Tears in my milkshake

So today I had my 4 month appointment with my neurologist.  He's so happy with how I'm doing, compared to last year.  This drug I'm on is working incredibly well.  He chuckles as I walk down the hallway, watching as I try my hardest not to fall to one side or the other.  "You definitely shouldn't become a tightrope walker any time soon" he says.  Soon?  I think.  Try, never.  But I quickly dismiss those negative thoughts.  I know he is just trying to make light of my clumsiness.  There is a pertinent question looming in my mind.  One I had been waiting to ask for weeks...but at the same time, scared to know the answer.  "What about the baby thing?" I say.  Stupid way to ask, I know.  I figure he'll understand what I am getting at.  And he does.  My nurse has already prepped him...she and I had talked about it during my monthly infusions.  "In your case...well you need another 2 years of stability,"    he says hesitantly. I literally feel like someone has just punched me in the gut.  Every breath of air leaves my body.  Tears begin...the kind you can't possibly control...the kind that comes from the depths of the soul.  Four years of anguish and anger...questions and pain and terror...it all floods out.  I cant stop it.  I apologize.   Through my little pity party, I tell him "I wish it would just go away."  "Me too," he says.  And I know he is sincere.  His children are about my age.  I'm sure it must be heartwrenching to be a doctor...to see pain...whether physical or emotional...every day.  "Don't give up yet...you're still young.  Believe it or not, 31 is still young."  "I know," I say.  But I really don't know.  As always, he tells me to "hang in there."  After a quick handshake, he is gone. I slowly slide off the table and into my sandals...I make my way down the hall to schedule my next appointment.  I stand there for at least 10 minutes, waiting for a lady and her kids to schedule her son's MRI.  I wonder what is wrong with him.  I feel so sorry for him...for myself.  My eyes well up with tears again.  I brush them away quickly...it is my turn.  I am met with a cheerful "How are you today?"  I just look at her...surely she can see my tear streaked face...my chest, beet red as it always gets when I'm upset.  "Fine." I reply.  I make my appointment.  "Have a nice day," she says as she hands me my appointment card.  "I will," I lie.  I wonder how often people lie when asked how they are doing.  I don't like asking that question anymore when I see people, especially if I know they have endured any kind of suffering.  Because I know they will lie.  I numbly walk to my car and climb inside.  I call my mom, even though I know she won't share in my grief.  Somehow, it still feels right to call mom when you're upset.  She has chosen to take the high road with me and ms.  She, like everyone else, feels like I should be happy that I have Camryn...that I should just enjoy her...and stop worrying about another child.
 So, I get this one precious childhood to enjoy...but I hadn't planned on that.  "Mommy's so sorry, sweetheart," I whisper.  So sorry that I can't give you a baby brother or sister.  So sorry that I got sick.  My plans were to have a big family and now, somehow, I've got to figure out what to do with my life.  I'm at a loss.  I finally get up with Mark to tell him what the dr. has said.  He reminds me of the tattoo I got on my hip a couple of months ago.  "Never lose hope," right? He says.  "God has other plans for us...for me."  I tell him again for the millionth time how frustrating it is to have a perfectly biologically normal body, capable of having babies, but at the same time, a disease that threatens to destroy it.  I want to scream.  I want to rid myself of this fate. But I can't.  I know I can't.  I think of all the trillions of people who have had babies without  having had to deal with ms at 27.  I become angry.  I think back to a time when I was so full of hope and looked so forward to my life...wondering what my children would look like....what their names would be.  I smile.  Those were good times.  But what do I do with my life, now so riddled with disease and disfunction?  I pray.  I ask God to take it all and make it into something beautiful...something only He can do.  And that means I must stop trying to figure it all out myself.  I should throw the pieces in the air and let them fall where they may and allow God to put them together.  I swing through the local Chick-fil-A drive through for a cookies and cream milkshake (a treat I seldom allow myself to enjoy.)  In minutes I'm headed toward home again.  And with milkshake in hand and tears streaming down my face, I give it to God.  I'm so tired of wondering...of wishing and waiting. The truth is, I will never be better.  This is my fate, whether I like it or not.  It's how I deal with it that matters.  But let it be known that I hate it, yes.  That this wasn't supposed to be my life.  But for whatever reason, it is and I must accept it and move on.