. This is ridiculous I say, over and over. I am so angry! I am only 44, not 64. And even 64 is young these days if you look after yourself. My mom is 72 and her life is full and active and she's happy. Is it all just attitude? Will I be gloriously happy if I just change my attitude?
A wall of self-help books, projected.“You’ve got a bad attitude.” I hear the distant voice of an elementary school teacher. And he’s right. I had a bad attitude. So through the years I turned to self-help books – better than turning to drugs or alcohol I guess. I have a shelf of self-help books, okay two shelves. And I’ve been soul-searching for years but nothing ever seems to stick. Now I worry that the MS has been caused by me being all messed-up and spiritually out of whack for so long. But if we can think ourselves ill, we can think ourselves well, can't we? And there is the 'power of positive thinking,' right? I know all the catch-phrases, let go and let God, accept what is, live in the now. And I try to convince myself that I actually believe them. I have mantras that I repeat every day when I stretch and meditate. And yes, it does work if I am disciplined enough to study them every day. But it is an ongoing struggle and life does get in the way. And of course I journal. I write it all down.

I called a lady that does Reiki, and she says she’s a practitioner in something called Body Talk. This is all about natural healing, acupressure, and energy psychology. Sounds simple huh? Throw a little Eckhart Tolle in there and you’ll be cured in no time. Years ago, this lady would have been known as a snake oil salesman or burned as a witch. Today she’s a natural healer, one who’s in tune with the spiritual realm. And I’m buying it. Hook, line and sinker. I’ve tried everything else, and I like her energy and she likes my “radio” voice. My ego is a sucker for anyone who thinks I have a cool voice. She’s not selling oil or dreams, and she is not a charlatan. The Western world just hasn’t caught up with spiritual enlightenment yet – well not everyone. She, and others like her that I know are delving into ancient Chinese medicine. I go to an osteopath slash physiotherapist, I know two or three girls who practice EFT (Emotional Freedom Technique), I have about five yoga dvd's, two chiropractors, and I see an old Chinese guy in the mall who does acupuncture. Phew! Why are my legs still tired? I know there’s something wrong with me but I’m not convinced it’s MS. I have symptoms that are like MS, but guess what? The same symptoms can be attributed to mercury poisoning. The doctors don’t really know. And the neurologists don’t care. Imagine getting all those brains and losing so much feeling in your heart.
Blackout, then bright light…Dr Neuro enters. He is in typical doc garb (white coat and stethoscope). He speaks.
DR NEURO I’ll see you now Miss Whoever.
WOMAN Hello! Extends her hand which he ignores.
He performs a series of seemingly ridiculous tests. The tests are much like the procedures for testing a drunk driver. Touch your finger to mine. Follow my finger with your eyes. Walk a straight line (toe to heel). The doctor then does a pirouette, the girl lies down and he tickles her belly and her feet. He jumps up like a dancer and strikes a pose.
DR NEURO I have reviewed your MRI and it looks like all signs are leading in the direction of… I think that… perhaps we should consider… I suggest that you consult with a neurologist at the MS Clinic in Toronto. We will set a date to meet again exactly one year from now.

WOMAN A year? But… but… what should I do? Is there medicine for me? Should I be on a special diet? How did this happen? Doctor why are you walking so fast? I can’t keep up with you. I need answers. What about yoga? Should I do yoga?

DR NEURO You cannot exercise MS away. He leaves quickly, with a flourish.
WOMAN I am going to find a way out of this. This is not me. This body is a shell and it is not me. But I have to drag this misery around so I had better figure out a solution. I sit you know. I sit a lot and look out the window. We have trees now, lots of them, because we moved last October and our house backs onto green space. So I sit and look out there, peering into the trees, looking for wildlife. So far I have seen a coyote dancing, playing with mice before he bites their heads off. I have seen rabbits big and small, and I startled a wild turkey behind the fence. But there is one thing that bothers me to no end. There is a clear plastic bag behind the fence that probably blew there by mistake on garbage day. This bag is stuck in some old brush beside a sturdy tree. And this bag stares back at me. It mars my wilderness, my trees, my beautiful green-space. God knows I want desperately to retrieve that bag and throw it into the recycling bin. But, it is behind a very long fence. I would have to find the end of the fence, go around it and travel along the fence until I found the bag. This sounds like I am talking about some grand trek through the Rockies, a lengthy excursion. This is my back yard. It would take a normal person maybe five minutes. Anyway, so that’s that. I can’t go get the stray bag because I don’t know if my legs will give out half way there or when I try to come back. And I don’t know if my bladder will give out either, so that is a consideration. Although I always wear a pad and they’re pretty reliable – the Always pad. Peeing my pants doesn’t really bother me anymore. Peeing my pants on the road to spiritual enlightenment. You have to embrace the pee – wear a thick pad, and keep on smiling. She strikes a classic yoga pose and chants ohm…Do you suppose this is it? Is this my new normal? I walked to the pond with my daughter, our ‘nature walk.’ We were looking for turtles and rabbits. And so now we’re back and I’m at the computer and I’ve said to my girl, “I’m just going to have a coffee and try to get my legs back,” like I’ve lost my legs. Like I forgot where I put them this morning. Don’t they attach to my hips? I am 44 years old. I should be sprinting to the pond. But instead I'm waiting for my legs to come back. Is this some kind of joke? Is this some kind of divine intervention? Is this God saying slow down? Stop and smell the lilacs and the freshly mowed grass? Hey, I already did that. This is not God intervening. God doesn’t care about my scrawny white legs. They’re only part of my scrawny white body. And the body is not what I am. I am not my body. God cares about my spirit and my goodness, or my lack of goodness. God?

