NAMING THE MONSTER

Name (n): a word or set of words by which a person, animal, place, or thing is known, addressed, or referred to.

Names are important. And people are namers.  We name things.  We name our children, we name our pets, we name our streets, and our boats. And some of us name our cars.  Names help us differentiate one person from another, one thing from another.  Names help us keep track. They help us remember who or what we are dealing with.  And sometime the names we use are  based on how we feel.  We use formal names, and nicknames. And sometimes, we call people that we don’t like by names that they don’t like. On purpose.

Some people have interchangeable names like Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne and Diana Prince (well, close enough). Apparently this interchangeable thing is a common phenomenon among Super Hero types… Also, I once took a class with a girl named Kelly Kelly. Really I did. That doozie of a name is the epitome of interchangeable.  

And then there are those people who only need one. One name.  A single name is enough of an identifier… If you are known by a single name, you are a mononymous person...(Just call me Wynette, the Wikopedia Wonder for finding that word and let me just say, that word is a real treat on the tongue! Have you tried pronouncing it yet?  Go ahead, try, I’ll wait…) Cher and Madonna and Liberace and Shrek, all mononymous.  I think that would be cool…Wynette.  Nothing else. Just Wynette…Sweet.  Maybe one day.

Parents have the job of selecting names for their children and they often like to have a theme.  My parents apparently liked W’s and I am one of 3. Maybe they had some sense that I would be a Wahls Warrior one day…Wynette, the Wahls Warrior…Neat.  My brother set aside his W name and pretty much has always gone by his middle name, but my sister and I have kept our W’s front and center. They, my sister and brother, also both have middle names that begin with a J, so until my sister married, they shared the same monogram, WJF.  Mine was the only one that differed. They are also different from me in that they both have at least one of three names that falls within the mainstream.  Normal. Average even. Not me. I am not even on the banks of the stream.  I am way out in the middle of the field and you can’t even see the stream from there.  I am blessed with a name that is unique at all 3 levels…first, middle, and last. There are few on the planet that share any of my 3 parts and I’m pretty certain when all put together, I am a one of a kind combination.  It used to bother me, the uniqueness of my name.  In school on the first day, when teachers were doing roll call, as the teacher made her way down the list alphabetically, she would call out “Susan Evans”, Susan would say here, and then the long pause would come, and in the silence  I would say “Here, and it’s Wynette Fabrega”.  And so I am 0 for 3 in the “normal” names category.

My name was one of the things my brother used against me when he would try to convince me that I was adopted.  “Sure, you have a W, but you have no J and you are left handed, blue eyed, and your name is 100% abnormal.”  The universe paid him back, though.  Once, I hit him in the forehead with a Jart… (you will have to look it up for yourself if you don’t know what a Jart is, this is a long story and frankly I don’t have that kind of time). This incident was not my fault, however…He was dumb enough to stand behind a 4 year old swinging a pointy metal tipped object, and also it is not my fault if letting go at the right time has never been my strong suit. Plus anyway, it hardly even left a scar…

It used to bother me, the uniqueness of my name. Now it doesn’t.  I guess I’m finally growing up, a least a little bit. 

My sister used the letter J for each of her kids names, some first, some middle, and my mom has no middle name at all.  I went with a dead Presidents theme for my kids… I didn’t plan it that way, it was hindsight theme.   My brother’s kids all have their own individually unique names and follow no pattern at all other than that they are each wonderfully uniquely talented individuals.

When my Dad was in the state legislature in Montana, there was a man there by the name of Harold Pitts.  I’m sure when little Harry was first named, the proper term for that part of the body which lies beneath the shoulders was underarms, otherwise his parents were just plain cruel. Generally, we tend to call those people we like by that which they prefer to be called. I’m guessing Mr. Pitts preferred Harold over Harry. Go figure.  I try to call people I like by the name they prefer.  Well mostly.  Sometimes there are nicknames that I use that may not be preferred but they are at least tolerated. I have a coworker I call Cupcake and a pair of lifelong family friends that I call Wiggles and Saliva.  Not likely their monikers of choice, but they know I love them and they humor me. 

