"If your path suddenly takes a sharp turn into a place that you may not understand today, remember that this could be getting you ready for a wonderful new road ahead." ~ Author unknown


Ch 1
Life shouldn’t be this good. Heading off to buy vegetable plants for our garden. Excuse me, as usual, I’ve failed to introduce who I’m with. Today I’m with Arlena, my daughter. She is 10 yrs old. She is my first-born, more than a little clingy, loves to do everything together. Austin, my son. He’s 5 yrs old. He probably didn’t need a mother for much at all. He potty-trained himself when he was barely two, taught himself to read when he was four. He does still hold my hand when we cross the street. Very polite. I am about to find out how much these character traits for my children will matter. But back to our trip out the door. Everyone’s locked and loaded, except me.
I can’t get my right shoe on. I feel like an idiot. I do this every day. I look down and I can’t make my foot move like it should. I can physically make the muscles move if I apply pressure. I’m wasting time. I take my left hand, forcing my right foot into the shoe. What a waste of time. Off we go. A great time choosing plants for our new garden. We’ve lived in Weston, Wisconsin for about one year. It’s a short growing season, so I want to make the most of it with the kids. We pick everything they want to grow.
I have a friend Liz Bowman. Everyone should have a friend like Liz. Her husband does ironman triathlons. Liz runs marathons. I needed to get in shape, have a goal. Liz was my inspiration. She set me on a diet plan, a running plan, and a full training plan for every day of the week. This started in February 1997. By the time the snow melted & I was exercising outside, I was seeing my first 5K as a true goal in sight for September.
A few days after the garden planting, I took Austin out riding on his bike without training wheels, in front of our house. This was a huge moment for me. Parenting means leading your children to maturity, in all things. It is a privilege to take part in each event of their lives. Kent, my husband, had taught Arlena. We had discussed this for days. Austin was ready. I was excited. We would go a half-block a few times, then expand our trip until he would soon get the hang of it and be off riding on his own. He is a quick learner, and I knew he could do this.
We started off as planned, Austin took off great. I was running behind him. In just a few steps. . . I could not run. I could not walk. I did not understand what was wrong. I couldn’t lift my right foot. How frustrating! Let’s try again, Austin. I’m so sorry. We tried again, and had the same results. On the 3rd try, I was uncontrollably upset. Kent was watching, and had to help me get back to the house. Even now, I’m embarrassed to say I do not remember much of what happened to Austin. I could not walk. I do not remember any more details.
I had an accountability group that I met with. I had already contacted my family physician for an appointment. They offered to work me in, but I declined, stating it was not an emergency. They felt it was, and reiterated the offer. I again declined. My group all urged me to take the appointment. Within days, I was barely walking. I had gone from mountain biking, hiking, climbing through the Rib River, downhill skiing. . . name a sport and I did it. . . and now I could not walk. And I was resisting being seen any sooner.
One last memory of that month. The following Sunday, Kent was repairing the flashing around our fireplace. He needed some supplies, and asked if I would drive to the local hardware store to pick it up. I readily agreed, and took Austin so that our busy 5-yr old would not be a distraction to his father. We had lived in our home, in the neighborhood, yes in the state of Wisconsin, for eight months. I was acclimated with the area, as it was a very small town. I drove the 20 blocks or so. As I approached the area, a panic came over me. I had no idea where I was. Nothing was recognizable. Nothing. It was as though I had never been on this street, in this town. Cell phones were not a common, everyday feature. I looked at my son, trying not to show my fear. He didn’t know how to get us to the store. I pulled off at a store, borrowed a phone, and called Kent. He of course thought I had lost my mind. So did I. He was eventually able to talk me into recognizing some common scenes after 10 – 15 minutes. I didn’t want to return to the store for months after that event.

