thisisntjustmsthisisleahsms-blog

[thisisntjustmsthisisleahsms-blog]

I’ll finish this later... OH SHIT it’s been 7 months.

Many apologies. So many apologies. As many of you know, I am terribly unorganised at the best of times, but actually the last year has been an absolute crock of shite... so I won’t lie, this blog was quite literally the last thing on my list. It was a fucking long list.

I had to re read my last blog posts to remember where it was I was going with this one, as my MS thinks it’s absolutely fucking hilarious to give me the short term memory of a goldfish, not that 7 months is a short amount of time... sorry again! So to make up for my lack of consistency, please enjoy the following account of what I like to refer to as “the Bambi relapse”.

Capaxone “The miracle drug!”

I fucking hate needles. HATE them. To those of you thinking “but Leah, you have tattoos, you can’t be that bad with needles”, it’s not the same thing. AT ALL. A tattoo gun does not have one long ass shiny BASTARD of a needle, it has loads of tiny little needles that I can’t see going into my flesh, nor does it feel like it’s going to come out the other side. Even to this day when I go for my regular blood tests, I have to explain to the nurses in the QMC blood bank that I have a nervous disposition when it comes to the pointy fuckers. I’m sure you have to have some sort of underlying sadistic side to spend your days putting a needle into someones arm... But anyway, now that’s out of my system I can explain to you all why I have just gone on a small tirade about needles. September 2012, after my Good Hand actually became good again, I had another minor relapse which involved numbness and pins and needles in certain areas around my left leg, which I wasn’t too bothered about at the time. I mean sure, I was dragging my leg and it did make me look a little bit like Igor, but I could still walk and thought it was actually quite entertaining. I was given a 2 day course of IV steroids, which involved sitting in an arm chair on the Queens day case unit, with a tube pumping this shit into the veins in my hand, to sort out my handicapped nerve endings. Side note - there’s only so many times someone can ask me if I’m “getting hench”, before I get pissed off. My MS nurse Maxine, who I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure of introducing you to yet, became concerned and considering that Dr Gilmore had claimed I shouldn’t be experiencing too many relapses until around the age of 40, you can understand why... lying bastard. Maxine decided it was time to medicate me. I really need to work on my wording, I’ve made that sound dodgy as fuck... but medicate me she did. I was given 2 options, both of which involved NEEDLES. I cannot remember the name of the other drug, so we’ll just call it medication X.

“The first option would be to inject yourself every other day with medication X, the side effects would mean that you’d spend 3-4 days in the week displaying flu-like symptoms..”

I’m just going to stop you there Maxine, I’m not down for having the flu every week for the rest of my life. Are you on crack? Absolutely not, what’s option 2?

“The second option is a drug called Capaxone. This one would involve injections every single day, but you won’t get the flu like symptoms. You will however have to vary where you inject to prevent any dips in the flesh. You can inject into your arms, legs, stomach and bum”

I mean, it wasn’t the easiest choice... She may as well have said you can either spend half of your life in bed with the flu, or you can risk having dimpled arms and a dippy arse... A dippy arse it is then I suppose. After opting for the daily capaxone jabs, I spent about 10 minutes sobbing in front of Maxine and mum, trying to work up the courage to stab myself in the leg with my first needle. It was degrading to say the least, but eventually I experienced my first sensation of the BURNING fluid rush into my right thigh. A good day was had by all. That’s it now, I thought, a jab a day for the rest of my life... but no more gammy hands or legs. Worth it right?

Ohh how wrong I was.

Bambi, is that you?

One morning during late November... no that’s not right. One early afternoon during late November 2013, I eventually woke up and just like any other day I sat on the edge of the bed for a few minutes, to contemplate the many irritations of life. Why is there such a thing as mornings/early afternoons? I don’t want to go to work tomorrow. Why do people think it’s okay to put milk in tea before the water? You know, the usually stuff. I slid forward and went to stand up, only to continue forwards into the wall next to my bed. What the actual fuck just happened? Well Leah, your good old friends Pins and Needles are back... WITH A FUCKING VENGEANCE. Both legs, both feet. I steadied myself as best I could for a brief moment, before falling back onto the edge of the bed. Now I’m not going to lie, I did have a moment of craziness to myself here - largely due to the fact that I was starting to need a wee...

