Inspiration comes from the strangest places. Last night, I started watching the BBC series “Sherlock,” on Netflix. In the first episode, John Watson is speaking with his therapist about his blog.(Yes, it’s a thoroughly modern take on Sherlock Holmes.) In the course of their conversation, it came out that he had not written a single word. The therapist told him that the whole point was to write about everything that happened to him. Watson replied that, “Nothing ever happens to me.” As anyone who has ever experienced the stories of Sherlock Holmes will know, a lot of things are about to happen the John Watson.

I don’t write in this blog very often, I suppose for the same reason that John Watson doesn’t write in his. It is very easy to shrug and say, “Well, nothing ever happens to me.” It’s all a matter of perspective, and perhaps if I look closely I will find things that happen to me every day.

I had an appointment with my neurologist yesterday. We have recently gone from four visits a year down to two, which I take to mean, cynically I suppose, that there’s not much that we have to talk about. It certainly was true in this appointment. MS continues to progress at a snails pace through my body, to the point where it’s hard to notice the changes. I returned, about two weeks ago, from a weeklong stay at my sister-in-law’s house in Florida. It has been my experience (from all of my vast world traveling,) that it takes me at least two or three weeks to recover from these trips. So a lot of the increased stiffness and fatigue and aches and pains are probably the result of the rigors of flying in tiny airplanes, disruption in daily routine, etc. When my neurologist asked me how I was feeling, I had to think back before the trip and try to remember how I felt way back then. She ran through the various strength and flexibility tests, pushing on my upraised arms and hands, and testing the resistance of my leg muscles, and I was startled to see how much they had changed since the last time we had done this, six months ago. She gave me her usual admonishments to get more exercise, try to get better sleep, and then we were done.

I wheeled myself back out to the waiting room, a little sad that it seems we have reached a point where there is little for she and I to talk about. As I left the exam room, she asked if there was anything she could do for me, although I think we both knew there was nothing.

Out in the waiting room, I met up with my faithful driver (thanks for the banana bread, Kathleen!). Another patient had just come into the waiting room, and Kathleen realized that it was someone that she knew. They exchanged a few words, and Kathleen and I went off to the elevator to go back down to the parking lot. Kathleen mentioned that this woman was a reader of One Life, something which always surprises me. As some other bloggers might know, it often feels like I am casting my posts out into the empty void. So it is always nice discover that there are actual real humans reading my verbal wanderings, few and far between as they have been.

Anyway, I guess all this boils down to the fact that I would like to make more of an effort to find something to write about in this blog more frequently, whether it has to do with multiple sclerosis or not. Way back when I started, I never intended it to be solely about multiple sclerosis. Often I feel like John Watson, in that it seems nothing ever happens to me. But perhaps if I make more of an effort, I will find some little things to share here and there. I hope you’ll do the same.


Author: stephen

stephen harris is a writer, painter and a photographer who lives with his family in maine.

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