“It’s a miracle!”

I don’t want to tempt fate and I don’t want to count chickens before they’ve hatched or any of that but…

…It seems I can walk again.

Now, this doesn’t mean I’ve been to see some Jim Jones style preacher, and it also doesn’t mean I’ve quaffed some magical elixir derived from a temple in a South American rainforest either.

What I mean is, I can now walk a bit further than I could.

I often go out for a walk before breakfast on weekdays (weekends are for ‘lie-ins’ *). Until last week, I’d tell anyone who asked, that I wasn’t able to walk more than a mile or so before my legs would turn into some sort of high-density jelly; my feet dragging on the ground; getting tangled with my walking stick etc.

Over the last week, I’ve been able to walk (fanfare)… three miles!

Not quite as exciting as an Indiana Jones adventure, but massively exciting for me. I live on the edge of town, so I can now access some countryside, and I’m also achieving my rather modest daily step target of 6,000 steps by 8am.

I’m currently leaving the house at six, wrapped up warm as the sky becomes lighter. I’ll find a footpath across some fields behind my daughters’ secondary school and head off on some farm tracks, the early morning air filled with the sound of woodpigeons and blackbirds, and the gentle rumble of traffic in a town waking up just a few fields away.

It takes me an hour and a half to do three miles, which isn’t that fast compared to the way I used to be, but I’ve been following my physio’s advice by planning a route that takes in as many rest stops as I can find. These rest stops include benches, low walls and grassy hummocks to plonk myself down on, and fence posts to lean against.

I’ll get back home, just as the local dog-walkers are emerging from their front doors. I’ll make a nice pot of tea and pop a couple of slices of toast on while the rest of the house is waking up.

Crucially, I have enough strength and energy to stand and walk within the safe confines of my kitchen whereas before I’d still be lying in a quivering heap on the floor of my porch, struggling to prise the shoes off my feet.

I’m not one hundred per cent certain where this sudden capability has come from. I’ve been worried about my mobility getting worse, and I suspected Secondary Progressive MS might be on the cards, but I had a full brain and spinal MRI the other week and I haven’t heard back from my neurologist yet.

I’ve decided this must be a good sign.

I’m hoping this is just the remission after a relapse. One of those stealth relapses you don’t notice have happened until it’s too late. There will also be an element of my neuro-physio’s advice echoing round my head as I walk.

I’ve always been into walking as my favourite physical activity. Even when I lived in the East End of London I used to knock up a good eight miles some days, while working for Hackney Council, striding between offices and along the canal towpath that used to skirt where I worked.

So I’m not mincing my words when I say that not being able to get out for a good walk has been really distressing over the last couple of years. I’m tentatively hoping I can reassemble the broken shards of this relapse – if that’s what it was – and build on what I can do now. I find I’m now spending slow moments in my working day, planning small extensions to my current route on Google Maps.

You don’t really appreciate what you’ve lost until you lose it, so while the rest of the country is getting their jabs and anticipating the end of the COVID lockdown (I’ve had mine, by the way), I’m struggling to feel anything about it. Instead, I have something precious and delicate; something that could be snapped away from me in an instant; something that seems to be showing some signs of life again, and that’s all I can focus on right now.

* weekends = 7am

Sticking at it

I plucked up the courage to go down to my allotment the other day.

The first proper visit of the year is always a bit daunting. I can see the allotment as it’s just behind where I live, so I know that my plot has spent a number of days recently under a foot or so of water. It’s also on very heavy clay-based soil so I know from experience that it’s going to be very hard work digging it all over.

There’s also that hurdle of making passing conversation with the stuck-in-their-ways, Daily-Mail-reading, brexit-voting old men down there, most of whom are at least 20 years my senior (and I’m in my late 40s).

But I was in the mood for some fresh air and I thought I’d better check things over.

The first conversation went something like this, with someone I’ll call ‘Dick’ as he was leaving.

“Ay up Dave, You alright?”

“Not bad Dick, you OK?”

“Aye, not bad. You look a lot better than you did the other day though.”

“Why’s that then?”

“You were just leaving the GP surgery. You looked awful – you were walking with a stick!”

I’d been to pick up a repeat prescription for my restless legs (Rotigotine – been working wonders), and yes – I had walked there and back with a stick, so I guess I must have looked truly terrible… like Frankenstein’s monster or a daylight Nosferatu, no doubt.

Dick’s rather insensitive comment ranks alongside a former manager’s ‘little buggy’ comment and places them firmly on a hit list of people to target on the day I finally crack.

At least he doesn’t know I also piss through a straw, I guess.

I’ve been walking with a stick for a few weeks now, mainly at night after the rest of the family are in bed, just to help get my step-count up and I’ve only been using it for distances of about half a mile or more. The truth is, I need to exercise and I find it impossible to run these days, to the extent that I genuinely worry about traffic and the amount of time I have to cross a road.

I stay seated for a good deal of the day because I work in an office. Also, it’s hard to maintain an active lifestyle when your legs let you down after a couple of miles, so walking with a stick has become a necessity.

And I’m glad of it. Just this last week (apart from one bad day) I hit an average of 10,000 steps a day and the stick has certainly helped me get there.

I see it as the equivalent of holding onto the handrail while walking along the deck of a moving ship. It just provides that little bit of extra balance and reassurance and, perhaps more importantly, tells me I have no excuse not to go out for a walk round the block.

It also sends out a message: ‘I’m not quite as mobile as you, so please make allowances.’

It also says: ‘I’m disabled, so I’m unlikely to be an attacker or an assassin, but if you fancy your chances, I can wield this sturdy weapon, ninja-like to defend myself.’

So it’s very much a psychological support as well as a physical one.

I’ve also been seeing a neurophysiotherapist again (more of that later) and she thinks I’m doing the right thing by setting and hitting step-targets and recognises the stick as an essential tool to achieve them. I’m quite a brisk walker (for the first mile and a half, anyway) so it’s nice to get some fresh air and exercise every day before I hit the sack.

Of course, the combination of fresh air and exercise late in the evening also ensures that I’m pretty much comatose by the time my head hits the pillow – an added bonus for someone who has struggled with insomnia for a lot of their adult life.

So I checked out my allotment plot, retrieved my plastic chairs that had blown off in a winter gale, swept out my greenhouse, emptied some scraps into the compost and checked that my shed hadn’t been flooded (it hadn’t). And all of a sudden, things looked rosier and more managable. Yes, I’ll have to dig it all over, but I’ll take a day off with a flask of hot coffee and my headphones in and I’ll make a start.

I also had a good long chat with the bloke on the next plot to mine who I’m friendly with. He’d fixed my strimmer for me over winter, and I just felt generally more positive by the end of it. He told me that Dick – the gossip – had mentioned the stick, so I explained the situation and he seemed to understand.

I no longer care about how I look, but one reason I had rolled out the stick’s use after dark was that I was a bit self-conscious to start with, like I might be if I’d started wearing glasses perhaps. With the stick helping me build up some stamina and the physio working on my balance and core-strength, my main thoughts for this season are now about what I’m going to grow, rather than what I can manage to do.