For a few years now, my husband has insisted that I possess a special gift. I can curtsy without meaning to. There are probably places where that would be considered a useful skill. The grocery store is an unusual venue for it, but apparently my body doesn’t concern itself with those details.
I can be looking around, taking in what’s on the shelves, and suddenly there’s that little dip. A movement I didn’t plan and would prefer to have some say in. My husband’s description at least gives us something to call it. “Curtsy” has a certain dignity to it that “my balance just did something strange again” lacks.
The shopping cart helps. It gives me something to hold on to while I move through a place with a lot going on. People, shelves, choices, things passing through my field of vision. Shopping asks you to keep looking from one thing to another, which sounds like an ordinary enough activity until your body starts adding its own contribution.
I’ve also noticed my eyes skipping in the kitchen. That’s another one of those things that’s difficult to describe until you’ve experienced it. You’re in a familiar place doing familiar things, and something in the way you’re taking it all in feels off. Having words for it matters. So does being able to describe it when I’m working with neuro physical therapy, even if my first explanation doesn’t sound particularly technical.
I have multiple sclerosis. This is one part of what living with it looks like for me. Sometimes it looks like an adjustment so small that the person next to me might not know I’m making it. Keep a hand on the cart. Pay attention to how I’m moving. Notice what happens when I look around.
I can laugh at the name my husband has given it and still get frustrated. I’d like to be thinking about what we need from the store. Instead, part of my attention is occupied with something that used to require much less of it. There’s a little extra work tucked into the ordinary errand.
That extra work is part of what led my husband and me to talk about a service dog. We’d discussed the possibility while our Doberman Keno was still alive. Eventually, those conversations became part of the plan that brought Whiskey into our lives. There’s a whole story there, including a young dog with his own ideas about walking speed.
For now, there’s the cart, the practice, and a husband who has found a way to make an inconvenient movement sound rather elegant. I appreciate the humor. I’d still prefer to choose when I perform.
So if I happen to curtsy in the cereal aisle, there’s no need to make a fuss. A small nod will do. It’s only polite to acknowledge visiting royalty.