Being a perfectionist, of course, it had to be precisely 200 days.
Six months and nineteen days between my first multiple sclerosis symptoms and its very diagnosis.
Little did I know that it would eventually transform my life.
It was September 2004, and I had just dropped off my mother at Dublin Airport for her return to Belgium. On the way home, a strange sensation took hold of the left side of my face, as if it had been injected with thick rubber. Thinking nothing of it, I went back to bed to catch up on lost ZZZs.
I slept for hours.
And hours. Continue reading “200 days”
After the fun-filled celebration of having to scroll further down age-selection forms on the internet yet again, I felt rather bemused at how fast life was whizzing through highs, lows and the “despite this/that…” moments.
So, once the usual questions “How’s the facial pain going?” as well as “Willeke, why do you never smile at the camera?!”, I wanted to give as much information in one sentence as possible. Sometimes it’s good to be low on energy as it automatically stops you from talking about “that” subject for the rest of the day.
“That” → MS. Facial pain. Or pain, period. Continue reading “Mental or physical, your choice”
Close your eyes for a few seconds, and imagine the type of person I will describe to you.
It’s someone who has Samuel Beckett’s “Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better” personality. Trying to bend negatives into positives. Seeing cause and effect in an ever expanding circle. Someone who 95% of the time, will not throw in the towel or run away because it’s the easiest solution. Perhaps a “mens sana in corpore sano” person, Latin for someone with a sound mind in a sound body. A non-drama queen (or king). It’s not someone who wants to be one tough cookie, it’s about being a whole tin of tough cookies.
Perhaps you are that tin of tough cookies, or you strive to be one of the cookies within the tin. Continue reading “Fake it ’til you make it!”
It’s all been a bit crazy since that first day of the New Year came peeking from behind that cold, frosty door. It’s now an icy, jaded Saturday morning in the north-west of Dublin, and the RBS Six Nations rugby tournament just started.
Utter bliss so. Red cheeks from absolute delight.
On Monday, I have a new appointment with my neurologist, and with two separate eye doctors in hospital a few days later. Somebody should let me hire a very fancy suite in the hospital, as there’s no point going home and back again twice afterwards, especially since my energy supply is limited.
Am I dreading my neurological checkup? In a way, yes. After 8ish years on my DMD (Disease Modifying Drugs) Copaxone, it just doesn’t work anymore. The four-month relapse last year was proof enough. The idea of relapsing again is a scary one indeed, so I aim to find the right words and ask for an upgrade of my therapy. Continue reading “The miseducation of…”
Since writing my article about depression five days ago, and my mum’s 7-day visit to Ireland, I feel a shift has taken place in my mind.
I am not 100% there yet, but I am well on my way to finding uncompromising resolve again. Many grand and tiny gestures have contributed over the last 4-5 weeks, and are still willing me forward today. Of course, the backing of friends and family, as well as my medical team definitely helped.
Most of all, though, I had once again come to the realisation that I unfortunately need more sleep than the average, healthy person. At this stage so, I must start considering my continuous fights against tiredness and “forgetfulness” about needing a lot of sleep, as a pure character flaw. Continue reading “Resilience”
An invisible illness isn’t a choice.
My visible hope is.
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Not residing anywhere else but here, inside me. Nine years and counting. Probably a lot longer if you really want to play dirty.
Why did you choose me when there were so many other people you could have picked? You were probably out for vengeance for working too hard and resting too little. You probably thought it would be fun seeing me cry at the bottom of the staircase when I was too tired to go upstairs. Did you now, did you truly think it was slapstick-funny?
Continue reading “A powerful letter to my MS”