Double-Sided Stone

The idea that multiple sclerosis may be caused by some form of
infectious agent is supported by several interesting observations.
On the Faroe Islands prior to 1920, MS was essentially unknown.
Subsequent to the invasion of British troops, the incidence of MS
increased dramatically.

It occurs to you later that the moment of learning is inevitably transformative, intrinsically so, apart from all the other crap you learn later.

Anyway, the logical flaws in the composition of this article are interesting. Never mind the clear conclusion that the only MS was brought by the British. The critical premise regards the desire to be aware. Dismiss the popular urge to prevent, to avoid....Then why this neoPuritanism? Can we not embrace our life in safety and moderation? But I relinquish my stump. I question the fundamental utility of this research. (I am satisfied with my fatalism, though I understand the curiosity. But look! Ain't fuck-all to be done about what has happened to me, what I lost, what was taken. It fucked up a good thing, and I'm still a shade bitter. But things are not bad right now.) Consider these two relatively diametric positions.
This is the first I have heard of symptomatic relief.
Then there is the other one which regards a putative cause of the condition. My question is: what now? Just keep taking your meds and quit whining.

regarding vulnerability and dissolution

After a few days of having steroids pumped into my body, reeling under its own attack, one more pernicious than any I could consciously ordain, a stream of hot water was soaking me when a nurse came to perform her duty. Meaning to stare at me like some kind of medical experiment she didn't understand. I didn't like this one; I never learned her name. Masculinely unattractive, frizzy underpaid hair, prone to guffawing at her colleagues in a proletarian spirit. "If you needed help, why didn't you come out to get someone?" I was wearing flimsy hospital gown bottoms and my shorts, and I was drenched. I glared at her. "It's a matter of modesty." She had not apparently heard this word before, because she kept staring as if snakes would erupt from my forehead. Never mind that I would have fallen in a second.
After some time, Andrea arrived. She had her act together. "You took a shower with your clothes on? All right, get up then, easy now." I grabbed the handrail and before I could so much as squeak, she had soaped and rinsed my lower portions. A dry set of substandard garments awaited me in the corner.
During the moments that had passed while the alert with the string tied to it summoned Andrea's competence (In ignorance, I credit some of this to her race.. I wonder if black nurses have to work harder to achieve and maintain their positions, and so take their jobs more seriously.. Probably not necessarily though; I wonder what scathing words my aunt (white) and my godmother (black) would have for me now, in defense of nurses in general), I sat happily on my plastic chair, blissfully solitary, as the warm water soaked me. Ahhh, I thought, that is better for a while.
The irrelevance of identity is astonishing at first. The biological aspects of your existence that bear no names, that enjoy no predilections, that do not recognize charm and arrogance: these will become dominant. Until now, you have never been conscious of your brain. It simply does what you tell it with predictability tedious enough to provoke a lifetime of intoxication. On this quotidian platform, any decent structure may be erected. Toward a love of philosophy and language, for example.
But give the substrate only a slight shake, and everything is brought into question. It's been about two weeks since I used my right hand. Grasp? I cannot point. Writing is way off in the distance, if anywhere. I use my left (I am not left-handed), my legs, and my teeth for most things. I open jars by securing them between my feet.
This is still very new to me.