Ten Years Post Diagnosis: Reflections or Fuck. This. Shit.

Apocalypse, Be nice, Chilling on my goddamn superyacht., Death, Dissolving into liquid sky, Fatigue, Feminism, Happiness, I'd like to sit down please, It's not fair, Lemtrada, Life is hard, Medication, MS, Multiple Sclerosis, Vegetarianism, Women

Ten years, then. At diagnosis I was 27nearly28, so the mathematically inclined reader will naturally put two and two together (or add ten which, in this case, makes more sense) to find that I’m now 37nearly38. Rapidly approaching my three-score and ten. Or forty. Ridiculous.

Imagine, if you will, a school reunion scenario – and that Facebook* never existed so everyone doesn’t already know everyone else’s business anyway.

“Ema, hello, please fill me in on the details of your life since last we met.”

“Gladly. I have developed and continue to live with a chronic illness. Plus I would never go to such an event and have no interest in your stupid life.”

Such are the workings of a fully adult mind. Look ye on my sophisticated brain and despair!

Think of a way to link this paragraph to the last! Thanks. Finally gone vegetarian. Pescatarian. Few pesca, many vege. I’m Being Ecological. Read this book, by Timothy Morton. Had to reread each paragraph about three times to give myself a shot at vaguely understanding it. We’re being ecological just by living, breathing and occupying the same space as all the other human and nonhuman beings on this planet, man. Changed my life. Or viewpoint. Or at least something. Another book. Not a good one but one I found helpful. The Unexpected Joy of Being Sober by someone but I can’t remember who. Also mindset altering. Plus, obviously not sober, but drinking less which is better. ‘‘Tis all a work in progress. We must be kind to ourselves. Stop beating yourself up! You are not in Fight Club.

See, being close to a human constructed milestone (Being Forty), has triggered in me a fix-ur-life-up kind of thing. I think it’s about surrendering to the process. What’s the endgame? Where do you (I) want to get to? Ethically, health-wise, fitness and body-wise. Aiming for well-toned-vegan-ethical-nightmare. Although.

Literally, it’s a return to the earth, the dust, the air from whence we came. (Out, out brief candle!) Surrendering to the eventual and inevitable end: a goodbad idea.

We’re not here for long so remember to turn the lights off and don’t make too much mess.

In conclusion. Reflecting on the last ten years through my MS-tinted glasses. It’s a bit shit, really. A more detailed and boring reflection: the Lemtrada‘s working, last few MRIs show No Evidence of Disease Activity (NEDA), I’m mostly exhausted which is awful, I bore myself.

End with a joke. Thank your audience. Vacate the stage quickly. Lights out.

* scandal-hit

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Fatigue feels like…

Fatigue, It's not fair, Moshing in a sumo-suit on a Tuesday, MS, Multiple Sclerosis

You’re a leaf. You’ve become unstuck and floated down from your tree and already a few humans have trampled on you. From your position on the pavement, with your leafy eyes, you look up and see all of your leafy friends and your leafy family getting on with their leafy lives. It’s not fair.  

A fallen leaf’s view from a pavement. Yesterday.

A child has clumsily made a play-doh representation of the human form. That’s you, that is. 

The worst hangover ever but instead of following the time-honoured tradition of, on waking, swearing never to drink again before, that same evening, pouring a glass of wine, you just continue to feel awful. So you might as well open that bottle.*

As usual, you’ve neglected to check how much petrol you have in your car. (Yes, I know. But I’m both busy and important. Okay?). But you’re already running late and it’s not far. You’re sure that if you concentrate super hard, the fumes will get you there. Fatigue is you running on gas fumes. 


You’re an ineffective damp square of kitchen roll.

Stumbling in a mosh pit. No one notices and no one can hear you ask for help. They’re having a brilliant night! You, however, are being jumped up and down on whilst the gig-goers continue to mosh atop you. Blissfully slash angrily unaware of your predicament.

Like wearing a sumo suit on a Tuesday.

Like my bank account, always.

Like teaching year 11 for three hours after they’ve just finished their maths exam.

Like my cat’s face when you try to move him during a proper fluffy and adorable cat sleep.

Me and the cat just moments before he did an angry face.

Like the white noise between radio stations (pre-digital). 

Like being made to listen to Embrace, forever.

Like curdled milk.

Like a partially rubbed out drawing.

Like when you’re trying to describe to someone a really good dream you had, but you just can’t quite reach the memory of it.

A bit like that really.
*Please drink responsibly.