Stumbling in Flats

I started this blog back in the Bad Old Dark Days of 2012.

Just diagnosed with MS after long, agonising months of full-blown symptoms, The Teenager was also at the start of High School.

We were yet to face the full force of my eventual legal employment battle, although the bullying I was enduring at work was horrific.

I had to squeeze in my first Alemtuzumab treatment when The Teenager was on holiday with his father, and I had less than 48 hours to recover and appear ‘mum’ before he came home. It wasn’t ideal, but we made it work. Three times in total.

Looking back, we both had to grow up pretty quickly, The Teenager a lot more so than me. I was/am a single divorced parent, shouldering the vast majority of care. He was vulnerable, unsure of his place in the world. The once active parent he was accustomed to was a distant memory as I struggled with ever-worsening mobility.

And that’s the thing – this blog has always been about both of us; MS does not exist in a vacuum – it touches everyone around you. We argued, fell out, sulked, argued some more, but ultimately, we always met somewhere in the middle, after discussion, time and a lot of readjustment. I was adamant that his childhood would be as minimally disturbed as possible. A big ask.

Readers who have followed our story from the beginning will remember the School Uniform Wars, his very short-lived job as a newspaper boy, the endless rugby mud, his tantrums and the moments of blinding self-awareness. Our cottage, our cats and the low ceilings (he’s now well over six foot tall) have all featured, and will hopefully continue to do so.

He came with me to my first march against austerity, although a little embarrassed. He’s been to award ceremonies for our blog in London and visited Amsterdam twice to take part in a hack with MS firmly at it’s centre. He took his Google Maps and aged 15, worked his way around the Dutch city so well that he guided a bunch of mates a couple of years later for a mini-break.

I could go on, but I won’t as he would be modest. He knows he’s amazing and he knows that you guys know it too. We sometimes posted queries, asking for advice and you answered quickly and with a lot of common sense, especially when he was going through a really hard time a couple of years back.

So here we are. August. The Boss’s birthday, then mine, then Christopher’s. It will be odd not to refer to The Teenager. Someone wisely suggested calling him the Ex-Teenager and I quite like that.

On the cusp of 20, the only thing I can do is thank him for being so open to new experiences, so willing to go through difficult times and come out the other end wiser, more confident and a son I am so very, very proud of.

I think it’s when they ask you, in all seriousness, for a spare dish to cook lasagne in (from scratch) to take back to Uni after the Easter holiday .

Or when they finally learn the point of coat-hangers, and how to work the vacuum. They even make their bed, this strange, unfamiliar breed.

The Teenager is twenty this year. It hasn’t sunk in. I’m of course nowhere near old enough to have a child of that age.

It’s been a mixed joy to have him back for the Easter break. My heart lifts when he remembers to lock the front door, then sinks when I come down to a kitchen full of cereal bowls and coffee stains in the morning. If I’m reading in bed at 9pm, he now knocks my bedroom door instead of crashing through it like he used to, before bouncing on my bed, making the cat fly right off.

He remembers to open the bathroom window after a shower and (sometimes) remembers to hang the bath mat back up. He’s airing his bedroom (gasp). Mind you, I did tell him I would hang him outside it from his ankles if he didn’t, as I’ve had it repainted three times. It worked!

In short, he is growing up. He’s understanding real life.

However, there does tend to be some kind of invisible force-field at my front door, which, when he passes through it, he reverts, in some ways, back to a school-age teenager. Take the ‘Actimel Problem’. I buy bunches of them, probiotics, one a day. He takes eight a day. I buy low-carb bread and ham. He eats all the bread and leaves the ham. If he runs out of shampoo, he doesn’t think to replenish from the supply under the sink, he uses my very, very, very treat-worthy products on my shower shelf (we have a shelf each). You see my problem.

Yet in the midst of this transition from Teenager (and we have been through ‘A Lot’) to adult, it’s heartening to see the change in him. He now has a Scandinavian-heritage jawline. He speaks in really grown-up sentences about really important things. We have the most amazing conversations. He is tall, overpowering our tiny cottage with his welcome presence.

When I look back over the last twenty years, I’m stunned that I could have produced such a confidant, happy, well-adjusted human being. It’s astounding in some ways, considering what he’s been through. The abject fear of losing the care of his main parent, his worry for his own MS legacy, given I was a second-generation MS’er. He’s bucked the trend.

After two years of adjusting to a new life in the big, wide world, he is doing just fine. We’ve had our blips, our terrible moments, but thankfully I have been close enough to be there quickly.

I’m always going to be there for him, but for now, I think he’s doing just fine. He’s amazing.