Monthly Archives: June 2014

Jun 12 2014
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Emotions

A Blessing, Heavily Disguised

blessingsYesterday, I was having a chat with someone I’d never met before.

For various reasons, MS popped in to the conversation, as it does. We discussed how it had affected my life, what had changed.

Towards the end I said, ‘you know what, in some ways, I am blessed.’ Weird word to use. I’ve thought about this before, but yesterday it really crystalised for me. She seemed perplexed.

I tried to explain that a lot of people are well into their 50’s/60’s or even 70’s before a major health crisis appears. To have had this happen in my 30’s and to get the chance to totally reevaluate my life from every perspective is a gift. MS brought me up short and made me realise just how fleeting and wondrous life can be. I would be most miffed for this to happen at, say 65, and think to myself, ‘all those regrets, all those wasted opportunities.’

Mind you, I haven’t always felt this way, as regular readers will be well aware. The sheer unfairness of it all. The grieving process, the fears, the endless panic. It didn’t help that in my case the MS onslaught was so dramatically sudden – I went to bed one evening and woke up the next morning unable to speak or walk properly. Life had shifted irretrievably on it’s axis.

MS cleared the decks. The uncommitted boyfriend swiftly left the building (see ya! No, I didn’t want to marry you either), old family politics diminished in their insignificance and most of my fair-weather friends disappeared in a cloud of, ‘honestly, if you need anything‘, whilst stepping/running backwards from the room.

I started to ask what my life was all about. What did it mean? What could I do that would be fulfilling? For me and The Teenager. Which is why I spent my tribunal payout on a trip to New York, the least I could do after all the Teenager had coped with. MS is the reason I’ve enrolled on an MA. And, dear reader, it’s the reason I am in touch with a, ahem, personal trainer, to try to instill some body confidence after it’s been battered with steroids, meds and far too much comfort food.

I still have fears. I’m still reminded every single day that MS is ever-present. But I think now I am living the life I was meant to live. I’m just hoping the trainer goes easy on me and at least allows me to congratulate myself with a donut for picking up the kettle bell, which has been my trusty doorstop for the last two years. We’ll see.

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Jun 09 2014
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Work and Studying

The Fickle Finger Of Fate

pink hardhatOnce upon a time, my career path was set.

Then along came the dastardly Evil Bosses who cast me out into the wilderness for daring to bring MS to the boardroom table.

Step forward the Good Fairy Goblin Wizard, my best friend, who swiftly put me on his payroll and offered me a job with his construction company, giving me breathing space to find a new one.

One and a half years later, I’m still working with him. I love my job. I adore it. It’s flexible, fun and challenging. This friend held my hand all the way through the MS diagnostic process and beyond so probably knows more about MS than I do, thanks to my late-night outpourings of anguish, tears and ridiculous rage against the world.

Sure, when I’m on site (trying to look important and clued up), he sniggers when I trip over a solitary wood-shaving or kick something over for the umpteenth time. He laughs when my bacon buttie suddenly drops from my hand, and he directs me discreetly to a quiet corner when my yawning starts to spread to the labourers. I like that.

We’ve just taken on a huge project, so my job is secure for at least another year, or however long the boss can put up with me (hope he’s not reading this). We’re tying up loose ends on other jobs before we commit fully to it.

Last week, I was with him on a kitchen conversion. My main tasks were to measure up, jot down materials we needed and work out the logistics. Oh, and order a Portaloo for the big job (a very funny conversation with the lovely Emma in Bristol). We work well together, so without thinking, the boss called out, ‘there, no there, yup there, watch your step’, and ‘pick that blinking cable up before you lassoo your foot in it, you dweeb.’

My work is different every single day. And if I’m having a bad day, I make up for it another time. There’s no office politics (a huge positive after the vicious back-stabbing in my last job), no set working times and the men I work with are brilliant. They’re old enough to be my sons (eeeeeeeek), so I am a surrogate Agony Aunt/Mother. The Teenager has unwittingly given me plenty of experience.

So, yes, my career has certainly not panned out the way I envisaged. Not even close. That fickle finger of fate. But my job has given me the space to also do what I love most, writing, which is why I signed up for a Masters in creative writing. The best of both worlds. What more could I wish for?

p.s. I really do have a pink hardhat….

