Feb 05 2015
22 Comments
Daily Life

Gone

IMG_0015Sometimes I hate how life works.

Someone thumped my door on a dark and wintry night this week. It was never going to be good news.

I mentally ran through who it could be. The Teenager was safely upstairs killing zombies, Ocado had already delivered and we never seem to get political canvassers here, although I was more than ready to take them on.

I answered the door, pulling my cardigan around myself. A frantic woman stood there, pointing at the road, ‘do you have a black cat? About this big?’ She made a tiny size with her hands. I could see by her face it was hopeless.

I rushed down the path but I was too late – my beautiful constant companion, Dora, had already died. She had been knocked over. Gone. Just like that, in an instant.

I hope I don’t sound too melodramatic. For me, cats are special when you have MS and spend more time than usual at home. She slept on my bed every night, we tussled over duvet rights, she brought presents of half-chewed mice and birds which she laid reverentially in front of me. When I slept in the afternoon, she would curl up on my feet on the sofa, her purrs competing with the nerve pulsing aches.

We listened to Tweet of the Day together every morning on Radio 4 before breakfast. She defended our cottage, a not insignificant feat for a cat so utterly tiny. She basked in the slices of sunlight beaming on to my desk when I was agonising over an essay for university. In short, she was present.

Outside my house, I gathered her in my arms, called my mum (aren’t mums great?), and we mourned together. Dora adored her and could hear her footsteps a mile off. In vain, we took her to the vets. The nurse checked her over, re-wrapped the blanket I had taken her in and sadly handed her body back to me. Would I like cremation? No.

My boss and friend helped me bury her today, just outside my window, in the spot she slept in during the summer months. We talked about when I adopted her from Cats Protection. When I got her home, she seemed so entirely comfortable within just half an hour, as if she was meant to be here. And she was.

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Jan 31 2015
4 Comments
The Teenager

Peace. At Last.

peaceWell, the trauma of last week is fading.

One email sent to school, one passport sent in for half-term trip, one mea culpa parent. Sorted.

Me and The Teenager had A Talk. I explained (again) that my brain has taken early retirement and sometimes doesn’t want to play ball, but he’s also got a responsibility to be on top of school stuff too, i.e. don’t remind me five minutes before a meeting. I guess he’s just used to me remembering everything and it was a shock to his system. Bless him.

Anyway, he has now gone off for the weekend on a mentoring break in West Wales with the school, to support him through his exams.

We packed his bag last night, he charged up his phone (‘I am nuffink without it’), and laid out his clothes ready for his early start – 6 am this morning, lol.

I don’t have a megaphone, so I just yelled in his ear at the set time. He grunted, turned over and went back to sleep. Repeated five minutes later and he lumbered to the bathroom, complaining loudly and slamming the door.

So far, so good. Drove him to drop-off at appointed early hour (don’t get out the car with me, s’embarrassing and do not hug me’), then heard nothing by text. No news is good news?

A text a couple of hours later, ‘food is grim here’.

Then another, ‘beds are too small’.

And another, ‘wanna come home’.

In the meantime, I have been catching up with the laundry, catching up with food shopping and most importantly, getting out into the real world and catching up with a good friend over coffee, where I boasted, ‘oh, he’s fine, I haven’t heard anything’.

So now I am at home, pacing, waiting for a phone call from one of the teachers. Something along the lines of, ‘please drive fifty miles to West Wales and pick up your son. Now‘.

Probably just as well I had planned nothing more exciting this evening than highlighting programmes I want to watch in next week’s Radio Times. And sorting through The Teenager’s growing collection of odd socks.

Life goes on. I now have even more post-it notes cluttering my table, reminding me of every single tiny thing, just in case I forget again:

  • Petrol – buy some.
  • Saturday Guardian newspaper – buy and read the Blind Date article.
  • Call tax office – next week.
  • Teenager goes to New York for school trip in two weeks – check weather forecast.
  • Take library books back – overdue?

Another text from The Teenager, ‘I feel sick’.

