Fingerprints on the Brain—a Self-Identity Crisis

My first attack was after army reserve training. It had been exciting, but strenuous in the extreme. Two weeks of throwing myself at the ground, crawling over rocks on my knees and elbows while blank cartridges whizzed and popped around me. It was the longest two weeks of my life. They said at the beginning, if you're still there on Day 16, you've won. I was so happy — elated — to have made it through, I didn't think much about what was going on with my body.

Just two days after

Two days after the course, I could still feel the massive army pack towering above my head. I still felt like it was clipped across my chest, squeezing my rib cage. There was a tight band around my thighs. When I tipped my head forward, a jolt of electricity buzzed in my fingers. The neurologist placed the scan on a lightbox. It was covered in smudges. 'My gosh,' I thought. 'Someone has touched the prints!' I didn't want to have that MRI again. Plain as day, I could see fingertips over my brain. Someone had ruined the scan. But I didn't say anything. I just looked at it, wide-eyed. Like a kindly teacher, the neurologist wasn't concerned. She pointed at the fingerprints and called them a name.

They were lesions, she said

'In cases of multiple sclerosis, you can see where the demyelination has caused the symptoms.' I couldn't really follow it. She mentioned multiple sclerosis twice. I finally asked, 'Do you think I have some mild form of multiple sclerosis?' She said, 'Yes, it's definitely multiple sclerosis.'I was stunned. 'It's a textbook case,' she said.

It was a shock to incorporate an illness into my self-identity

I didn't know if I could manage that. I was a fighter. I was a leader, commanding troops of infantry. I was creative. A playwright. An actor. I was not this thing - a sickard. That was Them. Not I. It was not part of my identity. I looked again at my gray, ruined brain scans. That was me. I'd been touched by a hand. I could even see the fingerprints. Maybe I'd get better? Maybe I'd be in a wheelchair? Maybe it wouldn't stop me, but make me focus on what mattered. Maybe it was a gift. Maybe it was however I decided to define it. I thanked the neurologist for her calmness and went back to the office. This was my opportunity. Surely there was a silver lining somewhere. My job was to find it.