Freedom!

YESSS!!!!!!!!!!

Nine weeks after it arrived, the majority of my MS hug has finally fucked off.

Fucked off to wherever MS hugs fuck off to.

(Or, more likely, just gone to lurk ominously somewhere until the next time.)

:: Freedom! '90 by George Michael

Sunny afternoon

It's the six-week summer holidays.

Let the complicated jigsaw of work/childcare/clubs/activities/child-swapping with friends/rejuvenating evening gins begin.

And let the absolute exhaustion of co-ordinating all of the above while negotiating the demands of MS hit me like a ton of bricks.

Because while there's no mad-rush-out-the-door for morning registration or finding PE kits (in the cupboard? in the washing machine? on the cat?) or helping with maths homework I JUST NO LONGER UNDERSTAND - there is somehow the requirement to fill the days with fun and exciting stuff.

Days of stimulating summer plans that my daughter will remember for years to come.

Halcyon memories that she can recount to her own offspring while smiling a wistful smile and - perhaps - wiping away a tear of happiness while vowing to recreate them for her own little darlings.

Endless moments of magazine perfection which are out of the grasp of most families, never mind those of us hosting a chronic illness.

It's a summertime struggle to balance the emotional desire to offer every possible opportunity for my daughter while battling the physical demons that stamp all over the reality.

Maybe I should just stop reading articles that showcase frightfully well-turned out families enjoying adventurous outings then picnicking picturesquely. Wearing tasteful outfits and nibbling on superfood salads without spilling the vast majority down their fronts.

Because our six weeks are way more likely to consist of getting too hot and over-tired in the local park, having to have a lie-down after taking on too much, batting stinging things away from sticky juice spillages, cramming in work, a fair few pj-and-tv-and-collapse days, sudden calls for help from friends or family and quite a lot of unhealthy treats "because it's the holidays."

And maybe that's okay.

Maybe it's okay to just cut myself some slack for the summer and view the six weeks as a melting pot of mayhem and exhaustion and last minutes and ice-lollies.

That's not a bad memory for my daughter to have is it? A jumble of fun tied up with some help when we need it.

:: Sunny afternoon by The Kinks

Everything about you

So I appear to have reached that point in the relapse where I find the only sensible option is to take some time out to have a little bit of a grump.

This current state of sad face is caused by:

Seven weeks of not being able to breathe comfortably thanks to the hug. 

Seven weeks of relying on other people to do the driving.

Six weeks of being off balance.

Six weeks of pretending I'm ok to do the new work that I've started.

Four weeks of not being able to write, type, text or - and most importantly - apply eyeliner in any sort of an acceptable fashion.

Four weeks of feeling like I'm wearing damp clothing.

Four weeks of dragging myself through the day.

A few rare occasions of actually asking for help.

And (at some point of) every single day wondering if this will be the relapse that I never recover from.

So I'm allowing myself a small moment of pity and a few toys to be thrown out of the pram.

But I know this emotional downturn won't last for long. Speaking from far too much MS experience, I know it never usually does.

And I also know that whatever damage I am left with I will learn to live with.

So despite this week's choice of song, which is an excellent toy throwing anthem, I know that I don't have it in me either rationally or energywise to waste too much precious emotion on MS.

:: Everything about you by Ugly Kid Joe

Up the junction

Six weeks of the MS hug. Gaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh.

Some things I'd rather deal with:

* gunked-up plug
* dirty rug
* massive slug
* crusty mug
* careless shrug
* anyone smug
* millennium bug

:: Up the junction by Squeeze

Slow hand

Oh my god. The hands. They are driving me crackers.

They are fumbly and numb and useless.

As a result, I am going to use voice activated text to do the rest of this blog post.

I have found this function very useful on my phone, particularly when trying to text.

It doesn't always get things right and there have been a few amusing typos, but at the moment it's absolutely fantastic.

What it doesn't do - which I find frustrating and slightly judgy - is allow me to swear.

For example if I wanted to drop an f-bomb this is what voice activated text gives me: f******.
Despite me yelling f****** loudly and quite clearly.

Turns out, I am being censored by my phone.

This is not very useful, or very accurate, because most of the time during a relapse it's the f-bombs that are most cathartic.

So until such time as my hands work and I can type in said word, it's going to have to be a forging, fudging or forking experience.

:: Slow hand by The Pointer Sisters