I’m having some sort of mid-life MS crisis. Me and the planet. My friend Jamie came by. He’s a plumber and an environmentalist. He said we’re running out of water, and what we have left is laced with birth control pills, antibiotics, and god knows what. Is that why I have MS? Have I been poisoned by our drinking water? That is my latest hypothesis. I am petite and I eat like a bird. I almost never eat full adult sized meals – maybe once a day. I eat veggies and fruit, good right? But it’s all been sprayed, Jamie says, with a fertilizer that is a delightful cocktail of human waste, and over-the-counter meds. He says if we flush old pills down the toilet that a lot will stay in the water system and water is fed to the cows and sprayed on the fields so we can't escape being exposed to unwanted drugs and even hormones. And the best part? The farmers don’t know. Yeah right. Farmers are not stupid. But some farmers are willing to look the other way if they can make a few bucks. C’mon, farmers always need money. This couldn't be more depressing. Imagine falling apart and not being able do anything about it. I mean, you have to eat and drink and breathe the air. Is there somewhere on the planet that is perfect?

Beautiful scene, water, lush environment, oasis, flowers, purity… They talked about “blue zones” on Oprah, where people live to be very old. They researched what these long-lived people were eating and drinking. Mostly I think they were just living happy lives and they didn’t have cancer causing cell phones. There's no way they would live so long if they were trying to learn how to text, surf the web, and download their favorite show tunes, all while planting an organic garden. You can't live like that. You have to live in the real world. But where's that?
Animal sounds, an elephant and exotic birds…We went to the zoo the other day, and I thought it would be ok. And mostly it was. We went with friends and I pushed the stroller. I made it half way round the zoo and I was done. I needed a rest. I leaned on the stroller like it was a walker. That name practically makes me gag. A “walker.” And I guess that’s what I need. But my hair isn’t grey. I don’t wear frumpy flowery clothes and my shoes aren’t ugly black practical things. I am not in my 80’s. Why do I need a walker?! But after my husband asked me how we were going to get around Dineyland if we took our girl there, I went online looking at walkers and other options. I just want to ignore that I need help. But I found a walker online. It had a seat on it and a large shopping bag. Kinda cool. It’s not the fact that I need a walker in fact it would make my life a lot easier because I could do more. But it’s the embarrassment. It’s my pride. It’s the time it takes to wonder “what are people thinking?” and “I look so weak and incapable.” I’m acting like a fool who would rather die tripping over her feet than admit that she needs help.

