Who would have thought that a modest plastic thing with two settings – plus a turbo boost – could bring me such joy?
Yes. My brand-new food processor has revolutionised my life.
I was standing there the other day feeding bits of butternut squash into it, the mash part of my vegetable pie. It may have taken a couple of years but I’m now embracing a much healthier diet, spurred on by the daily weight increase thanks to the dratted thyroid meds.
Anyway. There I was, letting my mind wander when it came to me, ‘hang on, why am I feeling this despondent about recent goings-on, all of which are outside my control?’
Hmm. This scenario was beginning to sound boringly familiar. A bit like MS.
As luck would have it, I saw my lovely neurologist last week who mooted a third course of Campath as there’s a couple more lesions, one which was active, on my last MRI. We chatted about it and it was obvious I was going to take the damage-limitation path and choose a third course.
So, my MS is, for now, manageable.
People, sadly, are not.
I’ve learned that if you keep getting cannon balls lobbed at you, you begin to duck.
Then you walk away.
Back to my food processor. I stumble home after work, a new recipe already printed off, ingredients waiting for me in the fridge. I chop, blend, pulse and pulverise. It’s unexpectedly therapeutic.
With no small amount of serendipity, The Teenager is also going through seismic changes. Hold the front page – Dominos has lost one of their most faithful customers.
He is going to the gym five days a week, losing the pounds and toning up. I’m currently researching chia-seed and flourless birthday cake for next month when he turns 16. However, we have yet to get over his aversion to onions, red peppers, garlic, apples and porridge. Give it time.
So, where are we? Me and The Teenager are doing just fine. We’ll both get through this and we’ve both got a whole lot to look forward to. At times it seemed our little family unit might implode under the dual pressures of MS and those few rogues intent on making our lives a misery.
They can pack up their cannon balls and leave. And let us get back to what we enjoy doing the most – looking after ourselves.