Oct 07 2013
16 Comments
Media

Bad Taste Or A Fitting Legacy?

clark kentI’m not known for being ultra politically-correct but seeing this advert in a couple of the weekend newspaper magazines left me feeling ever so slightly uncomfortable.

My first thought was, ‘ew, yet another company using a dead celebrity to sell something.’ Always leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Did Christopher Reeve really agree to put his name to a car from beyond the grave? And if not, who’s cashing in?

My second thought was, ‘what do I think about Audi using an actor who spent the last nine years of his life as a quadriplegic (and therefore would have been highly unlikely to drive the car) in an advert with the strap-line ‘Power from a less obvious place’?

Is this an empowering but at the same time patronising and misguided statement that yes, even disabled people can be powerful despite what society may think?

Well, apparently I’m completely wrong. When I saw my boss and brandished the advert under is nose, he said, ‘ahhhh, Christopher Reeve, the best Clark Kent ever. Wicked ad.’ Seeing my blank expression, he slowly said, ‘D’uh, Superman? You know, the office geek who changes into a superhero?’ Ah. Well, that explains it then. I’m also not known for being clued up about Batman or Spiderman either.

So the point of the Audi advert is that their new car is not on-the-surface powerful, but really it’s more powerful than it looks. Right, got it. Just like Superman.

Christopher Reeve had a riding accident in 1995, leaving him paralysed from the neck down and needing a respirator to help him breath for the rest of his life. He became very active in campaigns supporting handicapped children and paraplegics, and founded the Christopher Reeve Paralysis Foundation in 1998 to promote research into spinal cord injuries. He died of a heart attack in 2004.

I’m still divided. My boss thinks it’s a brilliant legacy to a great actor. But to me, it boils down to being an advert for a car and Audi’s primary aim is to make money; they’re not using Christopher Reeve’s image for altruistic reasons. They’re simply hitching their wagon to a greater presence.

If I had a superpower, I’d choose invisibility. That way, I could be a fly on the wall in ad agencies so I could see just how they come up with these ideas…

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Oct 05 2013
45 Comments
Blogging

By Doing Nothing, I Am Doing Something…

Diana’s my guest blogger today. She writes a brilliant blog  – imtoofancy.com – about everything from Candy Crush to Breaking Bad. She has MS, and for Diana, it stands for ‘mucho special’. I’m pretty chuffed that we’re going to meet up next year when me and The Teenager go to New York…
Imtoofancy

I was diagnosed with RSRM Multiple Sclerosis on January 20, 2012. Since then I’ve been to five doctors and called two my own.

Every doctor I’ve seen has highly recommend I take medication. I briefly took Copaxone when I was newly diagnosed but after too many faux panic attacks, which are apparently normal, I decided I would rather handle my treatment organically. AKA no medicine, no side effects.

Of course I know that I should at least have a primary neurologist and so I continued on my quest to find a doctor I like. And then I did. She was affiliated with a hospital with a noted MS center. I’m not sure what I was expecting but I walked in knowing that I wasn’t going to be taking medication but hoping she’d still want me as her patient. Of course she agreed with every doctor before her – I should take medication. But I liked and trusted her so much that I promised her I’d that I would consider taking medicine if my MRI showed I had new lesions.

I was certain I wouldn’t have new lesions on account that I’ve been feeling pretty good. Diet and exercise, in addition to acupuncture and reducing stress have allowed me to live normally and with minimal interruption. Sure, sometimes I feel like it’s raining on my skin, my balance is lackluster at best and brain fog is a companion but it really isn’t that bad. I can and will survive.

But of course I was wrong about the lesions. My new MRI results showed three new enhanced lesions. During our follow up appointment in which I was supposed to pick the medication (I promised) I barter with the doctor. Again. And again she explains to me that just because I don’t feel symptoms doesn’t mean new lesions aren’t forming. As we speak, even.

My options are Gilenya and Tecfedera. I have to either fear heart attacks or JC virus. In fact, Tecfedera hasn’t even been on the market long enough for us to really know the side effects. What if I start growing fins? Or worse, I become the one patient who gets a brain infection. And trust me, I know it’s not that simple. I know that science is smarter than I am. But I also know that when you try to fix one thing in your body, there is a risk of another thing will get sick. Treat MS, say goodbye to your autoimmunity. Or say hello to thyroid issues. Or so many other issues.

I have yet to schedule an appointment to actually start any medicine. I’m too scared. Maybe it’s irrational but I can’t help but to think that with my luck, I will develop a new disorder that will require more medicine.

I suppose by doing nothing I am doing something. By not scheduling that followup appointment with my neurologist, I am making a choice not to take the medicine. I suppose I am taking risk either way. Thanks, MS. Thanks a lot.

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Oct 03 2013
12 Comments
The Teenager

Shops ‘n’ Strops

meanwhile in HollisterEarlier this week, I spent a frustrating couple of hours in the men’s changing room at Hollister.

There were fumbles, anguished cries and yelling. Yup, I was clothes shopping with The Teenager.

I had laid careful plans and bundled him into the car straight from school, turned on the central locking and hightailed it to town before he could escape.

He’s at that fussy stage (when isn’t he?) – his clothes have to fit just so, the colour has to be just right. Although how he could see anything in Hollister is beyond me. Maybe it’s my age, but it’s pretty darned gloomy in there. And there’s far too many über-handsome staff with chiseled jaws and their underwear on show. Tsk. After rummaging round in the dark and messing up all the lovely neat displays, The Teenager pulled out a couple of shirts to try on.

