Monthly Archives: March 2014

That’s All Folks

that's all!Well, that’s me, wrapping up the blog.

I’ve been writing since just after my diagnosis, through the legal case at work and throughout coming to terms with MS and all it entails.

Without your support and feedback, this blog would not have happened.  A huge thank you to you all for reading and commenting.

What a journey! We had fun. We laughed and cried. The Teenager grew up (and then some).

All that is left to say is Thank You. XXX

Energy Overkill

exhaustedI seem to be in a remission of sorts.

Saying that, I still trip over my feet, the cat, cobwebs, etc. I still lurch in the shower, find shampoo bottles impossible to squeeze and hold onto walls in my house whilst pinballing round corners.

But – I have energy. Energy! An odd, highly intoxicating concept.

And typically for me, I am exploiting it to the max -who knows how long it will last? I could be unplugged within the next hour, tomorrow, next week, so boy, am I going to make the most of it.

The downside is, I crash and burn any time between 7 and 10pm, woken from my gentle slumbers on the sofa by The Teenager turning the light on in the fridge, ferreting around for stray yoghurts that escaped his first food-finding mission.

And when I say crash and burn, I mean it quite literally. I can be absorbed in a book, a TV programme, my diary and suddenly I feel my eyelids growing heavier, shutting up shop for the day. Just when I think, ‘must stand up, must move away from the sofa, now, this minute’, blam. Sudden oblivion.

I am heading for a fall, stumbling on the knife-edge. Something’s got to give, I just don’t know when. I’m a gambler. I make pacts with MS, who has never been the fairest of players. Why am I doing this? I have been swept along by The Energy, but it has to be repaid in some form.

I make mistakes. I think I can do more than I should. Which is why my right arm is bandaged up and I have sprained my ankle. I am covered in bruises from moving quicker than I really should. I’m hobbling around, mentally exhausted but still physically moving on.

I reconcile this danger with the sheer pleasure of being released from the daily grind of MS. Or have I just got used to it? Thinking about it, even though I believe I have energy now, it’s nothing compared to how I used to feel, pre-MS.

Inwardly, I am tired. Externally, I am pushing myself far too far. When will I crash? Probably sooner than later.

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What Would You Say?

life insuranceThe worst thing about my job is having to listen to commercial radio all day long when I’m on site.

Ten songs on a loop, one inane competition, kerrr-aazzy DJ’s and endless adverts.

But one creepy advert has piqued my interest. It’s by Legal & General, the insurance company. They ask, ‘What would you say to your younger self?’.

i.e. would you tell your 20 year old self to buy life insurance as you will in all likelihood die one day or sign up for critical illness cover as you will probably become very ill at some point? You get the picture.

They trade in fear. Sure, it’s great to have fun when you’re younger, but It Won’t Last and if you’re not ‘protected’, then tough luck. And yes, it’s wonderful to find that special person, but hey, they could die. Suddenly. And then where would you be? Tsk.

Anyway, this got me thinking. At the grand old age of (whisper) 40, do I really have anything earth-shattering to say to my younger self? Seems a bit of a pointless exercise, but fun nonetheless. So here goes:

  • Never wear stripy tights. And blue eyeshadow doesn’t suit you.
  • Your heart will be broken but it will mend.
  • Childbirth is gobsmackingly painful. Be prepared.
  • Experiences are worth far more than material goods.
  • It’s more fun to have a glass of water in The Dorchester than a glass of champagne down the local.
  • Today is the youngest you will ever be, so make the most of it.
  • Don’t waste money on self-help books. You already have the answers.
  • Accept every single challenge life throws at you with grace.

I’m feeling every single one of my years right now. The Teenager will be flying the nest within the next couple of years. I have wrinkles. In odd places. I’m a mere ten years away from being eligible for a Saga holiday.

But the whole point of youth is to explore, make mistakes, make more mistakes. Love and lose, fight and fall. It’s when we forge our identities. So if I was offered the chance to go back in time, I probably wouldn’t take it. All those ‘mistakes’ taught me valuable lessons.

And would I tell myself I would be diagnosed with MS in my 30’s? No way. Why spoil the party?