Ch. 2
You know those times when the phone rings and it is just going to be a bad phone call. You do, don’t you? Your body freezes, you make mental arguments with yourself about even picking up the phone. In a matter of seconds, as you approach the phone, scenes of various possibilities play out in your mind. Well, that’s how it is for me anyway. I was married a month after I finished courses for my bachelor’s degree at Indiana University in Bloomington. We were both from Indiana, but Kent took a job almost immediately in Missouri. I have eaten my words many times, and started early in my marriage on an important topic. Children. We agreed prior to marriage that we would never have any children. Therefore, we agreed after six months of wedded bliss to try our hands at conceiving. It worked quite well. Fifteen months into our marriage, Arlena joined our family. Seventeen months into our marriage, the phone rang. It was a Monday. I had spent the prior week visiting my parents with Arlena while Kent traveled. It was a great time. My dad was so busy, although he didn’t make much of his importance in the local business world. The Friday of our visit, he suggested my mom keep Arlena for the morning. We went to several business functions, had lunch, chose a new suit at the local business man’s dress shop. I saw his world, and was mesmerized. And then the phone rang. It was 5 a.m. I didn’t answer it. We barely spoke. He mentioned we had to leave immediately. He said to pack clothes for a funeral. We had a daybed in our spare bedroom, and it had a nasty edge on the side. My mind was a blur. Kent packed my entire bag as I tried to pack for Arlena, 2 months old. I ran past the daybed and sliced open my leg. Kent asked if we needed to go to the ER to get stitches. I knew I did. Of course I wouldn’t waste such time. A three-hour drive took us about two hours. My dad had survived a massive stroke late Sunday night, one that he would have lifelong repercussions to deal with. He was alive. At the time we arrived, there was no promise he would survive. He could not speak, was paralyzed from the neck down, had trouble with virtually every human function. He regained functions over time. His first words were to a nurse who kept asking him questions. Loud and clear, he suddenly said ‘Bitch, bitch, bitch!’ We laughed, howled, and hollered. We knew he was okay. It was his way of saying he was fine, leave him alone. That was my dad.
Ch. 3
I had always been a firm believer in journaling. As I write this, Facebook seems to be the replacement for many peoples’ journals today. It’s rather sad, and I speak directly to people about it. Journaling puts your thoughts, hopes, views, and faith into writing. It allows people to read history revealed through your hands. I have had times when I made it a bigger priority than others. The spring of 1997 I made it a very big priority. I was spending tremendous amounts of time reading my Bible, devotionals, leading a Bible study at my church, participating in a small group, and many other things. God was clearly at the front of my life, and I wanted to catch every moment possible in writing. One day I wrote that I knew He was about to do something utterly amazing. I couldn’t quite describe it. It was like a hot air balloon. I was going to take off to a completely different place than I’d ever been, and experience new things for Him. Somehow, I knew even in writing this that I wasn’t being called into the mission field, per se. This was written mid-June. Just before I had problems getting my shoes on. The anticipation built as I literally knew something huge and new and wonderful was just around the corner.

Ch. 4
In the winter of 1997, January I believe, I received another phone call. This was not one that gave me all the warning signs to go into my emotional shock. I just picked up the phone. It was a cordless phone. I meandered through our house, as I heard the news. My second oldest brother, Phillip, had been diagnosed with testicular cancer. No one like to hear that one single word. Of course, I thought of two things. I wanted to know if he would have any more children. He and his wife had fraternal twins, a boy and a girl. I didn’t dare ask. I never asked. Lance Armstrong had just been diagnosed with the same type of cancer in October 1996. It had metastasized to his brain and lungs. At the time my brother was diagnosed, Lance Armstrong was not being given a lot of hope for survival. That was the extent of what I knew about testicular cancer. I slumped to the floor in my dining room. I don’t remember who called me. I do know I had to call back. Did my family have a curse?

