My right is your left.

Making one's needs clear is not as easy as it might seem, this writer discovered, even though words are her professional stock in trade.

"Please move my right leg to the left," I calmly ask my nurse, Rebecca, after she places me in my wheelchair.

"No, my right leg, the RIGHT ... the RIGHT ... NO!! You're moving my left leg!"

"It is your right," insists Rebecca, pointing to her right leg.

"No," I yell, "That's your right ... your right is my left!"

By now, Rebecca is ready to break both of my legs.

Before MS imprisoned my arms and legs, I explained what I needed and used my hands to point out the what and where. Now, I can no longer participate but only observe how I am moved when I need to adjust all or parts of my body, scratch an itch, brush my teeth, comb my hair, or eat a meal.

Right/Left confusion is a serious problem for me, my nurses, my family and friends. Asking an able-bodied person who doesn't understand spatial relations to turn an object over and around is as frustrating as locating the exact spot to scratch when my scalp itches. Some people aren't very good at processing left-right. Others find it confusing to visualize movements from any perspective but their own. And sometimes the problem is simply anxiety. People are so eager to help me -- their eagerness interferes with their ability to hear the details.

My nurses work hard and blame themselves when they can't ease my discomfort. They're wrong. It is not their fault. They are wonderful and incredibly patient with me.

In truth, I am a nurse's worst nightmare. Interpreting my directives is no small task. Within a few minutes they may have to move all or part of my body ten times in ten different directions. A mistake can precipitate spasms, pain, and the need for more positioning of more parts. This can go on and on. The situation has forced me to begin a new career: Word Cop.

For example, if Rebecca is facing me, my right is her left. However, my right is her right if she is behind me. There are also word traffic-jams about in/out, top/bottom, forward/ back, lean/shift/turn. My nurses cringe when I ask them to lean my shoulders slightly to the right and then shift the left shoulder forward.

It gets even worse. If I ask someone to turn my heel, my entire leg goes along for the ride. Or I get more than I need. My twin sister, Patricia, for example, is so pleased when she moves the correct part of the correct leg the correct distance to the correct location that she figures if one is good, two is better. So she moves my other leg.

I've considered pasting giant R and L stickers all over my body, but I don't want to look like a Christmas tree. Fortunately, I have discovered some less flamboyant techniques that can substantially ease this confusion.

For example, Rebecca often stands behind me, making "right", "left", "up", or "down," the same for both of us. I also now use objects as reference points. When I want my right leg moved to the left, I'll ask Rebecca to pick up the leg nearest to the door and move it towards the window. And we confirm all instructions. Before making an adjustment, Rebecca will touch my right leg and point to the left to make sure it's correct.

"Please turn my right heel out," used to be the six most dreaded words in my body adjustment vocabulary. Now, to avoid calamity, Rebecca puts her hand on my right heel: "This one?" "Just the heel?" "Out, just his way?"

We have worked out a vocabulary to describe movements and body parts. I say "rotate" my knee instead of "turn"; the "top" part of my foot is now called "the upper part"; "lean" my shoulders is now "push" my shoulders.

I have also found it helps to explain movements in stages, using specifics: "Please lift my right elbow." "The one closest to you." "Just the elbow." "Now, move it out to the side and place it on the arm pad."

Sometimes I wonder what my nurses find more frustrating -- the old right/left confusion or the tedium of listening to five minutes of my instructions in order to make an adjustment that takes only a few seconds. So I want my nurses, family and friends to know how grateful I am for their efforts, kindness, and especially their endurance .... I really hate to tell Rebecca that now I have an itch on the left side of my right shoulder.