I wrote this poem after I was diagnosed with M.S. I was trying to come to grips with it. I was 27 and had been married for three months. My wife was 19. I was in the first semester of a Bachelor of Arts program. I needed some direction on how I was going to deal with the rest of my life.

I had been looking for the answers to my strange collection of symptoms for about five years. The doctor's diagnosis had just put a big smile of relief on my face, but tears of hopeless despair in my new bride's eyes. My symptoms were: I lost all my strength with heat, sometimes I had trouble getting my hands to obey me, I had numbness in my feet and hands, a unique walking style reminiscent of a tipsy butler and inconsistent bladder control. These symptoms were sporadic and it is only with hind sight that I can link them to one problem. 

It has been 22 years since I was diagnosed. I am 49 ,in a wheelchair now and mostly housebound. My wife is still with me, the hopeless despair reasonably under control. We have been joined by two children, the birth of whom posed some interesting challenges. 

Although I may not have been able to take my children for a romp in the park, I have been able to delight their minds and imaginations with stories and mental games. By the time my daughter was two I had never taken her out to play ball but she gleefully counted with me to twenty-five in French as I did my morning exercises. The mind is the greatest gift we've ever received. For those of us who have been foolish enough to volunteer for M.S., remember humour will keep you running!