MS accepts a blind date

I spent this morning on the phone with a Surfer Dude who apparently moonlights as a representative for the World’s Friendliest Drug Company. It’s a bit unreal, this detailed enrollment process that I have to go through for the privilege of giving myself daily jabs.

“So when were you diagnosed?” Surfer Dude asked.

“Well, Monday,” I said, trying to avoid any complete sentences that might be overheard by my cohort in the cubicle farm.

“Woah,” Dude replied. “So this is like totally new for you.”

“Yep,” I laughed. Must be some kind of defense mechanism, laughing, because I’ve been chuckling a lot these days at completely inappropriate topics.

We went through a host of topics that ran the gamut from the usual questions to the more surreal. Dude offered me several complementary programs from the WFDC; at one point, I felt like I was signing up for the world’s strangest dating service.

“We have a match program where we try to set you up with someone, you know, close to your age, with like your same interests, so you can talk with her about her, like, experiences with the drug.” Dude sounded very enthusiastic.

I mulled over this proposal. On the one hand, I’m already loathe to do all of the MS Things that all of my incredibly helpful friends and family are suggesting. It feels selfish and shitty to resent their offers for coffee dates with fellow MS-afflicted women, or nutritional advice from friends of friends. When you live 2000 miles from home, of course people who know and love you want to do what they can to help. The least I can do is be grateful. Still, I’m having a hard enough time letting this whole experience sink in; I hate the fact that my old church and several of my parents’ coworkers know that I have MS; and I sort of want to carry on with live as normal. Well, “normal” as can be in light of giving up many much-loved gluten and dairy foods, learning to love the autoinjector, and being set up on a blind date by Surfer Dude.

After giving Dude the helpful background information that would result in a good match (“Oh, so you’re like an outdoorsy type!”), and agreeing that my date could contact me by email, I left my insurance information on file and hung up to wait for a contract nurse practitioner’s call. She – or he, you sexist bitch, grumbled my brain – will be the one who comes to my house and elbows aside one extremely helpful kitten so I can learn how to give proper injections. I have to say, I look forward to housecleaning more than this.

Still and all, the WFDC is pretty remarkable so far: I hadn’t expected to be treated like a real person, and it was refreshing for Dude to be so blasé about my diagnosis. Sure, it’s what he’s paid to do, but I am so very glad to have at least one stranger out there who doesn’t bat an eye when he hears about the situation. Though I want to love and appreciate everyone’s concern, it’s not coming naturally.