Well, last week was a scorcher.
So much so, that I gave up on Fathers’ Day activities halfway through the afternoon and went to bed for a bit. The following day, I dressed for work, drove my youngest to school, and then turned round and headed back home I felt so rough.
Again, I had an hour’s kip during the afternoon. After this I felt brave enough to step outside into our south-facing garden with some crazy idea about hanging out some washing.
Stepping out of the back door, I felt sure, was pretty similar to stepping off an aircraft in Saudi Arabia.
I turned round and went back in.
I felt so fatigued, dizzy and achey that I even Googled to see if I’d given myself cyanide poisoning. I’d made elderflower cordial, and elderflower and gooseberry jam a day or two previously and the stems apparently contain cyanide (in the same sort of way that apple pips do).
To a paranoid, heat-addled, MS-scarred brain like mine, it’s pretty amazing how similar the symptoms of MS and elderflower-induced cyanide poisoning are.
Tuesday, I was pretty much right as rain, so I ventured back to the office knowing that I could leave any time I needed to, and on Wednesday I’d booked a day off anyway to attend school sports day.
My youngest daughter’s school sports day involves a lot of standing up and moving from one event to another. The weather reports said partial cloud.
After two and a half hours of hanging around in full burning sunshine, I ventured back to my car that I’d helpfully parked about a mile away.
It was then that I found it was incredibly hard to walk in any meaningful foot-in-front-of-the-other kind of way. As I was the first one out of the school gates, I wondered what the other parents thought of my stumbling feet; feet that felt like they were made from bags of sand, and legs that felt like they were wading rather than walking.
At least I’d had the forethought of deliberately parking somewhere shady. Slumping into the driver’s seat, I allowed myself a rare emotional moment – probably no more than a few seconds, but enough to release the weight of what I’d bottled up – before turning the key in the ignition and just getting on with the rest of the day.
When I eventually got home there was a letter from Big City Hospital waiting for me. It was my neurologist to say the results of my recent MRI were back. It showed new lesions, apparently.
Now here’s the interesting thing – my neuro’s exact words look designed to set my mind at rest: ‘a small number of small new lesions compared to the scan of three years ago’. For someone who proof reads as part of their job, the use of the word ‘small’ twice in the same sentence stuck out like a luminously sun burned neck. The scan of three years ago that he mentioned had itself shown no new activity since the previous scan when I was first diagnosed, so these are the first new lesions on a brain scan of mine in nine years.
Anyway, my neurologist didn’t think this ‘necessarily need prompt a change in treatment’, but he’s asked that I come in to see him anyway ‘to discuss’.
Hmmm… all well and good if I’m being summoned to ask questions and set my mind at rest, but there’s also a little part of me that feels a little worried.