I had an episode in September. I ended up in the hospital for a few days. But really, it wasn’t all that bad. My back went out – I couldn’t walk for two days. My sister Jane made me go to the hospital. When they saw my back was bad and I had MS, they moved me to the front of the line at Emerg. Hey, membership has its privileges. I went on steroids and they were like magic - voila I could walk! Usually I’m against drugs but sometimes they’re brilliant – maybe I can score a few downtown. After having the steroids at the hospital, I was walking pretty good and I felt a lot better. But you can't take them all the time because there are side effects and they can wreak havoc on other organs. So steroids are only a sometimes friend, not a cure. A little while after this, I decided I would check out the Friday exercise class organized by the MS Society. I kept putting it off, but a regular of the class – Marilyn, got wind that I had been an aerobics instructor in another life and encouraged me to lead the class. Well I found some funky music, grabbed my sneakers and off I went. The class was a blast. I was the only one standing but there was a special energy there. It's a well known fact that MS affects everyone differently and yet we all have similar stories that we can relate to. The important thing was that everyone showed up, no matter what their state, and that said something. They showed up. I think I was enlightened that day – spiritually enlightened. We breathed in deeply raising our arms in unison, and then I watched as we all breathed out moving our arms down at the same time. It was poetry. A thing of beauty. There we were. Together. Moving to the music and experiencing a rhythm of life. I felt good that day. I felt good enough to carry on, no matter what. Imagine. In a moment I felt acceptance. Acceptance of my self and of others. And then in one fell swoop it was all about to change again. We were all about to welcome the possibility of a new reality.
Lights-music. Major transition.
Late last night when my girl was sleeping and my husband was at a meeting, I dropped my housecoat and in my pj’s and socks I started to run…sort of. I picked the longest part of the rug and I kind of sprinted to the end. It was not at all graceful and I was on the rug for obvious reasons, it wouldn’t hurt as much if I fell. But I ran, better than I have in a long while. And I think I know why. I’ll tell you. A few weeks ago there was a news report on the CTV program W5. The report profiled a medical story about MS called the Liberation Treatment. They exclaimed that this was the possible breakthrough needed for MS. Picture all of us watching, across the country, all us MS’ers with mouths agape, some with tears, some with no tears left. What? A cure? A simple angioplasty to clear the veins? A Dr Zamboni in Italy says MS may not be auto immune, it may be vascular, and all we need is to put a balloon in our veins. A little balloon that is shaped like a Vienna sausage. Okay, let’s do this.
Dr Neuro appears.
DR NEURO Not so fast. W5 has done a great disservice to people with MS everywhere.
WOMAN Disservice? How?
DR NEURO Hope is a great disservice.
He leaves quickly.
But hope is sometimes all people need. Sometimes it gives you a boost of energy. The excitement can spur you to greater things. You start talking to God again: that’s hope. You start running down hallways when you can hardly run: that’s hope. You feel something swell in your belly, your eyes are always searching the horizon: that’s hope.
So for the past few weeks we’ve all been going crazy. We’re an army of MS’ers calling our doctors, setting up appointments for Doppler ultrasounds and specialized M.R.I.’s. Our family docs are mostly onside but the neurologists have shut it down - they want extensive research done before going forward with the treatment, ‘who does this Zamboni guy think he is?’ They have been doing the Liberation treatment in Italy, Poland, and California, but now many clinics are all shutting it down. The response has been so overwhelming that California has sent a form letter saying they are looking into the risk factors and so on but can’t promise the treatment even when they’ve already been doing the procedure for 6 months! Now you want to research? Now, when we are all at your door offering you money, willing to mortgage our houses for a possible cure! You want to do more bloody research! Okay, calm down. Let’s all have a cup of tea and calm down. Breathe.
She get’s down on the floor to stretch and breathe. She grabs an inspirational book and reads. “Anything that’s not of Spirit, such as fear, illness, worry, shame, anger, and the like, isn’t worthy of your attention.” I find a quote everyday that speaks to me and I repeat it over and over until I feel its meaning. And I stretch and breathe and meditate on these words. My osteopath Cathy says this is yoga. I thought yoga was learning to limber your body, but it’s really limbering your mind and soul. Stretching and breathing makes me feel better, and I suppose that’s all there is.
She sits up cross-legged.
Now we wait. But how long are we willing to wait? I imagine myself getting the appropriate tests done in my country and then waiting some more. And then I imagine getting on a big plane preparing for the adventure of my life. California dreaming baby – wine country to convalesce. Now I imagine having a relatively simple procedure done on my veins. The doctors are handsome and tanned:, the nurses look like they work on General Hospital and are equally beautiful and forever checking out the doctors – with sideways glances, pink pouty lip gloss, perfect breasts. And yet, these perfect Stedfordian nurses are professional and very good at what they do. They are even caring. The only problem is that you feel like you have to spend the day before at a salon coiffing and primping and getting your mani-pedi done before feeling good enough to be in the same room with them.

I imagine that this procedure is the cure. I imagine that in September I will be walking my girl to school. I imagine even skipping with my girl to school. Then I imagine in a few years embarrassing my little girl who has turned into a little lady, by dancing in the school yard. Dancing with wild abandon. Dancing like there is no tomorrow. Dancing without music. Dancing all the way home and collapsing breathless on my lawn. Then, feeling tethered by gravity to the great earth under God’s sun, I stretch and breathe in grass and tree smells. I have surrendered. I am home and completely ready to continue life’s journey. But first, some unfinished business.