Ch. 5
I continued during my period in late June 1997 to get progressively worse, literally by the day. I relented to being worked in for an appointment. I don’t know how I walked to the doctor’s office, who was also a personal friend. We did a few tests that I found rather silly, to be honest. Then he asked me to walk like a duck. I couldn’t do it. I wanted to cry. I realized something was very wrong as I looked into Eric’s eyes. We had been friends with he & his wife for about a year, and he really couldn’t hide that something was wrong. He was my physician first, but it was very mixed emotions to discover that something was so askew by someone I knew so well. He left the room to consult with a neurologist. In just a few minutes, I had an appointment for the next day at 11 a.m. That seemed to work well with my schedule. We had planned to take a family driving vacation to Washington, D.C. It had been awhile since we had gone on a family vacation, and this had been very planned out. I was grateful the appointment wouldn’t interfere with our travel plans. And that is how my mind compartmentalizes bad news.

Ch. 6
Allow me to back up a few years. 1995. We had moved from Cape Girardeau, MO to Arlington, TX. It had been a rough move for several reasons, but we were settled in nicely by now. We had found a fantastic church, a great pastor that we still keep up with casually today even. I had gone to work for a group of physiatrists following a scare at the bank. I had found my niche’ late in life, for me anyway. I discovered I should have gone into nursing, as I loved the medical field. I had little comprehension of the patients’ suffering, I admit. We saw people for two primary purposes: those with chronic medical conditions who needed physical therapy or biofeedback; or those who were being referred for a 2nd opinion on a worker’s compensation claim. There were a variety of patients, therefore. Angry patients. Angry because they got caught trying to cheat the system. Angry because they lived with numbing pain every day. Angry because they went to doctors’ appointments all the time. Severely injured patients who had amazing attitudes. Today, in almost any courtroom in America, you will walk through a metal detector because a judge in Ft Worth, Texas was shot at in his courtroom. A guard at a national clothing store shot the clerks as they were closing one night, killing two. The third survived. I still remember her. I never spoke a word of what I saw or heard when I went home, much of it was so disturbing. This was many years before HIPAA went into effect. It just felt very violating, these were people with real lives. Some, none of the aforementioned, had severe psychiatric problems connected to their chronic pain. We had a neuro-psychiatrist who worked through the hospital in conjunction with our physicians. I connected her work, her comments, the patients’ behavior with formed opinions. People who see a neuro-psychiatrist have deep-rooted psychological issues that are bound into years of pain. How wrong, how little I understood of this critical role. I remember two other significant things from this job. A gentleman came in one day who did not have childcare for his young son, Austin. I was finally pregnant after years of infertility, and announced that evening that I had found the perfect name for our son. He was a delightful little boy, and had made such a positive imprint on me. Second, I remembered documenting a woman’s chart one day. Her diagnosis stated Multiple Sclerosis. I had no idea what that meant. It was not one of our typical diagnoses, she seemed very gentile at the visit, and I filed the chart away at the end of the day. Physically, I filed it away. Mentally, I apparently did not file it completely away.

Ch. 7
I am at my neurologist’s visit. It is 11 a.m., and the first exam is done. Then a second. Third. Fourth. How many that day? I don’t know. I do know that around 2 p.m. they were ordering an MRI to be done stat, and asked me to reach my husband to join me at their office at 5 p.m. I left several messages. It seemed to me as though I had a tour of the entire facility ~ radiology, lab, physical therapy department. I was expected some touring on my upcoming vacation. This was not what I had in mind. At 5 p.m., my physician had Kent and me join him and his nurse in his office. His nurse stood directly beside me. He announced that he had a policy of doing this when he had bad news to deliver so the patient could be physically protected from harming themselves. I didn’t understand. ‘If you should pass out or get sick, my nurse is ready to help you. That is why she is standing beside you.’ I have this silly belief that people can’t see when I am mentally smirking. They can, of course. He proceeded with some statements, most of which eluded me because they had already ruled out brain cancer. I knew I wasn’t going to die in a few weeks. And if that was the diagnosis, I was more than ready to take on the challenge. Oh how amusing. I had so much to learn. Ignorance is not bliss. I don’t know everything; in fact, I know very little. And I knew absolutely nothing about Multiple Sclerosis.