It’s happening again Leah, quickly slap your legs from various angles, just to make sure! Make sure what?! That you’re not crazy! I’m talking to myself, of course I’m crazy!  I CANNOT feel the floor, my feet are numb. I need to do something, I’m going to piss the bed.

The toilet in my house is about 20 seconds away, if that, from my bedroom. It took me a good 6/7 minutes to navigate my way through all the crap on my bedroom floor, out the door and to the toilet. It’s a good thing we have a narrow house, because I felt like a fucking Weeble, swaying down the landing from one wall to the other and back again. I did not fall down. If you didn’t understand that reference, you’re too young to be reading this. It took me a further 10 minutes to make it downstairs... it was interesting to say the least. I don’t think I moved all too much for the rest of that day... until my mum got back from work and I explained my plight, standing only to give a small demonstration. I rang the MS nurse hotline (I don’t think that’s actually what they call it, but they should) and left a message for Maxine to ask for an appointment ASAP.

Surely though Leah, you didn’t have to go into work the next day after all? So at least there’s that... ha...HA...HAHAHAHAAHA. WHAT? CLEARLY YOU HAVE NEVER WORKED IN THE SERVICE INDUSTRY. I rang work early the next day and attempted to explain my situation. Unfortunately I got a particular manager... who literally had NO idea what Multiple Sclerosis was, to the point where I actually had to explain it to him one day. What can I say? He had a particularly... overwhelming work ethic... and so should everyone else apparently. Numb legs, no legs? There’s a way around it! Be more positive guys! This wasn’t the only time this manager had displayed a WORRYING lack of understanding or compassion for others, I once rang in to tell him I had a very ill relative and needed to be with my family, so couldn’t make it to my shift. This is at like 8 in the morning. He said “Well when did you find out about this? Could have done with more warning Leah, it’ll be really difficult for me to cover the shift now!” Needless to say I told him to go fuck himself and took all the time off that I needed, but DEAR GOD. Anyway, on this particular occasion I didn’t feel like I had a good enough reason, nor did I feel I could tell this man for the second time to go fuck himself, so into work I went. Not just on that day, but for the following 2 weeks there after... including my weekend shifts. I happened to have a pair of crutches lying around my house at the time (don’t ask me why because I can’t remember), so decided to make use of them in an effort to look a little less like a deer that had been shot in the leg. Upon hearing that I was now on crutches, my sister Ella, who had not witnessed the first few days of my relapse, asked to see what I meant when I told I had no balance. I put the crutches to one side and attempted to walk down my landing towards her, she actually had to stop me from falling over into the bathroom door. It was shockingly fun. Anyway, I digress. This is probably the most interesting point surrounding my time at work with numb legs, you’ll probably think “why didn’t she lead with this?”, but you needed the lead up - whats a great punchline without a good build up?

On roughly the 3rd shift that I worked, I was told that I should sit on one of the bar stools as apposed to my usual standing spot at the host stand. This way I didn’t have to awkwardly have people slowly follow me to a table, as I swung my useless legs through the air, making waiters actively dart out of my path. I would have another door host with me, who would take people to their table as I organised the restaurant, or so I was told... Unfortunately for me, this other door host had better things to do, by which I mean he had to go and attempt to flip cocktail glasses or possibly go and do the bidding of a particular waitress, with whom he was rather enamored. He did occasionally wander back over and sit a few tables, but most of the time I was just swinging my legs through the restaurant, hoping not to knock anyone out. This brings me to December 8th 2013, a BUSY Sunday afternoon and the end to the first week of my crutchy adventures. I have posted a picture below this, of a complaint made the very next day and have highlighted a particular passage of this whiny bitches complaint, DIRECTLY about me. I’ll just give you a second to read that and another second to take in what it was she actually said....