Black. Scene change. Dr Neuro is wheeled in centre stage. He is strapped to the chair and his mouth is duct taped.Now, you will listen. Now you will be unable to move, unable to speak. If I could rig up a catheter to your bladder, I would. If I could make you feel extreme fatigue or brain fog, I would. If I could make you long for better times, times when you skated on a lake, skied through snowy woods, played hockey with the neighbourhood kids, I would.
I was nice to you. I deferred to you. I was told that neurologists were the ‘smartest’ doctors – in the top one percent of their class. Then why did you lie? Why did you deny all of this? You must have known about the venous connection from previous research, you’re supposed to be brilliant! Why didn’t you listen to me, to all of us?
Appearance of Chorus behind Woman, whispering menacingly. Why were you so busy you didn’t let us speak? Are you only in it for the pay check? Check your Hippocratic Oath Herr Doktor. “First, do no harm.”
We are not stupid, only led astray by medical professionals who want to keep us in the dark. But lo and behold we have the Internet, the magical Internet! And we’ve been reading and educating ourselves. And more than that, we have heightened awareness; we have more senses than you.
The chorus assumes control of Dr. Neuro’s chair and begins to wheel him off stage. The Woman shouts after him as he vanishes.

Why? Because we are fighting our way out of hell. You can stay there if you like, but we want our lives back.
Okay, that was a bit harsh. I’m sorry Doctor Neuro, I know you’re only doing your job. I know that you can’t get excited every time there is an inkling of a cure for MS. You must follow rules and reg’s and be very cautious. You really don’t want to hurt people, you just want to make sure everything is above board. Right? You can’t jump into anything unless you are absolutely sure.
She puts on the white coat from earlier in the act, as she speaks the following lines:
This is the Canadian health care system after all. But Doctor I should tell you I
found a very interesting timeline on the Internet. It talks about the venous connection to MS, and how doctors have known about this potential for a very long time. Here is a summary of what I read:
She moves to a flipchart, or clicks on a document reader showing the dates and important names as she lectures:
1863: Dr. E. Rindfleisch noticed that, consistently in all the autopsy specimens of MS brains he viewed with his microscope, a vein engorged with blood was present at the centre of each lesion.

1937: Dr. T. J. Putnam researched lesions and noted that thrombosis of small veins could be the underlying mechanism of plaque formation.
I don’t know what that means in total, but I draw your attention to the word VEINS.

1942 Dr. Robert Dow and Dr. George Berglund continue on with Dr. Putnam's research and continue finding venous connections to MS lesions.

1950: Dr Zimmerman and Netsky carry on Dow and Berglund's research, and they note that the lesions are indeed venous in nature, but not caused by small thrombosis as Putnam surmised.

1960s: Dr. Torben Fog, a Danish professor – noted that MS lesions are predominantly found around the small veins.
And the big one -
1981: F.A. Schelling at the Hospital for Nervous Diseases in Salzburg, Austria found a striking widening of the main venous passageways through the skulls in victims of multiple sclerosis. When Dr. Shelling went public with his research, he was dismissed, ridiculed and mocked by the medical establishment.
She turns to the audience.
Is there a doctor in the house?
Hands do, or don’t, go up in the audience.
See, none of us are doctors, but we can understand the discoveries laid out by this timeline. What we can’t understand is the time. 1981? Thirty years ago? Was it a matter of money? Clinical trials aren’t cheap, we all know that. But did three decades really need to go by?

Dr. Zamboni had an excellent reason to take up the charge and pay attention to the forgotten research. He fought for love of his wife: she had MS. If this is the real deal, if MS is venous and it can be helped with a simple angioplasty, we owe that man everything. He will go down in history as saving the lives and dreams of thousands.

I just saw Dr. Sandy McDonald, resident Vascular & Thoracic Surgeon at Barrie Vascular Imaging. Dr. McDonald says I have a vascular anomaly in my left jugular vein. What does this mean? What do I do?

Be patient but persistent. Fight for your right to be healthy. Research and study reports. Go online to the “This Is MS” forum - www.thisisms.com and join Angioplasty For All to fight for your right to be heard and healed. Write it down. Connect with like-minded individuals who are hopeful and positive about the future. And most of all, don’t sit down. If you sit down you just may stay there. Exercise your brain and your body as much as you can. Prepare for your future as a healthy and vibrant person without MS. Believe it.
End of Act One