Ch. 8
So there it was. The diagnosis. The words that he had spoken so many times in his 40-plus years of a well-groomed career. Me? I was supposedly great at working in the medical field. I knew a modicum of laymen’s terms about neurology because of my work with the physiatrists. I had taken a break from working to focus on raising our children. I was now an expert on growing a garden, teaching a child to ride a bike, learn to read, potty training, how to choose friends wisely. I had some skills that are important for life. I knew nothing about Multiple Sclerosis. I was told I needed a pair of crutches so I would have assistance walking. (This was the only bad advice I ever recall receiving from this physician, but it quite frankly sucked.) I was told that they average a number of factors together to compute some information. I should anticipate the possibility of being 100% wheelchair-bound by my 40th birthday. I was thirty-three years old. I was told there was no known cause; therefore there was no known cure. At this writing, this is still a true statement. My physician said he didn’t want to overwhelm me with too much information at once, and asked how I was taking all of this news. Ahhh, a question. I like to talk. ‘’Well, first of all, your nurse is free to move around the cabin. I’m not going to pass out. This news does not surprise or overwhelm me. I have a Great Physician who is able to heal any disease, and this is not too big for Him. Second, can I still go on vacation tomorrow? We’ve had this trip planned for a long time.” Yup, that’s how I responded. If a person’s jaw can literally drop to the floor, his did that day.
His nurse kindly moved a distance away. Thank you, I find you more than a bit distracting for this conversation. I prefer to look people in the eye when speaking to them.
He responded slowly. “I have heard patients respond before about how God is going to help them. I understand this is a source of comfort to you. When you are ready to be honest with me about how you are really doing, I will still be here ready to help. Second, I have more tests that need to be completed. I would prefer to complete them right away.” After a bit of discussion and advice about how to handle the heat and my mobility factors, he gave his blessing for me to leave on vacation for Washington, D.C. with my family the next morning. It was to be a very hot trip, and we were about to discover how difficult it is to find wheelchairs lying about for our every whim.

I took the common route over Rib River that I had so many times in the year since our move to this wonderful little town of Weston, Wisconsin. I began to talk to God the only way I know how – I talk, maybe ask questions, listen intently for answers. How do answers come from God? That can be difficult to explain. Sometimes He reminds me of specific Scriptures that apply so accurately. Sometimes it is a reminder of a conversation that had occurred, as if to say “I was preparing you when that conversation occurred. Now recall what was said and apply it.” Sometimes it can be something like looking at geese flying through the sky. They are amazing. Does that seriously just happen that they fly in that formation, and when the leader tires, he goes to the back while the next in line steps up to the plate? No, God is over all creation. It gives me great hope that if He can hold all of this together, He can take care of my situation. It is often through reading my Bible. Listening to Christian messages via various medium, reading devotions, music. The point is that if I am looking to hear from God, He wants to speak. The key is to listen.
He spoke. He spoke words of wisdom. “This is not a normal diagnosis, people will not understand. You are not given this diagnosis to educate everyone about every detail of it; you are to use this situation to tell people you encounter about Me.” “This is not a punishment for something you’ve done wrong; we are going on a journey like you’ve never seen. I am here to take the lead every step of the way. . . if you will let me.”

I had a lot more I would learn. I am still learning things even today. Some things I learn, relearn, and learn again. That is okay. That is why some people refer to it as their walk with God. I run now, I don’t walk. Some days I roll instead of walking. That’s okay, too. I’m moving forward, and that’s what is important.