FIRST OF ALL there was no conversation when she came in, other than the 3 second exchange of words where I asked the other door host to find me a table for her and her idiot husband. She actually asked why I was on crutches while we were waiting and I told her about the MS - there’s that head tilt again - and when the other door host failed to return, I took initiative to find one myself and take the stuck up bint to it. Did she offer to hold her own menu? NO. Did she offer to carry her husbands? NO. So how the fuck else was I supposed to carry them, if not under my arm? NOT WEDGED IN THE PIT, I DIDN’T STAND THERE AND RUB YOUR MENUS DEEP INTO MY UNDERARM FOR SHITS AND GIGGLES! I’LL JUST SLIP THEM INTO MY CLEAVAGE NEXT TIME SHALL I? THAT WOULD FAR MORE PROFESSIONAL, BUT DON’T YOU LIFT A FINGER, YOU’RE HERE TO RELAX MATE. How the fuck dare she? Had it not been for one of the waiters, Danny, telling me about this complaint several weeks later, I never would have known the exact level of dickheadedness this lazy bitch was capable of. I just thought she was your average arsehole of a customer, KNOWINGLY watching me struggle because she could, how wrong was I? So fuck your passive aggressive “It’s fine - I’m happy to carry them myself”, because if that was the case you would have done! And as for her feeling sorry for me, I can absolutely tell you that there was no sorry feelings AT ALL on that day and quite frankly if she did feel sorry for me, she can shove it up her arse. If there’s any room for it next to her husbands head. Whipped does not even come close.

I’m totally over it now... in case any of you were wondering.

The following week was ridiculous, I spent so much time on those crutches that my arms were fucking hench by the end of that second week, anyone would think I’d been taking steroids. Oh the irony. At the end of that week, it snowed much more than it had done in Derby for a number of years. We had an all staff meeting at the weekend, which was held in the restaurant at 8am before a Saturday shift started. Makes perfect sense right? True to my need to please everyone (it’s a bad habit that I really should cut out), I asked a rather shocked mum and dad to drop me off at the meeting. In the snow. On my crutches. But to be fair, the meetings were always vaguely fun and sometimes they’d give us free coke. Wooo! There would be awards handed out to various members of staff for their achievements in work, if they’d had a lot of good reviews from customers or even sometimes if they were particularly good friends with a manager. Yeah... I know. In this meeting I was acknowledged for my positive attitude, even though I was disabled! You know, because usually all disabled people have a shit attitude and make sure you know about it... There were other things I was thanked for as well, which were genuine, but I was ever so slightly irate about that comment. This carried on for a few minutes and then I was prompted to go up to the front, on my crutches, to be given my reward. I was presented with a £30 gift voucher to go to a salon in the shopping centre we were located in, which believe me I was not complaining about at all. I was very grateful in fact, but my issue is... SURELY it would have been a better gift to let me have those weeks off, instead of spending £30 on what I now assume was out of guilt for not having covered my shifts. Just me or..? I know some of you reading this probably worked with me at the time and you’re probably thinking “how fucking ungrateful is she?!”, but if you are... suck a dick. I never asked to be rewarded, I certainly didn’t ask for a pat on the back for my crutch crusade and I categorically did not ask to be publicly humiliated on Trip Advisor, in return for what ended up being a hair cut. If you weren’t thinking that and you worked with me, then you understand and I’m forever grateful that you do! I did take some time off after that fiasco and eventually ended up getting my hospital appointment, where it was agreed that I would spend 4 days on an IV steroid drip at the Queens day case unit again. Because of it being close to Christmas however, I didn’t end up going until the new year...

So I think that’s a good place to leave it for now, let you all absorb what you’ve just read. I genuinely didn’t realise how long the Bambi relapse lasted and I if I write the whole thing out in one we’ll all get bored. Your neck will start to hurt from leaning over into your computer screen, my fingers will start to ache and everyone’s eyes will dry out and strain.

