Dec 27 2016
6 Comments
Emotions

New Year, Same Old?

awesomeYep, it’s that time of the year again when I take a notepad and scribble down some resolutions.

Looking back at the ones I’ve made over the years, I might as well just chuck my list in the bin; I still haven’t mastered the art of cooking rice and I haven’t learned how to play the guitar. I’m still single, still fat and still trying to work out what I want to do when I grow up.

Despite all this, I’m going to make some resolutions anyway just for the sheer novelty factor:

  • Experiment with wearing black clothes (slimming) and quirky jewellery (interesting).
  • Borrow my friend’s dog – exercise (gah) but a chance of bumping into a nice single man (note to self, must not be carrying a bag of dog poo).
  • Host dinner parties – with only three kitchen chairs. Perhaps supper parties? Or just skip the food and make some killer cocktails instead? Good chance to showcase black tops and big bead-y jewellery?
  • Come up with a book club choice my book club actually enjoys.
  • Be brave enough to take my laptop to the local arts cafe to work on My Novel, even though it’s not a Mac. Could be awkward. Maybe wear a big hat and dark glasses.
  • Give up any hope of becoming a poet.
  • Buy one of those big eye-shadow palettes and learn how to use it.

Hmm.

Maybe I should concentrate on what I’m grateful for, rather than my shortcomings. I may always be fat. And single. And I may never come up with a book-club-pleasing title. I might never get in to black clothes (I have a cat, she has fur).

So what do I have? A huge amount:

  • A brilliant, funny, intrepid Teenager.
  • A weird, funny cat.
  • A healthy appetite for life and all it has to offer.
  • A fantastic support network – thank you a million times.

As we put the horrendous year that has been 2016 behind us, I’m looking forward, not back.

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Dec 23 2016
8 Comments
Emotions

A Yuletide Pity Party

grinchI worked yesterday, although I’m sure The Boss wished I hadn’t.

I grinched and grumbled the whole day, threw an almighty strop over a designer radiator and sulked in the van while The Boss gamely measured up our new, muddy building site.

When I got home (after flouncing out the van and nearly breaking an ankle in the process), I collapsed on the sofa, before promptly falling asleep.

Nerve pain, usually kept under semi-strict control with medication, had sneaked past it and was having festive fun dancing with clogs on all over my body. Hard to describe and difficult to ignore, my body was inflamed with the darned pain. After I woke up, I lay still, wishing beyond hope that it would go away.

My stomach grumbled but I couldn’t get up. I passed a few hours like this, intermittently bursting into tears whenever a Christmas charity advert came on TV. The Teenager popped down a couple of times to ferret through the fridge and sneak a few mouthfuls of squirty cream (he denies it, but I know the sound).

Eventually I ate two mince pies without squirty cream, cried a little more and gave the cat some Dreamies before I went to bed. I slept a straight ten hours, virtually unheard of as late as I’ve also been plagued by the scariest, most bizarre nightmares. Anyway, I got up, fell on to the sofa and lay there pitying myself a bit more and watched the news about Storm Barbara (Really? Do you know how many jokes I’ve had?).

So I sulked about the storm’s name and the nerve pain cranking up again. I sulked about there being nothing on TV. I sulked when I found out The Teenager had demolished the rest of the mince pies. And then, A Christmas Miracle.

The Boss texted me. He was going to Ikea and would I like to join him? Well, I could just as easily sulk in Ikea as at home – and have more reason to – so I went. Best. Cure. Ever.

It was blissfully quiet, I got to stock up on candles and had a leisurely coffee while watching harassed parents attempt to control their over-excited toddlers. Been there, done that. Nerve pain? Still thrumming away, still painful, but with the company of a good friend and a change of scenery, just about manageable.

This lull allowed me to reflect on how lucky I am to have you guys to offload to, to grumble to and to feel part of a larger group of good mates. I love your comments and your emails and who knows what my fifth year of blogging will bring?

p.s. If I hear, ‘Barbara’s going to be very windy’ one more time, I’ll cry again …

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Dec 16 2016
6 Comments
Work and Studying

Mastering The Enemy …

mastersYou know when you can’t string a sentence together with MS and your brain goes foggy?

