My grandmother, Nana, was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis before I was born, in the late seventies/early eighties. At the time she was diagnosed, there was no treatment for the disease, nevermind research for a cure. There was absolutely nothing the doctor could do for her--so he didn't tell her of her diagnosis. Instead, he told my grandfather. My grandfather died of a heart attack without ever telling Nana of her diagnosis. So while Nana knew something was very wrong, she did not know what it was.
When Nana finally knew what was wrong there still wasn't anything she could do about it. Walking was becoming difficult for her, and by the time I was born in 1986, she was walking with the aid of canes. Before much longer had passed, she was using a motorized scooter to get around. I don't think my little brother has any memories of her moving around without it. While my early memories of going to visit Boston involved Dad driving around in Nana's car equipped with handicap hand controls, later memories are of driving around in a van with a handicap lift she could use to get her electric scooter on board.
As the years went by, Nana needed more help doing what many people would consider basic activities. First she would use her grabber contraption to get glasses on and off higher shelves. Later she would need assistance when going to the bathroom--not because of any issues with her bladder or kidneys, but because she could not transfer herself from scooter to toilet and back without help. Eventually she would have help come to her apartment in the mornings and evenings to help her in and out of bed. But through it all, Nana maintained her independence, living in her own condo until the day she died. She is one of the strongest women I could ever hope to meet.
I first learned of the National Multiple Sclerosis Society (NMSS) through my dad's involvement with the Society. He served on their board of trustees of the local chapter, the Southern California Chapter, when I was growing up. When I was looking for internships the summer after my junior year of college, I applied to the National Capital Chapter here in Washington, DC. I knew that I had a personal connection to the mission through Nana; I knew that I had the fundraising/development skills necessary through my work at Duke's Annual Fund; and I knew that I had the event planning skills from planning Gammas on the Green (a charity golf tournament put on by the Duke Chapter of Delta gamma). I was offered a position as Intern, Special Events where I helped with Capital Challenge Walk MS 2008.
As the Special Events Intern, a large portion of my job was sending out "Challenge Chatters," the e-newsletter that goes to participants of the upcoming Challenge Walk. In compiling these newsletters, I realized that everything we were telling our participants to do was something I could do. And that it was something I actively
wanted to do. So I signed up and sent my first fundraising email--to my sorority--and received a flood of support, as well as an email from one sister urging others to donate because her mother has MS. Since then, I haven't looked back.
The second year I participated, I emailed a few high school teachers, those I spoke with every time I went back, and received another email thanking me for my efforts from an unlikely source: the man who had run the tech for every musical I had been in. Dr. Parker had been recently diagnosed and was just beginning his journey with MS. His email reaffirmed my dedication to this event. Last year, in my third event, my dedication was reaffirmed yet again, this time by a colleague. This colleague, with whom I'd always been cordial and friendly, but never particularly close to, thanked me for sharing my story and shared his own as well: his friend's mother was also an MS patient.
It is hard to walk 50 kilometers. Each year, on the second day of the walk, I wonder to myself if I should sign up again for the next year. Last year I almost didn't turn in my registration form. But each time I renew my efforts, I am reminded
why I am doing this and
who I am doing it for. And each time someone shows their support for my efforts, I am reminded that I am making a difference that that eventually the words "you have MS" won't be an option.
Nana, I do this for you. I love you, and I miss you.
