“How’s your handwriting?” she asked. I’m seeing a new MCAS specialist and she is digging into every area of my life.
Even my deepest, darkest, writerly secrets.
“Uh, not great,” I said, thinking of the bottom cabinet drawer in my kitchen. The one I never open. A rash began to prickle along the right side of my neck.
“Can you give me a handwriting sample?” she asked.
I stretched my hand, picked up a black pen, and wrote the following:
This handwriting test is significantly more comfortable than skin biopsies or brain swabs, less nerve-racking than a blood draw, and certainly less disgusting than harvesting a poop sample. However, as my hand starts to cramp, I would argue a pee test is easiest.
Although my service dog may disagree.
While Sancho is a master at the bathroom stall tuck, I struggle to maneuver my body gracefully in cramped places. I am stunned when clinics do not have ADA compliant bathrooms, let alone expect me to collect a sample in a space smaller than a bathtub. My unsteady hands do not discriminate between water, precious coffee, or in this case, urine. Just ask my sometimes pee sprinkled poodle.
So, I suppose you have a valid reason for this test.
On a scale of 1-10, I want to cut my hand off now, because it’s cramping and shaky.
I started journaling at age 7, when my grandma gave me a diary for Christmas. From then on, I knew I wanted to be a writer. However, it took several decades to realize I’m a humor writer.
Aspiring writers are quickly taught the benefits of handwriting. A pen and paper help us access our feelings and unleash creativity. There’s even science to back it up. Julia Cameron, author of The Artist’s Way, goes so far as to say, “Writing by computer is a more shallow practice.”
My journals are my most prized possession. I have at least one for every year of my childhood, preserving my best stories. However, as I got older, handwriting became more difficult. I struggled to focus on my story as the ache in my hand became unbearable. Eventually, I got a laptop, but guilt reminded me I should be filling notebooks.
When I was diagnosed with MCAS, I stopped arguing with my body. I assumed my mast cells were causing the weakness in my hands. Handwriting was unnecessarily hard with keyboards and dictation so readily available. I accepted my disability. Kind of.
I stopped handwriting, but I kept buying notebooks. Lots of notebooks: standard size spirals, pocket pads, designer bound journals. I stuffed them into the bottom drawer of my kitchen until they weighed so much the drawer almost broke.
I’m still clinging onto an image of what a writer should look like, but this is definitely not it.
As soon as I finished my writing sample, I chucked my pen across the table. My hand throbbed for at least 20 minutes. I sent my specialist a picture of the page.
“It looks good!” she responded encouragingly. She is more worried about my tremors and imbalance. I should be too, but right now I’m disappointed she didn’t definitively ban me from notebooks like she banned me from gluten. That would be so much easier than facing my feelings.
I know in my heart, or at least my hand, this is the end of The Drawer of Empty Pages.