Ch. 9 – The early days
I always watched my mom with observations that held opinions. Opinions that held some truth, needed some correction. One was her value on friendships. She considered friendships to be a ten out of ten on her priority list. She had a friend, Murlea. They had been friends since grade school. I had my twin sister. That was sometimes a help, and sometimes a hindrance. If a friend invited you over, they felt obligated to invite both of you over. This was sometimes a burden to the parent, and I still recall being told that. As a result, my sister was my constant companion until I reached college. I hadn’t learned many of the intricacies of how to develop a friendship carefully, how to water it and help it to grow. Growing a friendship is an art. I’m still learning, but I am much better. I am a better friend, and I am better at choosing my friends.
When we lived in Weston, I had a small group of friends that I met with regularly. In church circles, they call them ‘accountability groups’ or other such names. For most women, it generally involves several key factors: only women invited, coffee is a must if meeting in the morning, food is a requirement whenever you meet, sharing what struggles you are contending with (trials is the key Christian phrase), and prayer. It may or may not include a Bible study or devotion. Everything is to be held in confidence among the members, and yet everyone knows that someone or everyone is repeating some of what was said. Hopefully if you are in one, you do not repeat the vulnerable information. That is not being a good friend at all. I have, as I said, learned some things about friendship.
Our group totaled four women. I cannot remember how we came together except that we knew each other from our church. We had an age span of probably three decades. The eldest was married since forever to a prominent local executive, and was about ten years older than me. The second woman had been married several years and was expecting twins. The third was practically a newlywed whose husband had been widowed. The only thing that we all had in common was our faith, but that was enough. It was more than enough.
We met at my home each week, and grew very close to each other. As I mentioned, we met one week and I was having difficulty walking. I was trying to hide this fact. I really don’t know why except that I don’t like attention drawn to myself. It didn’t go unnoticed, however. Each person begged me to have it checked out by my physician. Wausau, the neighboring city, had a population of 38,426 according to the 2000 census. This translates to meaning that everybody knows everybody. Okay, someone got left off the food chain. The other 38,425 people all knew each other. As it turned out, each one of these friends knew someone who had MS. They knew my family physician. My family physician was in the same building with my neurologist because there was only one primary medical building. When I found out my diagnosis on June 27, 1997, I didn’t think much of it. I didn’t contact anyone in my family, any of my friends. I drove home, got out of the car with my new crutches, and there was my next-door neighbor Kris.
Kris. She was delightful. We’ve had the best neighbors everywhere we go. Just thinking of her makes me smile, warms my heart. She told me when we moved to Wisconsin that if we stayed long enough for our daughter to marry someone local, she would have a Polish name. We found that humorous, and yet it was so indicative of our neighbors’ last names. Our first Christmas letter was signed, ‘Love, the Ayerski’s’ in honor of our new home state. We shared laughs, tears, decorating ideas, builder complaints. She saw me hobbling outside the garage, trying to figure out how I was going to work these crutches and begin to walk.
Kris walked across the lawn and asked why I had crutches. Knowing me, I had not even mentioned I had a doctor’s appointment that day. I explained briefly what had transpired and the resulting diagnosis. BOOM! The first one to bite the dust. Yes, Kris fainted right in front of me. Now that’s not good. Fortunately someone witnessed this and was able to assist her. There is more than a little irony in that story, and I am likely minimizing it in my memory as I write this. I was known as the neighborhood pyromaniac because of my love of building fires. The news spread faster than any of my fires. People were amazing beyond what I could have ever asked or imagined. ***EPH. *** As soon as we returned from vacation, I had meals brought in, central air conditioning was installed (This was an optional feature on homes costing $500,000 - $750,000 at the time due to the climate. We overlooked this ‘minor’ detail during the inspection.). People came and sat with me all day to ensure when I woke that I could get safely to the restroom. They fed me, literally. I would wake up and someone would be reading Bible verses over me. People took my children to Vacation Bible School all summer. My son Austin was beginning kindergarten in the fall at a private school, which meant no buses. A friend I knew casually from his preschool drove him to and from school every single day I was unable to do so. I would become overwhelmed at times by the care, and God would send memories flashing back to me of things I had done for others. It is His bank account, not mine. ***PHIL. 4:19***