Monthly Archives: March 2013

Mar 21 2013
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Daily Life

Make Mine A Large One

With pleasure comes pain. The bacon butties and biscuits I have happily munched on since working for the builder have wreaked havoc on my figure, my muffin top morphing from a skinny raspberry into a full-blown, full-fat double chocolate chip with whipped cream on the side.

I had to face the awful reality that it was time for one of the most humiliating and sad events in any woman’s life.

Nope, I wasn’t going to join a slimming club, I was going jeans shopping. Guaranteed to strike fear into the heart, I was going to be very brave and thank my lucky stars that communal changing-rooms had been outlawed in the 1990’s, along with shoulder pads, dodgy perms and ra-ra skirts.

And so I found myself wandering around shops where the sales assistants were young, hip and terrifyingly thin, showcasing the latest hot-off-the press fashion looks. I furtively flicked through the rails, depressingly starting at the back where the larger sizes huddled in shame. A quick glance round and I shoved a couple of pairs over my arm, cleverly tucking the size labels inwards.

Off to the changing room where a tiny sylph-like creature smirked as she slowly counted my items, handed me a plastic disc and waved me off to a cubicle towards the back. Half an hour later, I was red-faced, exhausted and depressed. Whoever said skinny jeans suit everyone clearly lied.

My MS balance (or lack of it) turned trying on five pairs of jeans into a farce. One leg in and I was pinballing off the sides of the cubicle. Two legs in and I was jumping around like a demented person on a pogo-stick.

When I could finally stand still, I was lucky enough to see my sorry figure from numerous angles, many of which I had never seen before, thanks to the eight different mirrors. I really do need to pick up that kettlebell for longer than three minutes at a time.

I found a pair I could live with, handed it over at the cash desk, not fooling the girl at all when I announced, ‘Oh, I’m sure my friend will love these!’ I left the store, turned a sharp right and headed for sanctuary. A coffee shop, where I ordered a large latte with an extra shot and the biggest muffin I could find…

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Mar 19 2013
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Work and Studying

It’s Not Working….

When The Teenager was six, his class had to present a short talk about what their parents worked as.

According to reports, he proudly announced to the class that ‘My mummy studied for four years to become a psychopath and she has her own clinic where she sees people.’ A quick call from the school later, and I had reassured them that I was actually a homeopath.

Some would say they’re not dissimilar. Telling people you’re a homeopath is akin to confessing you boil up frog skins and sulphur under a full moon, whilst chanting naked, trusted cat by your side. According to the media, we are a bunch of charlatans and confidence-tricksters who prey on the vulnerable and disenfranchised.

The recession and ill-health forced me to take a sabbatical from my clinic and I miss it. Homeopathy never felt like work, it was a passion and for me, it was always complementary, never an alternative to orthodox medicine.

I am currently in the middle of looking for a new job. The builder can’t employ me forever and much as I like stomping around in my Caterpillar boots, eating bacon sarnies, slurping tea and reading The Sun, it’ll be time to move on soon.

Hours and hours of scrolling through countless job sites has left me shell-shocked and disheartened though. After putting in my location, the hours I want to work and my skill-set, I’m left with chambermaid, cleaner, carer and security guard jobs. I know there’s a recession on, but c’mon guys.

So a little idea is slowly taking shape in my mind. I finish my degree in October, my head will be clear(ish) and I could possibly re-open my clinic. MS has altered my planned career-path, so why not combine the homeopathy with the knowledge gleaned from this degree in health and social care? Hmm. If I had a brain, I’d be dangerous.

I’d like to have a job where I could make a difference, however small. Not just working for the sake of it.  Anyway, it’s just a thought for now. Who knows, my dream job may be just around the corner. Now excuse me while I light some incense sticks and pluck snails from my garden…

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Mar 15 2013
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Daily Life

Put Yourself In My Place, Why Don’t You…?

I’ve been working from home for the builder most of this week and drive to the shops each morning. A new primary school has opened across from the car park and every day, a procession of parents blithely park in disabled spaces and walk their children round the corner, the disabled parking saving little Rosie and Johnnie a couple of metres of walking, even though at that time in the morning, there are plenty of other spaces.

I have a blue badge. MS is a variable condition for most people, myself included. I don’t always use the badge, but when I need to, it’s a lifeline. The days when foot-drop, nerve pain or muscle spasms make walking difficult and painful, or my balance is shot to pieces, knowing I have a few more parking options makes it worth leaving the safety of my house, even for a short time.

