I wish it could be Christmas everyday

My younger* brother is visiting this week for half term.

He works in theatre as a technical manager and therefore puts in horrendously long hours pretty much all-year round making sure lights and sounds are perfect for all kinds of shows.

He's only recently finished the panto run and has popped to see us this week as it gives him chance to spend time with our parents and my daughter - who loves it when her uncle comes to stay.

Because he only has Christmas Day off during panto, he misses out on all the usual festivities,  general jollification and, as he's a huge eater, the delights of the stuffing balls.

So to rectify this, we're re-running Christmas Day for him today, complete with crackers, token presents and those kind of family jokes that are hilarious to insiders and baffling to outsiders.

It's lovely to see him.
Merry Februmas everyone.

:: I wish it could be Christmas everyday by Wizzard

* Is younger, looks older. I like to remind him of this regularly.

Bad romance

Me: *humming to self, waiting for kettle to boil*

Letterbox clatters. Huge padded envelope appears on doormat.

Me: Oooooh, early Valentine. *trots out of kitchen excitedly to collect*

Doorbell rings.

Me: *opening door* Hello? *no one there* HELLO?

MS: *Leaping suddenly out of bush and running through door brandishing gigantic red plastic gun*

Me: Oh good grief. *sighs* Hello.

MS: *Pulling Charlie's Angels stance * Hiiiiiiiya.

Me: Hi. And to what do I owe the pleasure this time?

MS: Do I need a reason to swing by and see my favourite little damaged poppet?

Me: Well, no, not usually. To be honest you do just drop in without warning - quite often just when I'm in the middle of trying to piece everything back together from your last visit.

MS:  Aaaah, I like to leave a long lingering memory of myself. A bit like an exotic perfume, the taste of high quality dark chocolate, your favourite flowers...

Me: *under breath* A poop that just won't flush...

MS: *suspiciously* What was that?

Me: Oh, nothing, nothing. Erm, what's that?

MS: Oh! This is my new toy! It's a love gun!

Me: It's a what now?

MS: A love gun! A gun of love! You know, bringing kindness and happiness and joy just in time for Valentine's Day.

Me: Mmmm. Yes. I think you may have got the wrong end of the stick a bit there.

MS: What?

Me: Well, love gun, it's not exactly a gun, it's more of a....

MS: Yeeeeeeeeees?

Me: More of a different thing. Anyway, why are you here with any kind of shooty thing?

MS: Ah yes! Back on to me. I am here to present you with this! *picks up and holds out card* Well, go on, open it.

Me: Have you brought me a Valentine's card?

MS: Ooooh, so exciting! Open it and see! Open it! Open it!

Me: Yes, alright, give me a minute. My hands don't work as well as they used to thanks to your last visit.

MS: OPEN IIIIIITTTTTTTTTTT!!!!

Me: *sighs* Right, opening. It's a..........oh.

MS: I know right? Amazing?

Me: It's not a Valentine's card, it's a letter from my neurologist with my MRI results

MS: I know, I know! Exciting isn't it? It very poetically points out everything that's wrong with you after your last relapse! See all that detail of your defectiveness? See how your current meds aren't holding me at bay? See all that rapidly evolving severe stuff? Spectacular isn't it?

Me: Ah...

MS: Yes! Yes! And look at that bit - the bit that says you'll have to choose a new medication. I know how you simply love doing that, so what could be more suitable for Valentine's Day?

Me: Well...

MS: And that's not all. De de de de derrrrrrrrr *waves gun above head*

Me: I can resort to violence?

MS: NO!! Why would you want to be so mean to me?

Me: Reasons.

MS: No, I've bought you this so you can play a nice little game I like to call Treatment Roulette.

Me: Ah.

MS: Yes! This gun is fully loaded with your options. This one has a risk of cancer, this one can damage your eyesight and this one runs the risk of a fatal brain infection! And guess what, guess what - this really is the best bit - it might be that NONE of them EVEN WORK! Go on. Spin the barrel, pull the trigger.

Me: Hang on, don't I get a bit of time to think about this?

MS: Time? TIME? Do you really think you've got a lot of that left?

Me: Well, er...

MS: Well, of course, take your time if you want, but I'd advise you not to take too long. Never know when I might drop in again. *Pauses* Well, best be off, places to be, mischief to cause.

Me: Okay. Bye then.

MS: *waltzing out door* Byeeeeeeee. See you next time.

Me: *slamming door shut* Oh flush off.

:: Bad romance by Lady Gaga

Pink sunshine

I am still in recovery from my Christmas relapse so am feeling worn out and damaged and generally fretful about where my health, work and life are heading.

However!

Today we had sunshine!

And suddenly everything seems just that tiny bit brighter.

:: Pink sunshine by Fuzzbox

Billy don't be a hero

As part of my volunteering role for our local MS group, I write the quarterly newsletter.

This involves gathering stories and information which will (hopefully) be of interest to readers and means I can chat to a large number of people about their experiences of MS.

The spring edition is currently underway and I've just spoken to a delightful lady about her pregnancy story. It was a happy one and her beaming five-month-old is featuring on the front page.

One thing she said to me during our chat was that she wished she'd asked for more help during her labour. She says she feels was trying to be a bit of a hero.

And I suspect that's how many of us with MS may feel - that we're okay, that we can manage, that we don't want to make a fuss.