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Jun 03 2014
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The Teenager

Don’t Need No Education

examsOnce again our little cottage is in a state of uproar.

The Teenager is sitting some GCSE exams, with the rest to follow next year.

I have bought him the Lett’s guides, replenished his pen-pot, explained how to write up mind maps and supplied him with a steady stream of juice to refresh his brain.

To no avail.

In the middle of cooking dinner yesterday (a home-made curry he refused to eat – tough), the phone rang.

‘Mrs Stumbling?’

‘Yeeeeees?’

‘Well,’ and sounding relieved to reach a real, live parent on the phone, regaled me with a tale of woe and lost opportunities. The Teenager could easily reach an A in this subject, but is cruising close to an F, if he’s lucky. The usual – not concentrating, joking around, no proper presentation of coursework.

It was a good conversation in some ways. I explained that he has all the support he needs here. Apart from anything else, I’ve been studying something or other for ten out of his fourteen years. It simply boils down to him being a Teenager who is somewhat lazy. And rude. And…(I could go on and on).

When he came home from school, I summoned him to the kitchen as I was juggling naan bread, a hot grill and a large pot of curry. He saw my face and scarpered, slamming his bedroom door extra loud. He really should have taken GCSE drama. He’s quite superb. I counted the seconds, and sure enough, within 15, loud music was blasting out. The angsty type.

I yelled up the stairs – handily, his name has three syllables, so the effect can be quite stern. ‘Wha?’ ‘Come down……..NOW.’

After a stand-off worthy of a spaghetti western, he sloped into the kitchen, refused dinner (a recent recurring theme), told me his version of events – ‘teacher hates me, wasn’t doing nuffink wrong, s’not fair.’ Stage direction – exit left.

A while later his door opened and his school tie floated downstairs, followed by the door slamming shut again.  Not the most rigorous form of protest, but it made me laugh. Which annoyed him.

I can only do so much. Nothing to do with MS. I have just returned from a visit to Staples as his pencil case was stolen and he needs the stuff for exams. He has an exam today. He told me this last night, around 10pm.

Stage direction – curtains.

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Jun 01 2014
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Daily Life

Take An Old Bag Shopping…

shopping bagI do, honestly.

In Wales, you’re charged 5p for a flimsy slice of super-thin polythene (could be white or red/blue stripes), guaranteed to spill your groceries/loo-roll/hi-juice  or worse onto any pavement right outside the supermarket.

And not in a good rom-com kinda way, avocados and mangoes (of course) rolling artfully towards a hunky-chunky-monkey of a man, just ready to pick up your tumbling food and a lot more besides. Whay hey.

So I am a bag lady. ‘Wanna bag?’ is met with a smug , ‘Tch, brought my own, fumble, fumble, dontcha know.’ Carefully selected from the Orla Kiely range at Tesco and independent book-stalls in New York. Natch.

Anyway, I am armed and prepared for Serious Supermarket Shopping to subsidise my meagre Ocado order. I can’t resist a sneeky peek at the sensational offers I’m missing out on

Sad salads, miserable mince, tacky tacos and cheap cereals. Two for one on coffee. Buy one get one free on curry sauce. Eww. Snagging the last of the asparagus bundles, I head to the check-out.

And here is where the fun starts. My hands refuse to play ball. The check-out-meister whizzes through my shopping with obscene speed. Everything is flying everywhere. ‘Having a nice weekend?’ he asks, smirking, flinging my solitary can of beans westward, way beyond my reach.

I have long given up asking The Teenager to accompany me. Apparently he would rather wear a skirt to school than walk next to me, trolley trundling behind. When the price is barked at me, I take a step back, fumble with cash/card and finish packing. Picking up my cucumber from the floor as gracefully as I can.

This is why I shop on the internet. I have a succession of lovely men knocking my door, holding out parcels. Heaven. All I have to do is laugh off the jokes that my name is spookily similar to an American singer/actress. Never heard that one before, lol. Lol.

On a happier note, I have just cooked a rather marvelous chicken meal for Sunday dinner. The Teenager responded by telling me he would prefer to starve. A likely story. Apparently he would rather have a pie. Which we have had forever until he asked for a cooked chicken Sunday dinner.

It’s me. Isn’t it?

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