Next time, there will be an entertaining section about how long it takes to finish 2 games of bowling, on numb legs. We will also look into my experiences on the Queens day case unit, with the wonderfully eccentric Maxine and her views on 50 shades of Grey, which she shared with the entire ward. There’s so much more to come, you couldn’t make this shit up. Thanks for reading! xxxx

[thisisntjustmsthisisleahsms-blog]

I was very elegant on those crutches I’ll have you know!

[thisisntjustmsthisisleahsms-blog]

You'll note at one point, I'm referred to as a he.

[thisisntjustmsthisisleahsms-blog]

Not the Good Hand.

Having finally gone through the large folder full of my hospital letters, which in retrospect I should have done before starting the blog, I would like to clarify a few things from the previous chapter. The time it took for me to actually get my diagnosis, was quite a bit longer than I’d remembered it being. The date of my second appointment with Dr Gillmore and the official date of my diagnosis was October 2011, nearly a whole year after the resting bitch face incident and even then, it wasn’t a proper diagnosis. It was referred to as a clinically isolated syndrome with demyelination... yeah I have no idea what that means either, but I can tell you now it was NOT an isolated incident.

I’d also just like to correct the hilarity that was me telling you all that I had LEGIONS on my brain.

Legion

 1.    A division of 3,000–6,000 men, including a complement of cavalry, in the ancient Roman army.

 What I meant to put was LESIONS – I do not have a small Roman army pillaging my head. Thanks to mum for pointing that out.

 Lesion

 1.    A region in an organ or tissue which has suffered damage through injury or disease, such as a wound, ulcer, abscess, or tumour.

 Anyway, now that’s all cleared up, where was I?

 The Head Tilt Phenomenon

“I mean, the probability is that this won’t affect you again until much later on in life. You could be in your... mid 40’s maybe, before you have a relapse.”

Please remember this. This statement from Dr Gillmore was the reason I decided that it didn’t matter about the MS, because clearly, I was indestructible. MS? HA! Not going to affect me for another 20 years or so, drop the mic, leave the office, see you in 20.

I thanked Dr Gillmore (although thinking about it I’m not really sure why... do you thank someone for basically giving you a life sentence?) And we left. As we got into the lift to go down to B floor, I remember feeling very non-plussed by the whole thing. If this lead neurology consultant has just told me it’s probably not going to happen again until I’m like 40, it doesn’t really mean anything right now does it? There’s absolutely nothing wrong with me and even when it does happen again, it’s only a numb face. Maybe it’ll even out? Give the right hand side a couple of numb weeks? Literally couldn’t hurt and this changes NOTHING.

And that right there guys and girls, that carefree train of thought is why you do NOT make those sorts of off handed comments to stupid teenagers. They will take it for gospel. No amount of the use of the word ‘maybe’ will change that.

To the best of my recollection, we had driven to the appointment. It’s not really relevant, but I know some of you like the little details, a little something to set the scene if you will. We drove home (probably) and I flounced into the house, not a care in the world. I was actually in quite a good mood at this point because I’d started to be able to taste things on both sides of my mouth again; all I was thinking about was eating a bacon cheese burger. And then I saw Dad.

I can only assume that Mum had rang him at some point and given him an update on the situation, because as I walked through the living room door he turned, looked up at me from the sofa and he pulled the most sad, melancholy, disneyesque face I have ever seen to date, it was like looking at Droopy. This is when he tilted his head. Most of you reading this are guilty of doing the head tilt, whether it be in response to a friend whose dog has died or upon discovering that there are no more Oreos left in the cupboard. Both excellent reasons for tilting ones head, however, the amount of times I’ve wanted to slap someone upside their head for tilting it at me in a sort of “oh my God, I’m so sorry, how long have you got left?” kind of way, is unreal. So please, don’t EVER tilt your head at someone who has just told you they are disabled. Yes be considerate and ask questions, but I’m not a fucking puppy stuck in a pipe.

“How are you feeling?”

