Tag Archives: masters

Stupid Is As Stupid Does …

stupidI adore learning.

I was never a gifted academic at school – good grades coming only after a hard slog – but the desire to learn was always there.

Perhaps it is a longing to discover more of the world than is immediately apparent, to get under its skin?

I’m questioning this as I’ve been encouraged to take a PhD, since completing my Masters. Even writing these words seems embarrassing. My second degree, the one that, pre-MS, was going to spring-board me into a promising career as The Teenager would then be out of child-care, ground to an abrupt halt as soon as the first symptoms appeared. After almost ten years of working in a low-paid, part-time job to be available for him, it was a bitter pill.

A Doctorate is an idle, long-held dream. It was something other people did, the clever ones. Not the ones who turned down a University place at 18 to move to Austria instead. If I’d done the former, I would now be a Russian-German translator, and who knows how my life would have turned out?

To get to the point that I could even think about the next step is nothing short of miraculous, and obviously I have the incredible MS treatments I’ve had to thank for keeping my MS progression at bay. But I would like to think it’s also due in some part to my sheer obstinacy. The days, weeks, months I spent with huge sheets of paper dotted around the house filled with random jottings and essay outlines. The fluttering waves of post-it notes on my desk. My tears when my brain refused to comply.

And yes, I tried to give up, many times. It all seemed impossible. Who was I trying to kid? But where does this obstinacy come from? Well, a very unlikely source.

Years ago, a partner of mine (who will remain anonymous although if he is reading this, he will know exactly who he is), told me over and over again how stupid I was. I had no degree back then, just years of experience working abroad and three languages under my belt. He had a degree and a post-grad qualification.

This became quite an issue, with every argument prefaced with, ‘well, as I have a degree, I feel more qualified to say …’. In frustration I challenged us both to MENSA tests. And what do you know, my score was higher. But in a way, the damage had been done. I believed I was stupid (it had been said often enough). And for years after, that voice followed me. Until MS came along and his voice was drowned out.

MS could have been the final nail in the coffin, and it would at least have been an excellent excuse.

But I have other ideas …

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What A Week

graduationIt was my graduation on Monday.

I had booked my cap and gown, RSVP’d and panicked for months about walking across a stage in front of hundreds of people.

Conundrum – should I look at my feet when I walked or look straight ahead and hope for the best?

MS foot-drop is sneaky.

I got there early, accompanied by my best friend and boss (an honorary title) and we picked up programmes to flick through while we waited. I found my name (Masters Distinction!) then idly looked at the Awards pages. Erm, my name was there – it’s quite unusual, so it stood out – and I was there, with the MA Humanities Award for academic excellence.

Well. I beamed from ear to ear. I showed the boss, who looked as surprised as I did, given he’d seen me weeping over endless essays, surrounded by books and empty coffee cups on a regular basis. Or more often than not, on the sofa, poleaxed by fatigue. I felt a huge sense of … achievement. And something more than that – the feeling that I had put MS in a box, that I had done it despite everything it had chucked at me.

All too soon it was time to fetch my gown. My cap was too small (big head?) and I faffed around with grips to keep it in place. Then suddenly I was in the hall, and then walking in a snake-line towards the stage. Whoah. I duly handed in the slip of paper I’d been given to the booming announcer and there you go, I was walking – slowly, carefully – across the stage. I shook someone’s hand, grabbed my certificate and then the nearest banister.

It was a brilliant ceremony, despite my fears. And the week just got better. On Wednesday, I found out my dissertation story had been long-listed for an award, and I’m keeping everything crossed for the short-list. Not only that, The Teenager wangled free tickets to the Coldplay concert (I don’t know how he does it; inherited charm?).

Sadly though, it’s back to earth with a thud. My days are once again filled with concrete, roof joists and leaking buckets. From the lofty heights of academia to underground sewage pipes, the life of a building project manager is rarely exciting. But in the back of my mind, I’m replaying the moment I discovered my name in the Awards pages …

P.s. Don’t panic – I haven’t suddenly had a baby. The photo is of me and the boss with my friend’s son #cute

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Distinctly Over The Moon …

graduationThe final Exam Board marks for my Master’s were released by the University last week.

I’d already found out that my dissertation had gained a distinction (worth a third of the course marks) which for me was more than enough.

The other two-thirds was made up of six modules, most of which I sweated buckets over. I was going to be completely content with a Pass.

Reader, I got a Distinction. I know, crazy, huh?

Looking back over the last two years, each essay, each critical piece is interwoven with angst, MS symptoms, treatment and relapses. And that’s without guiding The Teenager through A levels and growing up. Plus dealing with a fussy cat.

Near the beginning of the course, I almost chucked the towel in, such was the extent to which it pushed my battered brain to almost impossible limits. This was totally out my remit but I figured I had given it a go, it didn’t work out. C’est la vie and all that.

After I had spoken to a tutor about how to withdraw from the course, I sat in my car and cried. Then I got angry. I should have been happy, now that the pressure was off. Maybe I could take up gardening or embroidery; something relaxing. But I felt a twist in my gut that hurt more than the brain-ache.

So I persevered. I’m not going to lie, I hated a lot of it, but this was offset with falling in love with literature all over again. During one of my relapses, I had found it impossible to read anything, so the joy of flicking through books, highlighting important points and soaking up the words was incredible.

