I don’t miss myself

So…

Rugby world cup.

At last.

England in a fashion faux-pas. Coin toss aside, they resembled players of Wales, China, Japan or Kyrgyzstan (Fijian, red is Fijian).

Mum’s nine day visit to Ireland now over.

Visited Dublin Zoo once again. New camera making me rather shutter-slow, hence prevalent photographic bonding with rear ends of several animals.

Otherwise, hardly left the house.

Sniff.

Thank you, MS. Living with a chronic illness is not all it’s cracked up to be. Chronic means chronic. I don’t get to choose the days, the hours, the moments.

Hence, a triad of medical events in the space of twelve days, now extended into a three-week period.

Flu. Impatient, it could not wait landing on my doorstep before that all important flu jab. Must remember that viruses follow idiotic timetables and adapt accordingly.

Seriously.

Disease Modifying Drugs. DMD. New increased dosage, fewer injection days. What’s not to love?

Sadly, it was not to be. For a few weeks, side effects I believed could be mentally induced, turned out to be purely physical.

Already tachycardic heart racing at Formula One speed standards. Difficulty breathing. Chest pain. Face as red as an English/Welsh/Chinese rugby shirt (Should still be Fijian). Body temperature sky-high during Skyfall. Ironic.

It sent my mum in a panic.

It sent me in a panic because of hers.

Ha. MS, such a joker.

Another medical, life experience.

Oh well. Make that experience number 9 or so. Starting to lose count. Looking out from within ain’t that grand. Or fun.

Eye-popping. Literally.

Each heartbeat making left eye pop. With each step it bangs against its socket. Each word makes my face flinch.

Waiting on some sort of lex talionis lesson, aches waiting to be stilled by maximum load of other drugs.

Face.

Face? Let’s not go there.

Sensory overload turns into stabbing pain. Time after time after time. Last barrier of leftover strength broken.

Note to self so, remember one thing only… That chronic, colonising, neurodegenerative thing inside that potholed brain of mine?

It’s alive. It’s breathing. Perhaps even shrinking.

Use it wisely, so. Don’t feed it negativity. Turn it into a living, breathing manual. Turn it into a tool for others to learn from.

Use that MS-ridden central nervous system as an encyclopaedia waiting to be published.

Why? How? Pollutants? Microbiota? Who knows?

Re-evaluate own expectations. And those of others.

I am not who I used to be. Nor do I wish to be. Pre-MS-Willeke has long left the building. Post-MS-Willeke received a new lease on life, and is quite literally and physically writing her first book.

MS? Assiduous. Studious. Acrimonious.

Shortcut-rambling, in bed with sunglasses on, dimmed light. Only thing missing? A tub of Ben & Jerrys ice cream and someone to massage my tired body.

But overall?

Happy. Despite the pain. Despite everything.

Love for life is still greater than the hardship MS gives me.

Happy.

Just happy.

Image happy

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________

About Willeke

Neurologically challenged by MS and personally by her will to succeed, Willeke is a disability awareness advocate seeking to improve neurological services in Ireland. By highlighting difficult issues that come with a MS diagnosis, she hopes her words and tenacity can bring justice to people most in need of a modern, inclusive healthcare system that looks after every aspect of life.

©Willeke Van Eeckhoutte and Ireland, Multiple Sclerosis & Me, 2011-2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Willeke Van Eeckhoutte and Ireland, Multiple Sclerosis & Me with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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