Yup? What better time to start a Master’s degree (insert smiley face here).

That’s the way I was thinking two years ago (MS does funny things to your brain).

Back then, MS was The Enemy Incarnate, as I’ve mentioned in previous posts, and had to be defeated at all costs. I had been writing random blog posts for a while (still do, lol) and wondered whether I could write anything else. So, I looked around, called a few universities and signed up for a Master’s.

It was then that sheer terror set in. On many levels:

  • MS – brain fog, memory issues, parking …
  • Age – how would it be to go back to Uni when I was the old enough to tell the students off?
  • Style – or lack thereof. How to pretend I fitted in. Scarf? Glasses? Something academic-y?

So, I got my mugshot taken for my ID card, shuffled along to the first meeting and wished I had shuffled right back out again. I was completely and utterly out of my depth, brand new notebook and pens notwithstanding. My fellow students used words like, ‘protagonist’ and ‘Stein-esque’.

My first attempt at a short story (about a decapitated mouse) was met with silence and a withering response. Too complicated, too long, too … strange.

The thing is. I wanted to give up. I went so far as to try to formally withdraw from the course. It wasn’t for me, obviously. I grew to hate my headless mouse and everything it stood for – a symptom of my failure.

But. I trucked along. I attended most of the tutorials, inspired by my fellow students. We critiqued each other in uniquely British-polite ways and nudged each other along the path to true creative writing.

And so I came to the dissertation.

Long story short, it evolved from a germ of an idea into a little pod. And with some nurturing from my friends, it grew into something I’m really proud of. It’s 10,000 words. Just had to get the critical essay done and that would be me – a Master’s.

One problem.

My essay is terrible.

I have six weeks to turn it around and send the whole thing in.

Sounds like a lot of time, but every time I try to sit down and write (re-write):

  • The cat is on my seat
  • The plants need watering
  • The fridge needs rearranging
  • The Teenager needs an emergency cash injection

I will get there. I will purge my dire sentences, such as, ‘I pull no punches with my story’ and change them to something like, ‘with my narrative, I will not hesitate to draw upon brutal imagery’.

Doing this is my way of getting back at MS. I want to push my boundaries, explore new areas and prove to myself that I can still ‘Do’.

The January deadline is looming and keeps me awake at night, along with the usual nerve pain.

As for now, I’m off to organise my books into alphabetical order and clean my fork prongs with a micro-cloth.

Really.

p.s. I cannot end this post without a very special mention to the supremely patient Dr. Kate North, my dissertation tutor. Thank You.

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Dec 15 2016
2 Comments
The Teenager

That’s Dinner Sorted …

dinnerMe and The Teenager were having one of our Kitchen Katch-Ups the other day.

Generally speaking, if I hang out long enough in the kitchen, The Teenager will make an appearance, rummage through the fridge and continue a conversation he may have started a couple of days previously:

‘… and, you know, muvver, it’s fine.’

‘Er, what is?’

He pauses to measure out an exact amount of Shredded Wheat into a bowl, then an exact amount of milk, as dictated by his gym routine plan. Then gulps the whole thing down in three mouthfuls.

‘You know, when you get old? Like, say, 50?’

‘Right. And what’s going to happen then?’

‘I’ll build you a shed?’

‘I don’t need a shed?’

‘D’urrr. Like, a shed at my house? In the garden? You can stay there.’

‘When I’m 50?’

‘Yeah? But, like, if I’m rich and famous, you can have a flat.’

‘Oh, ok then. Thank you. But you know, I’ll probably be just fine at 50. But, um, thanks for thinking of me sweets. Very kind. Anyway, Christmas dinner. We need to decide what we’re having.’

I was poised ready with my pen, trying to shake off images of me trapped in a shed at the grand old age of 50.

‘How about I choose this year?’

‘I really don’t want a strawberry protein shake.’