An hour later (and after profuse apologies to Mr Handsome for all the noise), he emerged from his cubicle and posed before the mirror, turning this way and that, arms flapping.

‘Oh, it’s a lovely colour! Suits your eyes. Let’s buy it.’ (looks at watch)

‘Nah, it’s, like, dunno.’

‘What about the other one? Or that one? Or the one you flung across the room?’

‘S’not dench, innit?’ (Dench? Huh?)

We left empty-handed and repeated the same scenario in the next store. And the next. Normally on trips like this, we have a little family tradition of rounding off the whole drama by taking it in turns to choose a restaurant for dinner. It was my turn. More eye-rolling and dramatic sighs when I told him I wanted to try a nice, eclectic place he hadn’t been to before.

‘Wanna go to Nando’s. Wanna go to Nando’s. Wanna go…..’

‘Oi, it’s my choice. You’ll like it. ‘

‘My friend said it was a girly place. Wanna go to…’

‘How can a restaurant be girly? It’s dench!’

‘Mum, that’s just tragic. Please don’t.’

We sat ourselves down in my choice of place, The Teenager grudgingly admitting it wasn’t that bad and he admired his new rugby socks (our only purchase), before tweeting his friends a picture of them. Then he facebooked a picture of his burger.

We had a lovely meal. Me, The Teenager and his phone. Dench…

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Oct 01 2013
28 Comments
Media

An Unlovable Frump

high heelsIt is a truth universally acknowledged that a woman in flat shoes will forever remain a frumpy, dumpy singleton. According to Amanda Platell anyway.

The journalist and previous press secretary to William Hague when he was leader of the Conservatives, has been reduced to bashing out sexist tosh in an article ‘How a week in flatties left me feeling SO low‘ (how the mighty have fallen, eh?).

The piece is disguised as an ‘experiment’ of a life-long high-heel addict testing flat shoes for a week. In reality, it is a two-pronged call to arms for women to a) attract a man and b) strive to appear slimmer (to attract a man).

Amanda’s verdict – in suitably childish, petulant language, ranges from ‘….he looked at me as though I was Frodo’s mum: a short, portly hobbit with weird feet’ to ‘(I was) walking flat-footed like a duck – and looking like one too’ to ‘flatties make you a fattie’. Incisive journalism at it’s best.

To ram the point home, she descends into even more offensive language. After testing a pair of £149 black velvet slippers from Pretty Ballerinas and being teased by a friend more used to seeing her in heels, she writes, ‘The ignominy, the shame. A slut who leaves home in her slippers! Move over, Vicky Pollard.’

So according to Amanda, if you wear flats, you’re not only a frump, but a frumpy slut. Furthermore, women in flat shoes have no hope of ever finding love. We must put our own needs to one side and strive to revert to the bad old days of dressing for men. Amanda is clear on this – ‘while women might love the comfort and stylish insouciance of flat shoes, men hate them. They’re just not sexy. There was never a pair of ‘kiss me quick’ or ‘fancy me’ flat shoes. They don’t exist.’

Who is this more offensive to – men or women? I’d be seriously worried if I met the man of my dreams and he spent the entire time looking longingly at my feet, rather than gazing in to my eyes and actually engaging in conversation.

She can keep her pathetic Cinderella fantasies, forever waiting for her Prince Charming to turn up, stiletto heel in hand. As for me, flats may limit my clothing choices, but they certainly haven’t dulled my brain. Jog on, Amanda. If you can….

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Sep 29 2013
16 Comments
My Ramblings

A Day Off From MS

in my dreamsLast night, after being woken in the wee small hours yet again with nerve pain and unable to get back to sleep, my mind wandered.

Just what would it be like to have one full day off from MS? How amazing would that be?

I would spring out of bed, full of beans and head straight for a boiling hot bath, using up my dusty bottle of Matey bubbles. No non-slip bath mat today, no pesky heat intolerance.

After a long soak, I’d deftly apply my make up, managing to execute a perfect sweep of eyeliner. I’d get dressed easily, no fumbling over buttons, no tripping over my feet and I’d be able to wear jeans I haven’t fitted in over two years. And heels! Beautiful heels. How I’ve missed you. I’d put them on and not take them off all day. I would sashay everywhere. I would stride, head held high. No looking at the pavements.

In fact, I’d take the day off work and spend it walking. Just walking, even in heels. And I’d go to cute little gift shops where I’d be unafraid of picking up glass ornaments or bumping into things or small children. I’d find a really hot, really busy cafe and spend a stress-free hour sipping a coffee, people-watching. I’d call up friends out of the blue, suggesting a night out later. I’d know for sure I’d still have the energy.

On the way home I’d do all my Christmas shopping in one go, undaunted by the crowds,  balancing the bags easily, going through my long list from memory. Back home, I’d wrap and label all the gifts then cook a fiendishly complex recipe from scratch. I’d spring clean my entire house. I’d even dig out the feather duster. Then I’d do a whole pile of ironing. And spend a couple of hours weeding the garden, all before slipping in to something fabulous (with my heels, natch) and get ready to go out.

The evening would pass in a happy blur of catching up with long-neglected friends. I’d charm them with my wit and fast responses. I’d remember the punchlines to long jokes, I’d carry five drinks at a time back from the bar.

I wouldn’t come back til gone midnight, falling happily in to bed. Then I’d wake in the wee small hours. With nerve pain…

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