Well, to be honest with you Dad, I was feeling pretty perplexed. The only time I’d seen his face come even close to how it was on that day, was when he watched Lenny Henry feeding sugar water to a malnourished African child on a previous year’s Red Nose Day. Why is he looking at me like I’m a malnourished African child? I was genuinely confused at the reaction this irrelevant news was receiving. I told him I was fine, asked if anyone wanted a cup of tea and left the room post haste, as mum proceeded to point out to him that everything was fine, I wasn’t dying and that it probably wouldn’t affect me for a very long time. I can’t cope with this shite; I can’t deal with the seemingly soothing voice asking if I’m ok every 5 minutes, whilst looking at me like I’m made of glass. I decided to ring a friend and go for a walk. My apologies to you Louise, I can’t remember the full details of the conversation we had on that particular day, we’ve had a lot of serious conversations and a lot of long walks, they’ve all blended into one. What I can tell you is that there were numerous inappropriate jokes about my gammy face and that we 100% agreed that it was fine and it wouldn’t happen again for a very long time.

BULLSHIT.

The Hangover and The Claw

An unfortunate, yet sometimes comical side effect of MS is the way it likes to tinker with my memory, so my apologies if I have to back track from time to time. Join me, if you will, in attempting to journey back to April 2012. It was an exciting year, we had the London Olympics, Macklemore released Thrift Shop and I was having a cracking time, enjoying a LOT of nights out with various people from my TGI’s crew, only occasionally falling off a wall and/or throwing up into the streets of Derby. It was fucking great! On a side note, I hadn’t told any of my managers about my diagnosis at this point, it wasn’t affecting me and I had no intention of working there until my early 40’s, ABSOLUTELY NOT. But, I digress.

One very hazy morning(ish), having drunk myself to oblivion the night before (never drink Old Rosie at the end of a night, the hangover is just NOT worth it), I peeled my face away from my pillow, stumbled to the bathroom and proceeded to loudly empty the contents of my stomach into the toilet bowl - still in the clothes from the night before. No shame.

Somewhere in between throwing up and trying to figure out why I hadn’t stayed round my friends house as originally planned, I can only assume I was too drunk and had been bundled into a taxi by someone, I became aware that I had pins and needles in my hand – hmm... must have slept on it. No worries, I’ll just shake it off.

Any minute now...

It’s going to wear off... any second...

Well fuck me was I shaking my hand on and off for at least 15 minutes and it did absolutely FUCK ALL. I can assure you if you think you’ve had the worst hangover in the world before now, you haven’t. You add the confusion of a numb hand and a lying bastarding consultant, that’s when you have the right to call it the worst hangover in the world. Mid 40’s my arse you lying prick. This is when the panic set in; picture it, a panicked hangover. It was hideous. I was already throwing up, the panic of my numb hand made me need to throw up more and I was sobbing into a toilet bowl. I cried as the reconstituted rum and coke spilled from my mouth, I tried to catch my breath as the room span around me and looked down at my now lifeless, sick covered hand, in an attempt to have something to look at to stop the spinning. I sobbed as the sight of my gammy hand caused me to projectile across the bathroom floor, not having the time or the attention to detail to stick my head in the toilet. Absolute chaos.

As the days went by, I noticed a definite weakness developing in good old righty. Never called my right hand that before - genuinely never will again. It didn’t feel right to type, but I like the way it looks on a page so. Good ol’ righty was not coping well and bearing in mind that this is my good hand, I started dropping things. To anyone that has just laughed because I referred to it as my ‘good hand’, it was EXACTLY like that. My hand was non-negotiable and had adopted a sort of claw shape, the numbness had crept up into my forearm and I could no longer hold anything without my wrist buckling, if I’d been asked to stir mash it would have been great. I seriously thought at one point, my God, I’m going to turn into a lefty...and no one likes a lefty! On the 17th April, I went to seek advice about my claw at the hospital. I’ve attached a photo of my clinic letter, purely and simply for the fact that they refer to this particular relapse as a MILD one. Looking back now, they were bang on, but at the time I was not impressed about this. Mild?! After the traumatic bathroom incident?! Oh how stupid I was, it was only going to get worse... which is great for all of you because from an outside perspective it just got more entertaining. I was given a weeks’ worth of oral steroids to speed up the recovery process in my hand/arm. I know what you’re thinking, steroids? And the answer is no, I did not get hench. My right arm did not become akin to Popeye’s and I didn’t have veins popping out of my skin. I’ll go into the wonders of steroids next time, oral steroids are no fun but IV steroids are where it’s at. You’ll also get to find out how I faired on 2 numb legs during snowy weather conditions, how I ended up being reviewed on Trip Advisor and the wonders of a drug called Copaxone.

