Tag Archives: sofa

Sofa, So Good

couch potato 2The good news is, the steroids I took alongside Campath have left my system.

The bad news is, my sofa is beginning to take on a Stumbling-shaped dent, so much so that if the cat dares to jump onto it when I’m not there, she slides into the dip in the middle. Which is quite funny, if, like me, you don’t get out much.

With the steroids gone, at least I sleep through the night and no longer wake up at 2 am with a burning desire to polish the skirting boards or rearrange my herbs and spices into alphabetical order. All I’m left with now is overwhelming fatigue, but as an experienced MSer, that’s second nature. If I had to take a test on managing fatigue, I’d pass with an A plus and get a shiny sticker.

The Teenager is back from London. The washing machine is on, there’s thick clouds of Lynx in the bathroom, food is disappearing from the fridge at an alarming rate and I’m tripping over his size 12 trainers. All back to normal.

My plan for this week is a simple one. Sleep, watch telly, read and repeat. The aim is to a)recover completely and b)bore myself so silly that I’ll be ready for world domination at the end of it. Or something similar.

My sofa will be my command centre. I have my tv listings magazine, the land line, my mobile, the remote control, a selection of hand creams in case I feel like doing something energetic. A book, a pile of magazines, my duvet, the cat, a bag of sweets (or three), and a brochure for the local arts centre. I might not be able to go just yet, but I will absorb some culture by osmosis.

Choice of clothing is also very important. Nothing too tight fitting. The aim is to be comfortable, but also, when I have visitors, I want to look floaty and serene. No slippers (trip hazard and, let’s face it, a touch naff). Hair will be washed, as I don’t really want the mad woman in the attic look.

It’s a tiring business, being poorly. Actually, it could be my full time job. Well, at least for a week. After that, I will be back to my normal self. Lazing on the sofa, eating sweets, etc…..

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Haematoma Blues (And Purples, And Reds…)

haematoma bluesMy magnificent bruising has been reclassified as a haematoma, which probably explains why I’m still hobbling around almost two weeks since my accident.

I was lucky enough to see one of our fabulous MS nurses at the Work and MS conference on Saturday and during a coffee break, I rolled my jeans down in the loos to show her the injury.

She carefully examined it and suggested I take myself off to Accident and Emergency to have it scanned in case there was an underlying fracture.

To cut a long story short, my mum took me that evening and the good news is, it’s just a haematoma, not a fracture. The bad news is, the only thing I can do is wait for the swelling to go down. It’s not going anywhere fast and neither am I. The pace of my life wasn’t particularly speedy before (take a bow, MS fatigue and foot drop) but has now slowed to a virtual stop.

I’ve been told to keep my leg elevated as much as possible, so needing no excuse to lie down and fill my brain with trashy tv when I should be slaving over an essay, my sofa is now almost permanently in use, much to the chagrin of the cat.

The Teenager marvels at my ‘cushy’ life and prods the lump on my leg in wonder. He’s very much enjoying visiting friends for tea after school and has perfected his sad face when talking to their parents, ‘oh, my mum’s dreadfully ill, she’s got this massive  thing on her leg, the size of a rugby ball, honestly, she can barely speak, it’s that bad’ before gratefully accepting yet another chocolate roll or can of Coke.

I’m sure I’ll be back on my feet soon enough and will no doubt look back wistfully on my weeks at home when I go back to work.  But I do miss the banter and bacon rolls and even my nickname, ‘Half-Shift’…

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Livin’ La Vida Sofa…

livin' la vida sofaSince my spectacular fall last Thursday, I have been hobbling around at home going stir crazy.

I made a break for freedom on Sunday when a friend enticed me outside with the offer of brunch and some retail therapy. He quickly walked ahead of me as I yelled, ‘Hello trees! Hello shops! I’m out!’ and grinned manically at everyone I passed in the street.

Two hours later he dropped me back home, full of coffee but exhausted. My leg was throbbing and as I peeled my jeans off the bruise spread even further. Oops.

I have a sinking feeling the injury will take a lot longer to heal than I first thought. I’m not going anywhere this week, so I skulk around the house and spend far too much time on my sofa.

When The Teenager comes home from school, I bribe him with cake in the vain hope he will sit down long enough to tell me what it’s like in the outside world but all he wants to do is have another look at my bruise before heading upstairs to tweet and get up to the next level of Candy Crush (no idea).

I have set up a Command Centre from my sofa – everything I need is within reach. Remote control, magazines, mobile phone, Bacon Bites. I have watched every programme on my Sky Planner and now have to resort to watching Catherine Cookson adaptations and angry people shouting at each other on Jeremy Kyle.

Friends and family have been brilliant. My mum comes round every day with gossip and my latest batch of laundry. A friend dropped off a huge Victoria sponge on Saturday. Even the cat is behaving, although we argue over duvet rights on the sofa.

My days are punctuated by painkillers and chocolate (it’s medicinal). I really should get cracking on my next essay. I need to put an online shopping order in. My bank statements are staring at me from my desk. The dust balls are having a party and my garden is sadly neglected. Life is on hold.

I remain optimistic though. MS has taught me to expect the unexpected. Soon enough, things will return to normal. In the meantime, a friend is coming over soon with the new issue of Grazia and I’m going to chuck the cat off my duvet. Again.

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Chronically Ill, Terminally Depressing?

I'm fineThe builder popped over to see me after work the other day. I was on my sofa, floored by MS fatigue, snuggled into my duvet, watching trashy tv.

As soon as he walked in and saw me, he took a step back, a look of dismay on his face, ‘God, I feel depressed just seeing you there like that.’

If he’d slapped me across the face with a wet fish, it couldn’t have hurt more. I protested, made a joke about it, but it touched a very raw nerve.

I don’t want to be depressing. I don’t want to be that person on the other side of an invisible divide. I saw myself through his eyes and didn’t like what I saw. MS has shoved me under ice. I look the same, but I’m trapped, banging on that ice, yelling pointlessly for my friends on the surface to hear me.

I’ve had to absorb a lot of changes into my life since MS smashed into it like an unwanted gatecrasher at my party. Some of them are huge, but most are small changes I now take for granted – the afternoon naps, the slower pace of walking, the brain mush. To me they are now normal. But seeing myself from someone else’s viewpoint brings me up short. I can see just how much I have changed and I hate it.

Before MS, I was always on the go. I travelled the world, had incredible adventures, and I’ve been strong, independent and vibrant. Looking at myself now, I can see I have I’ve become a shadow of that. My house has become my refuge and I spend far too much time in it. It is comforting. No one can see me trip, hold on to the banisters, drop another glass. I feel safe here.

I know the builder didn’t mean to hurt with his comment. I probably needed to hear it. I want to get my zest for life back. MS is a hefty ball and chain to drag through life, but at least if I’m facing forward, I can’t see it, even though I know it’s there.

At the moment I am standing outside the party, nose pressed to the window, watching everyone else’s lives unfolding. It’s about time I joined in again.

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