The boxer

I’m celebrating Valentine's Day with a faintly embarrassing outpouring of affection, and here it is: I love my body.

There, I’ve said it. I do.

Don’t misunderstand me: I don’t stand in front of the mirror every morning and evening talking outloud to it and affirming its loveliness, I am British for goodness sake.

I’m also not saying it’s picture perfect even in the kindest of subdued lighting. But on the whole, I think it’s great.

And the reason I think it’s great, the reason I don’t hate it despite all the limitations it has or has the potential to have, is this: my body is not letting me down. A disease is letting me down.

In my mind, they are two very, very different things.

I see my body as an increasingly knackered team member that is still managing to turn out for my side.

In the words of those irritating Prescott botherers Chumbawumba, it’s got knocked down, but it gets up again.

Because even if, as the widely held theory suggests, MS is an auto-immune disease and my body is attacking itself, then I still prefer to think it’s simply a bit bewildered rather than just plain mean.

It can’t help the random spasms, it can’t help the skewed temperature sensations, it can’t help the stabbing face pain and it can’t help the thoughts-in-a-spin-cycle.

It is not my body’s fault.

And while it fails and falters, it also tries its very, very hardest to help.

So far, it’s managed to heal claw its way back from a number of pretty hefty relapses. Alright, it may never have been a 100 per cent recovery and alright, it might hold part of the damage back and unleash it again when I’m too tired/too cold/have a virus/sat in a hot bath for too long.

But generally, it’s on my side and it’s fighting very hard to stay there.

However, I am fully aware that this state of affairs is subject to change and at some point, my body is likely to stop healing quite as well as it has done to date.

There’s only a certain amount of times myelin can repair to an acceptable level before the damage really starts to hit and more significant and permanent disability develops. 

So far I have been lucky, I have repaired to a reasonable degree. Even if each relapse has left a lingering mucky footprint on my balance, pain, sensation, cognition or vision.

I don't know how much longer this ability to mostly repair will last. And honestly, it's best not to dwell.

So while it’s sometimes been on the losing side in the skirmishes, while it can’t always make me completely better, I would officially like to thank my body for repeatedly lacing up its gloves and stepping into the ring.

:: The boxer by Simon and Garfunkel

Nothing but love

We went to a gig this week!

It deserves the exclamation mark because it’s a rare occurrence these days.

I used to go to quite a few during my university years, and when I worked on the paper we used to be sent free tickets so we could write reviews.

This resulted in some quite unexpected evenings out watching bands that you wouldn’t even pull out of Woollies bargain bin.

My friends are also all frighteningly musical and write and play their own stuff so I’m surrounded by talented people – both amazing and depressing for the tune-free lump that I am.

This week’s gig was with James (the band, not the Bond) and hubby and I went with friends and had a perfectly lovely time.

James were as good as ever and the whole thing was massively, massively uplifting.

The audience was mainly made up of people older than us (always a joy when you hit your 40s) who looked like they were having the time of their lives.

There really is nothing better than looking around at a gig and seeing the entire audience arms aloft, faces smiling, singing as one.

In the emotional armoury of life, music is an extraordinarily powerful weapon.

:: Nothing but love by James