I must apologise for the delayed arrival of blog number 2. Unfortunately for me, just as I decided to start writing a blog about my MS, my MS thought it would be appropriate to give me a numb fucking hand, so the last blog and this one have been written with some difficulty. So actually... I take my apology back because fuck my MS.

Thanks again for reading guys, hope you enjoyed the trials and tribulations of my astounding disability and bear with for number 3!

Leah x

[thisisntjustmsthisisleahsms-blog]

Multiple Sclerosis anyone?

This is a blog all about my experience with Multiple Sclerosis, since being diagnosed with it at the age of 18, in 2010.  Hopefully you won’t see this as me complaining about my MS because, in actual fact, it has given me some of the most entertaining years of my young life. Yes it’s shit, but that’s the hand I’ve been dealt and I may as well make the most of it, right? If someone can write a blog that is literally called “The dullest blog in the world”, about the perfect room temperature or other pointless shit like that and still get hundreds of readers, then I can damn well write one about this. This is to remind you all that although I may look perfectly normal on the outside, the fact of the matter is, I’m disabled. Some people like to forget this and regularly become confused or annoyed, as to why I can’t lift heavy objects or walk at a high speed for long periods of time. Perhaps it’s easier for them to pretend that there’s nothing wrong with me, but there’s only so many times I can remind a person that I have MS, without it sounding like a “feeble excuse” not to do something, which is how it is taken a lot of the time. Just imagine if you will, that you only had one hand and someone asked you to juggle for them. Sure, you’d have a crack at it just to save face, but imagine how you’d feel as you dropped your balls for the millionth time (phrasing), only to find that the person who asked you to juggle with your one hand, was rolling their eyes in annoyance.

Welcome to my world.

Whether you have MS or you don’t or maybe you’re one of those people that have stayed up till 3am, lost in a click bait nightmare and have stumbled across this shambles of a tale, sit back and try to enjoy this hideous account of my journey with Multiple Sclerosis.

And remember, this isn’t just MS, this is Leah’s MS.

 The Lapse

It all started with an A-symmetrical face.

Just before Christmas of 2010, I awoke one morning only to find that I couldn’t feel the left hand side of my tongue. My first thought, was that I was coming around from some sort of dental gas and air, but upon waking up properly and remembering that I hadn’t been to the dentist for quite some time, I became fairly concerned. I proceeded to fly to the bathroom mirror and poke around at my tongue, biting down on it numerous times, alas to no avail.  Anyone else would have mentioned this to someone, particularly during breakfast upon discovering that you can’t taste anything on one side either, but not me. I decided not to. What could I possibly expect someone to do if I came downstairs and announced that I had half a numb tongue? Absolutely fuck all.

I continued about my day as per, until mid way through a chicken sandwich at lunch, when I realised that this numbness had now spread into my left cheek, inside and out. What the fuck is happening? Once again I found myself in front of a mirror and had anyone walked at that moment, I would have looked absolutely mental. Aggressively poking myself in the cheek, pushing it up and down, all around and became very aware that actually, my cheek wasn’t moving much at all. I began smiling and frowning to myself in the mirror over and over, my cheek staying more or less where it was, resulting in a very straight mouth. I decided to ask a few people to have a look and the general consensus was that it looked like I had resting bitch face, which is never a good thing and particularly not when you work on the door in a restaurant.

I got home, told my parents of this bizarre occurrence and they were obviously as confused as I was. After them both having a good prod about my face, my mum suggested having a bath.