‘Lol, muvver. You’re funny. I wouldn’t do that to you at Christmas.’

‘What do you fancy then? Turkey? Lamb?’

‘Can I choose? Anything in the world? A day off from my Buff Body Routine?’

‘Um, ok.’

He did.

And so it has come to pass; we will be tucking into Chicago Town pepperoni pizzas, curly fries and garlic dough balls.

I kid you not.

After getting over my initial horror, I thought, ‘Well, Why Not?’ It’ll just be the two of us, we’ve both already had our fill of turkey and we get to do exactly what we want. He’s chosen the food, I’ll choose the telly. And have first dibs on the chocolates, natch.

That sorted, The Teenager continued to rifle the cupboards and sigh loudly. ‘About your shed …’

‘No more talking about sheds. How’s school?’

‘S’fine.’

‘Studying?’

‘S’fine.’

‘You know where I am if you need me, sweets.’

‘Yep. Mum?’

I was braced for the worst. Or worse than pizza on Christmas Day.

He gathered together another bowl of cereal, balanced it in his hand, made to leave the kitchen and said, ‘You’re a great mum, you know. I love you.’

And with that, before I could reply, he had scooted upstairs.

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Dec 12 2016
4 Comments
Emotions

I Am MS

meI used to boast, ‘I have MS but it doesn’t have me.’ (it did)

Or, ‘MS is just a small part of my life.’ (it wasn’t)

As if I could simply package MS up and place it to one side.

It’s taken over four years to realise I was wrong, and it’s not often I admit that.

MS drives everything I do and is at the heart of how I live my life; it’s like a little spluttering train engine, tootling along, breaking down frequently but being patched up again by a team of trusty experts before bumbling on its way again.

This epiphany came to me a week ago. The Teenager was out with friends. My landline rang at 3.30 am. As I made my way downstairs to answer it, I was weak with fear. A call at that time could only mean one thing and it couldn’t be good?

I hesitated before picking up. Then. Relief flooded through me as I heard, ‘Muuuuuuum!!! Hiya!! Phone’s dead. I left my key inside. I’m at the front door, and I need the loo. Can you let me in?’

After I yelled at him and settled back in bed, listening to him humming as he brushed his teeth, I realised that I never switch off the Mother role. Why would I? It’s the best of times and the worst of times but it runs through my veins and always will. And it’s probably why my own mum still grabs my hand when we cross the road, even though I’m in my 40’s.

I chuckle (not in a bad way) when I hear newly-pregnant couples say, ‘oh this baby won’t change our lives – it will fit in around us.’ Right. Get back to me on that one?

MS is similar  – it has permeated everything by osmosis. At first, granted – unlike a baby – it was the Arch Enemy and had to be repelled at all borders. And, just as it had cunningly invaded my blood-brain barrier designed to keep it out, MS wormed it’s way into my consciousness, not to mention health. And before long, it was part of day-to-day life.

On the negative side, in the beginning and being the Enemy, it took my partner, job and my envisaged future. Were they worth fighting for? Probably not, given the circumstances of my banishment – being dumped/sacked/deluded, in that order.

However, on the positive side, MS has allowed me to pursue a life-long dream – writing. It’s given me the chance to renegotiate working hours with my new boss, which also, and more importantly, allow me more time to be on hand for The Teenager, even if I’m lying on the sofa. I’m here, and that’s what matters. Some of our best chats happen when he sits on the sofa opposite me, offloading, nattering away.

I am now proud to say ‘I Am MS’. By overturning negative connotations (even when we cannot yet eradicate the illness), we can stand up and say, ‘Yeah, so, I have MS? And?’

‘I Am MS’ does not mean surrendering. It means embracing. It is not giving up, it is about nurturing a new way of life. To those of you who may think I am indeed deluded, there is nothing that drives me more than the thought of my passionate, cheeky, irreverent father, who, if he had survived his MS, would definitely be the one chained to Parliament’s railings in protest.

I’m far too shy to do that. But what I can do is accept MS, live with it, thrive with it and hopefully, become a better person.

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