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48 Hours

home aloneHa Lay Loo Ya!

Much as I adore The Teenager (and he is totes cute), it’s always a little bit lovely to have the house all to myself when he goes to London for the weekend.

The house. To myself. For 48 delicious hours. I always have such great plans. This weekend I will mostly:

  • Put a face pack and hair mask on.
  • Eat a £10 meal deal all on my own (shame I ate the starter and dessert yesterday. Oops).
  • Wear a kimono after a long, long shower without being laughed at.
  • Talk to the plants, especially Bertie.
  • Go to bed early with a pile of magazines and a new book. 
  • Desperately catch up on Book Club book I have yet to read. We meet on Monday, gah.
  • Handwrite a pile of cards to my dear friends I have shamefully neglected recently.
  • Listen to music really, really loud on my headphones without worrying that The Teenager is yelling at me from upstairs.

In reality, I will do none of these things. I’m kidding myself. I will mostly be:

  • Making inroads into my teetering pile of ironing.
  • Organising new house insurance. ‘Citing.
  • Cleaning the microwave. And maybe the oven if I’m feeling adventurous.
  • Changing the cat litter tray.
  • Putting clean sheets on the bed.
  • Talking to the plants.
  • Scrubbing the grout in the bathroom with an old toothbrush (strangely therapeutic).

Why do I do this? I should be out, painting the town a slightly murky, dusky pink.

I could be theatering, cinemaring, bar hopping, gadding about town. I guess the grass is always greener. When I would like to go out, I can’t. When I can’t, I’m stunned by inertia (aka laziness).

I will no doubt end up in bed at 7pm, shattered by working all week and being called ‘Half Shift’ at regular intervals. My cunning plan to learn Japanese over the weekend will be shelved. I will also not be teaching myself macrame. Or decoupage. Or glass painting.

I will stick to one of my first points though. I will blast out ‘I Am Woman’, shortly followed by ‘Those Were The Days My Friend’. And if I’m feeling particularly maudlin, you can’t beat a bit of Velvet Underground.

Don’t panic. It’s not a pity party. It’s a ‘can’t be bothered’ party…

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A Sad, Wan Little Face…

man fluThe Teenager has been poorly.

To make sure he wasn’t blagging, I immediately ran the Playstation Test – waving the controller in front of him to check for a response. Nothing.

Just to make absolutely certain, I resorted to the Nutella Test, offering to fetch him some toast slathered in the stuff. Not a flicker.

Oh. It was probably serious.

The Teenager is rarely ill, so when he is, he seems to display a dazzling array of symptoms, as if he’s been saving them up for a special occasion. Luckily he made it to the loo in time (and time again), the Bloo was changed and I sloshed a bottle of bleach around (in the toilet, not on The Teenager).

He lay in bed, tossing and turning. I then heard through the rugby-grapevine that a load of kids had been felled by the same bug. All Sunday and into Monday I was the butler/nursemaid. I fetched this, I carried that, I soothed and reassured. I had to work part of Monday so my mum took over, dashing down to my house with sandwiches and treats plus the ubiquitous biscuits for the cat (she’s not daft, she hears my mum coming a mile off).

She called me in work – ‘Well, he’s had half a sandwich, a wee bit of lettuce and some Smarties and the cat’s had all her biccies. Oh and I found that dead bird she left outside and put it in your recycling bin, dear. It was a robin, poor thing.’

By Monday evening, he was returning to normal, managing a short Skype call with his friend – ‘yeah, it was mega – all over the bathroom, you should have seen it.’ By Tuesday, he was wolfing down a pie, asked for chocolate and watched a football match on telly. All back to normal. A sigh of relief.

He was packed off to school this morning, totally recovered and no doubt with a stronger immune system but without his chemistry homework completed. All was right with the world again.

I got to work. Gah. The boss turns up clutching a medical cupboard full of cough/indigestion/headache/throat tablets. He’s unable to eat his usual morning pastry and orders an immune-boosting smoothie at our coffee-house catch up meeting instead of his usual caramel macchiato. Here we go again.

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