“Maybe you’ve got some sort of nasal infection, the steam will help!”

Now, I’ve never heard of anyone with a bad cold having a numb face, but I thought what do I know? I’m only 17 at this point; maybe this is just something that happens from time to time? Half the country could be walking around with colds and a numb face and they wouldn’t broadcast it, so how would I know? Into the bath I got and about 20 minutes in, the remainder of the left hand side of my face had followed suit and become numb. The only way I can explain this sensation to anyone is, imagine you’ve got dead leg and now imagine if that happened, but to your face and with no relief. No shaking it off, no having a quick jig to get rid of the pins and needles, just constant numbness. It was questionable.

“Well, it does look very A-symmetric...”

What the fuck? Why? Why would you tell a 17 year old girl, that her face looks A-symmetrical? Cheers dad. From here, everyone suddenly got very serious. There were various suggestions surrounding the cause of this strange phenomenon from my parents including, at one point, a fear that I was experiencing some form of incredibly gradual Stroke. Being quite late by now, we decided that the best course of action was to see the doctor the following day.

He, however, was equally perplexed and suggested that it could be something to do with my teeth, but I definitely hadn’t had a stroke and I shouldn’t worry. Famous last words. The following week, I visited the dentist. I went in, sat down in the hideously unflattering leather chair and explained my plight. She had a quick look around in my mouth, stood up, muttered something to the nurse and left the room. The nurse then asks me to go back to the waiting room, no explanation, no reassurance, nothing. After about 10 minutes of me sweating in the waiting room, clueless, the dentist comes back and explains that she’s asked the head dental expert to take a look, as he just so happens to be here today. I followed her through to a new dental chair, this one in a room akin to something out of A Clockwork Orange. In case you hadn’t cottoned on by now, I’m not a fan of the dentist. This fear was only reinforced by the fact that, as I took my seat, I turned to see not 1dentist, but 4 of the fuckers stood facing me from the doorway. Without so much as a how do you do, they all launched into my mouth, mirrors, pokers and hands everywhere, pressing down on the roof of my mouth, back of my throat and doing a full circuit of my gums with a large, latex clad finger, all while discussing my various dental problems between themselves above my fucking face. After 20 minutes of this sheer and blatant abuse to my mouth, the head dentist, a big booming man who reminded me of Bryan Blessed, told me that there was nothing they’d found that could be causing any of the numbness in my face. Oh but he did feel the need to stick his oar in and tell me that I needed to start flossing. Well fuck you, I thought; even if something does go wrong with my mouth now, I won’t be able to feel it anyway.

 The scan

Over the next few weeks, between my birthday and Christmas, there were a few more trips to the doctor before; finally, he referred me to Neurological Medicine at the hospital. Unfortunately because I couldn’t get a hospital appointment until March of 2011, by the time I saw the consultant, my face had returned more or less to normal.  Dr Gillmore was his name and on the face of it, sounded quite jolly to me. Oh how wrong I was. Into the room I walked, mother in tow, as he berated me with a string of medical facts and various possibilities of what could be happening inside my brain. This was of course done to reassure me, but in actually fact had the opposite effect, as by the time I came out of the room I was a quivering wreck. Had it not been for the fact that my mother works in said hospital and therefore understood some of the medical mumbo-jumbo that Dr Gillmore was spewing at my 18 year old self, which she then had to translate, I would have point blank refused to go back. Dr Gillmore if you’re reading this, please take this moment to understand that not everyone is a fucking Neurologist, or has any understanding of any of the terminology used by Neurological specialists, particularly not a terrified 18 year old girl.

“I’d like to get a better look inside that brain of yours. Let’s send you for an MRI scan shall we?”

To this day I don’t know why he phrased that as though it was an actual question, it’s not like I had much of a choice. Nah, I’m all good thanks mate, I’ll just stick with an intermittently numb face for the remainder of my days?!