The flip-side to this is that when I do park in a disabled space, I am met with tuts, hostility and anger from others, whether they have a blue badge or not. They closely examine me getting out my car, whisper to each other, glare at me and sigh loudly, shaking their heads.

So far, I haven’t been openly confronted, and I’m relishing the opportunity, building up the courage to go over to them and challenge their attitude and press a leaflet about MS into their hands before I stumble off.

Disabled spaces are treated with as much scorn and disregard as parent and baby spaces – how many of us have seen a car drive up to designated parent parking and a couple of teenagers jump out? Or worse, no kids at all. So rather than silently fume, I am going to take action.

The point is not that these parents only use the spaces for ten minutes, it is that they use them at all. Disabled people are generally treated as second class people at the best of times, so perhaps it is understandable that people wilfully abuse one of our few concessions without a thought.

Is this the only time they put themselves in our place?

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Mar 13 2013
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Work and Studying

Getting Away With It

How depressing – new research from the School of Social Sciences at Cardiff University found that employees with disabilities are twice as likely to be attacked at work and experience higher rates of insults, ridicule and intimidation.

Sadly, I am not surprised, given my own experience (read more here).

The research shows 12.3% of people with disabilities or a long-term illness were humiliated, gossiped about and ignored, compared to 7.4% of people without disabilities.

Similarly, 10.5% of disabled people had been attacked at work, compared to 4.5% of non-disabled people.

Any bullying at work is unacceptable, but the bullying of people struggling to make a living whilst coping with the challenges a disability brings is simply heinous. Why does this happen? Does it start in the school playground when anyone ‘different’ is singled out for ridicule – the child with glasses, the kid with spots?

A bully is essentially a weak person exerting power and authority over those they deem even weaker than themselves to boost their own fragile ego. The person being bullied may find it harder to fight back if they are also disabled or have a long-term illness – in my case, I was adjusting to my diagnosis of MS, the implications it would have for my life, family and career and also going through Alemtuzumab treatment. At times it felt as if I was fighting a war on several fronts.

Why did I put up with this treatment? The daily humiliation tore at my soul and took me down to the darkest depths of despair. One evening, shortly before I was sacked, I sent The Teenager to a friend, sat on my sofa and cried myself hoarse. I was utterly defeated and broken. I had reached my absolute limit. Three people had systematically destroyed my self-confidence and belief in myself in a way no diagnosis of MS ever could.

I stayed as I was determined to remain in work, at least until I found a better job. I accepted the treatment meted out to me, I plastered a false smile on my face which barely hid my pain. Inside I was dying. Five months on, I am slowly rebuilding myself. The damage has run deep, the humiliation deeper.

I will return to my former self and I will be stronger.

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Mar 11 2013
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Symptoms and Treatment

This Is A Boring Post

‘I’m bored. Bored, bored, bored.’ (stamps foot)

Think this is The Teenager expecting me to entertain him? Nope. It’s me talking to a friend.

Something all the leaflets about all the symptoms of MS don’t cover is the sheer, mind-numbing boredom that comes with it.

MS itself is never boring – there’s the unexpected delight of waking up in the morning wondering just what symptom it will chuck at you today, and MS has a whole bag of them. But with these symptoms comes the crushing boredom.

Top of the list is the boredom that comes with having to sleep. A lot. It’s a huge time-waster, it’s not fun or cushy and there is nothing more boring than heading for the sofa – again – when there are so many other more exciting things to do. I’m bored of being in the house so much while life continues elsewhere. I’m bored of boring my friends with the endless symptoms:

‘How you doing?’

‘Oh, you know. I dropped a mug this morning. I tripped over the cat. I went to sleep. I had a bit of a wobble. How’s you?’

‘Well, after I partied all night, I had a fabulous day at work before whipping up a dinner party for eight. The usual.’

Then there’s the boredom that comes with all the planning. MS is like a stroppy, badly-behaved toddler you have to lug around – for life. Before you go anywhere, you plan where the loos are, you work out if there’s a cafe nearby to stop for a break, you pack a bag of stuff, you can’t stay out too late.

When your world shrinks and spontaneity is something you have to seriously think about, there’s not an awful lot of options left. Friends tire of always being bailed out on. I’m out of synch with them, going through an accelerated old age in my 30’s. The highlight of my day is getting a pen and marking an asterisk next to interesting programmes in the Radio Times. Years ago when I saw someone do this, I was scornful. How tragic, such an empty life. I mean, who does that? Um, well, me now.

So how can I combat this boredom? What can I do from the comfort and safety of my couch? Wordsearch puzzles? Solitaire? Spray-paint the cat purple? Any suggestions gratefully received.

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