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Jan 29 2015
30 Comments
Daily Life

Horrified and Humiliated

failI think, I hope, I have always been a conscientious parent.

Well, no longer.

For the first time in fifteen years, I have a black school-mark against my name.

I have helped to enter each competition, produced cakes, baked cookies, attended every single parent-child event.

I once spent an entire week recreating a medieval castle from cardboard, complete with stonework details and little characters and still came third. I forgot nothing. I prided myself on it. I  have been to every event, every information evening, every exhibition.

All week. ALL WEEK in my diary – important meeting re. half term visit. Thursday.

I forgot.

The Teenager reminded me 5 minutes before. I grabbed the car keys, yelled for him but he slammed his bedroom door and sulked. I was still in my work’s gear. He didn’t want me anywhere near the school.

Hearing him through his door was a bit awkward:

  • ‘I hate you’.
  • ‘What’s wrong with you?’
  • ‘Why don’t you remember anything important?’

I can’t argue with him – to do so would introduce too much he doesn’t need to know, in no particular order:

  • Have I fed the cat?
  • Why do I forget everything?
  • Have I ordered groceries?
  • Have I sent this/that/the other bill off?
  • Does he have enough warm clothes for school trip?
  • Does he have lunch money for tomorrow?
  • Will he have a clean school shirt for the morning?
  • What should I do about that mouldy patch in the bathroom?
  • Has he sorted out his sixth-form application?

And more importantly,

  • Am I there for him?
  • Why do I forget everything?
  • Am I present enough?
  • Is my work/life balance ok?

And at the end of the list:

  • How the hell am I coping with MS?????
  • Why do I forget everything?
  • Why are my legs cramping so badly they wake me up?
  • Why am I in pain?
  • What on earth does the future hold?

Being a single. divorced parent with MS was never going to be easy, but things like this bring me up short. I am failing. And how.

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Jan 27 2015
36 Comments
Blogging

Without You, None of This Would Be Possible

totesAt last, the editing is over and I’m almost ready to publish my book – a collection of blog posts from the past two years in one handy format.

I’ve learned a lot from this process:

  • I mention chocolate way more than I thought.
  • My spelling and grammar have been appalling at times.
  • I still say ‘totes amazeballs’.
  • My kettle-bell is still my doorstop.
  • The Teenager still refuses to have an up-to-date photograph taken, meh.

Apart from that, it’s been an emotional time – reading and sifting through everything I’ve written, deciding what to keep and what to leave out (my cat’s not that interesting). I’ve cringed, but I think (hope) it’s the honesty that keeps it real.

However, one thing is more important than anything – a blog is only as good as the readers, you guys. You have been incredible. You’ve lifted me up through my darkest moments and laughed along with me through the good times. You helped me through my blip when I (briefly) stopped blogging. Your comments have been inspiring and thought-provoking. In short, without you, none of this would be possible.

So a totes huge thank you to everyone who  has supported me and my blog.

Bxxx

p.s. anyone know how I can lose two stone before publication?

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Jan 25 2015
8 Comments
Uncategorized

Second Generation MS

life goes onMy dad had MS.

When he died, aged 35, it wasn’t from MS (which he had, PPMS), it was from TB. His immune system was shot.

From what I’ve been told, he was a go-getting, cheeky, funny  bloke with his whole life ahead of him.

Until, in the 1970’s, MS struck. Or, ‘creeping paralysis’, as it was known back then.

He was tossed in ice-cold baths to test his temperature tolerance. He was given a wooden stick and sent home.

He died and times changed.

Fast forward to 2011 and I now faced a future with MS.

We have a myriad of DMD’s. Support from MS nurses. We are lucky.

I remember, when we had to write about our parents in primary school, I would write, My Dad Is Dead and MS Killed Him’.
For that, I was called up to the teacher’s desk each year, to explain my single-parenthood.

I spoke to my mum before I wrote this. I was worried that by referring to my dad in my book, I was being mawkish or overly-sentimental.

She disagreed.

So. I have MS. I wish my dad had lived long enough to see me now, and everything all of us who live with MS today are achieving.

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