Being 18, the only understanding I had of an MRI was what I’d seen on T.V, which isn’t the best first impression. It’s usually something on the news, along the lines of:

“Joe Bloggs here has a tumour in his head which, as you can see from the MRI scan, is the size of an average rugby ball.”

Ergo, I was incredibly nervous. What if I have a tumour inside MY head the size of an average rugby ball? So by the time I went to my allotted scan appointment, I was not in the highest of spirits, not that you’d have guessed, I’m quite good at using humour as a sort of shield so that people don’t do the whole “this is very serious, are you sure you’re feeling ok?” malark. My appointment was in a strange looking vehicle that looked almost like a tour bus, around the back of the hospital, so not dodgy at all. I climbed aboard, which is NEVER something you should find yourself saying when referring to an important medical scan, and followed 2 nurses into the scanning room, where I was told to “hop” onto the machine. When you go for one of these scans, you have to remove any extraneous items about your person, so jewellery, watches etc. And you have to let the technicians know if you have any medical additions, such as pace makers or pins in your leg, that kind of thing. I did as I was asked and removed various piercings, popping them into one of those little cardboard bowls that they usually give you to throw up in and it suddenly occurred to me that perhaps I should tell them about my contraceptive implant. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen an MRI machine, it’s basically a huge metal tube, with a sort of sliding metal bed attached to it. The nurse handed me a pair of earplugs to stop my eardrums from bursting, and yes that is what she said to me, I blurted out “I have a contraceptive implant!” It genuinely looked like I was suggesting she climb in there with me, which was not my intention. I explained that I wasn’t sure whether or not it counted as a “medical addition” and her response still haunts me to this day.

“Ohh right! Well it should be fine, just give us a shout if you start to feel it swell up and burn!”

And that was it, those were the words she left me with as she slid me into the big metal, claustrophobic tube, before promptly leaving the room. Well cheers then, cheers for reassuring me before I’m placed into a loud, metallic, magnetised nightmare for 45 minutes. Luckily, my arm did not swell or burn and although I felt like throwing up for the majority of my first time in the tube, which felt like a lot longer than 45 minutes, I was okay.

The Diagnosis

Ah Dr Gillmore. This would be the second and last time I was to see my consultant for around 6 years, until last week as it goes. In I walked, again with mother in tow and took a seat in the sweatbox that is Dr Gillmores office. If anyone from the QMC is reading this, tell whoever needs to be told that Clinic 3 needs some aircon, because 6 years on it’s still like a shit steam room in there. There, on the computer screen, is a picture of my brain. It’s only a picture of a brain, you might think, but when it’s your own brain you’re looking at, it’s actually quite daunting.

“Let’s dive straight in shall we? As you can see, the scan shows there are several legions on your brain...”

No I can’t see, I’m not qualified to look at what I am looking at! All I’m seeing is a black and white photo of the inside of my head, with various white dots sploged about the place. I won’t lie I don’t remember an awful lot of what he said after that until, after a further 10 minutes of him talking about legions and brain waves, he told me I had MS.

 I must point out now, that I’ve been in a rather large amount of denial where this is concerned, for a number of years and avoided telling numerous people about my diagnosis initially, for fear of being judged or treated differently. So, if you are one of these people that I’ve told about my diagnosis after 2011, as though it had only just happened, I apologise. It was not intended to be deceitful; it was merely me failing to come to terms with it, over and over again, because I wanted nothing more than to forget about it and pretend like it wasn’t affecting my life. Not telling people put me in some awkward positions when experiencing a relapse, as it meant that I would have to tell them about my MS and explaining all of that to various employers right at the start of a new job was something that I didn’t want to do – hence why I would have a relapse, need to take time off and so I just told them that I’d been diagnosed. To me, it wasn’t entirely untrue because every time I relapse, I go right back to that first day in the doctor’s office.

I’ll leave it there for now, I’m not sure what the proper blog etiquette is when it comes to length, but if I don’t stop now I’ll never shut up. Hopefully you’ve taken something from my story so far and you’ll want to read more about the hilarity that ensued after my diagnosis.

Thanks for reading guys.

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