And there's the scary thought that we have to keep going because we need to show that we can - whether at work, at home or in relationships.

But sometimes we really should be a bit of a hero, especially when it comes to asking for help.

I rarely, if ever, take this advice. However this current relapse, coming as it does hot on the heels of my last one, means I've not had a lot of choice.

I have battled (and it has been a battle) through work since the end of December and I'm continuing to drag my way through it now. I'm just about managing.

But then something came up for one of the organisations I work for - and I knew I would have to say something.

As a steering group for this particular project, our meetings are generally at the organisation's HQ in London. This is a three-hour meeting which actually means a 10-hour round trip for me with a number of trains, tubes and quite a lot of walking. Never mind then focusing on the meeting itself.

I just couldn't see how I was going to do it. So I plucked up my courage and said something.

And I'm so glad I did. And I'm hugely grateful to the organisation for accommodating a freelancer. The meeting has now been moved to a venue 25 minutes and one train journey away from me. I am beyond relieved.

Of course, it doesn't necessarily mean I will ace the meeting with genius insights or endless creativity, but it does increase the chance that I won't fall over or gibber on the table.

So no, we shouldn't try to be heroes. But sometimes we might need to tap into our inner wonder woman and be just heroic enough to ask for help.

:: Billy don't be a hero by Paper Lace

Wishing well

Bit weird to think of an MRI as a wishing well isn't it?

A clangy-bangy tube of claustrophobia, I understand - although my hospital has started putting small mirrors in the machine to help you see out - and sometimes, unnervingly, your own face. 

But wishing well? Perhaps not the first thing springs to mind.

Nevertheless, it's the comparison that keeps popping into my head as my next (and umpteenth) appointment with the machine is this afternoon.

Only instead of loose change, it'll be me delivered into the magnetised well to make my own wishes for oooh, a good hour or so.

And I will be wishing. Wishing that:

• that whatever is found impacts as little as possible on my family
• that the new lesions that I'm sure I have will help determine what drugs are next (while being immensely grateful those drugs are available to me)
• that all the research is getting us closer to a cure
• that everyone affected by this stupid disease has access to the support they need to live their lives as well as possible

Outside of the MRI we can put on a brave face and a happy smile. We can keep calm and carry on because there really is no other option.

But inside it, there's just us and some motionless time to think about why we've been put into that tube in the first place.

To consider how our lives might have been different if only we'd not woken one day to find we couldn't see out of one eye, or couldn't feel our feet or couldn't find the words we used to know.

How we've sacrificed some of the things we might have wanted, how we've reset and redrawn our parameters and how we may have lost friends, family, workplaces or opportunities.

I'm pretty sure MRIs have seen their fair share of confessions, of negotiations, of whispered prayers and of silent tears.

And I'm equally sure that they have seen quiet resolve, internal pep talks, gallows humour and stiff upper lips.

I know I have wished for just a bit more time, for just a few less symptoms, for the chance to make the best of what I have.

I've also asked for help to keep finding the strength to cope. 

I can't always see it but I know that strength is in there somewhere. And I really should learn to realise that I can be proud of that.
Maybe the enclosed tube with its teeny, tiny mirror is the best time to reflect on that.

So wish me well. This afternoon, I will be my listening to some very loud magnets while hoping to also hear the sound of my own pennies dropping.

:: Wishing well by Terence Trent D'Arby

Unhappy birthday

I hit 16 years with MS on Sunday.
An inauspicious occasion I'm sure you'll agree.

But to mark the passing of MS-filled 16 years I've gathered 6 things I've learned while living them.

(Strictly speaking I suppose it should be 16 things, but I'm relapsing so have cut myself some slack.)

Here goes:
- it gets harder
- you get stronger
- try not to dwell on the past
- learn to accept help
- embrace dark humour
- keep upping your eyepatch game

:: Unhappy birthday by The Smiths

History repeating

I relapsed again just before Christmas. It's been a merry festive season.

This relapse is an almost carbon copy of the one I had earlier this year. It's mainly sensory, so: MS ruddy hug, scrambled sensation from neck down, tingly hands, numb bum, tiredness. So far, so familiar.

But while my feet escaped in May, they haven't this time and instead I genuinely feel like I'm walking on broken glass.

This relapse also appears to have taken the damp clothes sensation of earlier this year and upped it to a sandpaper scraping legs sensation.

It's all completely rubbish, obvs, and makes wearing clothes hugely unpleasant. But as I need to leave the house for work/school run purposes and have no desire to affront the general public, horrible feeling clothes it is.

As a slight plus though - my legs might feel they are being attacked by sandpaper, but they also can't feel the cold. A bonus for those non-work days when I am wearing shorts in the winter. Have learned to ignore the stares.

However, this two relapses in six months tally does only mean one thing - and that is a review of my current meds. As my neurologist depressingly puts it 'the DMT is not holding things at bay'.

So it's a case of gearing myself up to face the new meds choice. I am both immensely grateful that I have some options and hugely bewildered by what those options are.

I never feel qualified to decide what is the best thing to do. I really, really need some help, support, guidance and a me from the future telling me the most effective option.

As a minor aside, I also need to stop eating all the leftover Christmas chocolates.

Things I hate about MS relapses. A grumpy pie chart:

:: History repeating by Propellerheads feat: Miss Shirley Bassey