Most of the essays were a nightmare and the critical elements drove me to distraction. As the course progressed, it felt like I had a fight on my hands against that most frustrating of MS symptoms, dodgy memory. Swiftly followed by fatigue, relapses, blah, blah. MS seemed determined to thwart me at every juncture.

It’s odd. I don’t fight back against MS – the whole ‘fighting back’ thing gets my hackles up; I’ve learned to live with it, adapt to it and get on with it. But the Master’s felt like a fight. Perhaps it’s pride, I’m not sure.

Anyway, my final essay had been handed in, many with time-extensions. People asked me what I would do when I graduated, which made me chortle. Probably nothing, apart from appreciate that I had done it, despite everything. I doubt I can fashion a career out of a Masters in Creative Writing. I’m quite happy in my job, bossing labourers around on building sites and working out how much a Porta-Loo will cost.

But, you know what? I have a germ of an idea for a novel.

Perhaps I’ll get that first sentence down on paper and see how it goes …

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Goodbye, I’ll Miss You

mastersLast week, after two years hard graft, I handed in my dissertation.

As I pressed the ‘send’ button, I expected to be flooded with euphoria.

I envisaged cracking open the Champers, unwrapping a bar of Dairy Milk and viewing my cleared desk with bliss.

Reader, I cried.

I felt bereft. I couldn’t bear to leave my desk. My books were neatly back in their shelves, mounds of paper shredded or filed. I had a fresh page on my notepad. The scribbled ramblings I had wasabi-taped to my walls were in the recycling bin,.

All evening I wandered around the house, sadly picking up my stapler, stroking it and putting it back in its place. I opened a book about critical thinking skills for old times sake. I rearranged my Sharpie pens in their pot, light colours to the front.

What was going on?

The Masters has been a cruel mistress, luring me in then kicking me in the guts, leaving me anxiety-ridden and confused. At other times, I would be in seventh heaven when I manged to string a couple of sentences together that actually made sense. Many a conversation with The Teenager would be interrupted with me suddenly saying, ‘hang on, an absolutely genius point has just popped into my head, gimme a bit of paper.’

I struggled to write academically, my sentences more often than not beginning with, ‘I think my work is good and getting better’. Whole days, weeks would go by when I wrote nothing and every time I walked past the papers on my desk, I would sigh.

In the week since I pressed that button, I’m lost. I’m binge-watching trashy shows, reading trashy novels and eating trashy comfort food. I feel weird. I don’t miss the anxiety and I do feel chuffed I finished it. I just … miss it. I guess it’s because I nurtured it from nothing into something I’m proud of, despite the lack of long words and sentences.

The Teenager, my eternal sage, put it bluntly yesterday: ‘Are you sure you wanna do a PhD? Not sure I can handle it. Did you get the chicken nuggets in yesterday? I’m starving.’

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Leaping Into The Unknown

leapParalympic champion Kadeena Cox, who has MS,  won gold in cycling and athletics last year.

She has now had her UK Sport funding suspended while she takes part in ‘The Jump’, a Channel 4 winter sports programme.

They claim it is ‘due to the nature of the activities in the show’, i.e. ski jumping. Cox later tweeted, ‘B4 judging my decisions ppl should imagine living life as a ticking time bomb. MS has changed my outlook on life, so I’m gonna enjoy skiing.’

Well said, on so many levels, and how short-sighted and discriminatory for UK Sport to judge her decision rather than supporting her as a fantastic role model?

In my own way, although much more small-scale, I know exactly what Kadeena means. All of us with MS have a ticking time bomb and a lot of us want to cram in as much as we can, while we can.

Back in 2011 when MS first made itself known to me in all its hideous colours, it was the shocking obliteration of my mind that spurred me in to action. My very first proper symptom was being unable to speak properly – I was weird enough to have a lesion sitting right on the speech part of my brain, so I started speaking nonsensical English with a German grammar form, fumbling for words and generally having the lights go off, one by one.

For an aspiring writer, it was devastating. I had almost finished my second degree, in the hope of spring-boarding to a great career. Suddenly, I couldn’t string sentences together and essays proved impossible. Luckily I was given amazing support and time extensions and finally gained a 2:1. It was hell, but I did it. MS was not going to beat me.

So what’s the most ridiculous thing I could do next, given the circumstances? Start a blog. Of course. Start writing. Go after that life-long dream, which in my case was way less sports-oriented and more becoming a writer. Why not? That ticking time-bomb.

Even more ridiculously, I signed up for a Master’s in Creative Writing. Lol. It was awful, I nearly withdrew, I got support, and I’m now in the middle of typing up my dissertation.

Kadeena uses the word ‘judging’ and she could not be more right. People do judge you. If you have a disability, you should do exactly what society deems appropriate and if not, you break some unwritten protocol. I’ve been told, ‘what were you banging on about, you got a 2:1?’. Yes, but only after working ten times as hard as I would have pre-MS. I’m stubborn like that.

I’ve been told, ‘You? Take a Master’s?’ Yes. I like to challenge myself, not on the ski slopes, but on paper. It’s been a voyage of self-discovery (i.e. most of my writing is awful, but some of it is good). I’ve been pushed beyond mental endurance and it has been good for me. Horrible at the time, but in retrospect, fantastic.

So could you just stop judging us? Why not get a life instead?

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