And then, every now and then, there are those people where I know their name, but I don’t use it.  I don’t use it because they have made me mad. So, sometimes I resort to name calling.  I have flaws. I am a work in progress.  In my defense, if Mr. Douchebag next door would just park his car where it is supposed to be parked, I would be happy to call him by his preferred name.

When I was initially diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis, with the exception of 2 specific incidents that I will leave for later, I actually took it pretty well. In some ways it was a relief.  A relief to finally have answers for the undiagnosed symptoms that had popped up from time to time over the years, and a relief that I didn’t have something far worse.  For me, MS is not a death sentence, it is a life sentence.  A change your life sentence.  I had bombarded my body with preservatives and chemicals and pesticides and an unhealthy diet for years. If not for the MS diagnosis, I was likely headed for Heart Disease and/or Diabetes, and/or Cancer or some other nasty concoction of maladies and afflictions.  So, when discussing my diagnosis with friends and family, in part, my attitude was “It’s all good…this is the kick in the butt that I needed to do things differently.” And then I would follow that statement up with “We all have our stuff, I just know what mine is”…Or said another way, We all have our monsters, and I know my monster’s name.

I know my monster’s name is Multiple Sclerosis or MS for short, but it is rare that I actually think of it or refer to it by its formal name. Instead, I think of it as the Monster. I refer to it as the Monster for a few reasons.  For one thing, MS is my Monster but it might not be yours.  We are Warriors fighting side by side, fighting the Monster, but the Monster standing in front of me may not look the same or have the exact same name as the Monster standing in front of you.  And also, MS maybe isn’t my only Monster.  I may have the whole cast of Monsters Inc. out there… lurking.  I don’t want to just focus on the one whose name I happen to know.  I want all of the Monsters to know that I know they are out there and that I am willing to fight them all.

Because I have seen the Monster and I know its name… because it has shown itself and is no longer jumping in and out of the shadows, I am better equipped to fight.  Because I know its name, I have been able to adopt the right Monster fighting manuals and find the right Monster fighting mentors. I am lucky to be studying under a trilogy of masters.  I’m a Wahls Warrior who incorporates PaleoMom principals, and I have a Mercola mentality.  So, I listen to the Masters and I try my best to practice what I have learned and I use all the weapons at my disposal to fight the Monster.  I am a Warrior. A Wahls Warrior. So Monsters beware.

So, mostly I refer to MS as the Monster, but also, when I do or say something or feel in such a way that may be symptomatic of MS, I have another name that I call it.  I call it “Mad Cow”.  If I stumble…Mad Cow.  If I can’t think of a word…Mad Cow. If I am searching frantically everywhere for my car keys only to finally realize that the key ring is looped around my finger…Mad Cow. When I laugh so hard I pee a little, I claim Mad Cow…OK, so that may or may not actually be Mad Cow related…I had 2 babies and those muscles have never been quite the same since…let’s just say no jumping on the trampoline for me unless I have totally emptied the bucket first…TMI? Too bad.  My blog, my rules.  

There are a few different reasons that I call my Monster the Mad Cow. First, it lightens my mood and allows me to laugh at myself and laugh at the Monster.  It makes me and people in my life laugh.  And laughing makes me feel good. And feeling good makes me feel stronger…better able to fight.  Also, there are times that I want to talk about the Monster behind its back.  Times when I am tired and I don’t want the Monster to notice me… times when I just want to let sleeping Monsters lie. And sometimes, I call the Monster the Mad Cow simply to be defiant.  It is my way of letting the Monster know that I know it is out there. My way of letting it know it doesn’t scare me…that I may have it, but it doesn’t have me. It is my way of giving the Monster the finger. Of standing toe to toe with it and looking it straight in the eyes and saying…screw you Monster!

Turite puiki diena!

(That’s “Have a nice day” in Lithuanian.  No reason…I just felt like learning a little Lithuanian today.)