15 February 2007

So there we are. At last I have a diagnosis. Multiple sclerosis. Not one of the things I’d imagined but as bad as some of the things I’d thought of. Whatever, it’s bad enough.

But at least is now had a name. That’s been the most frustrating aspect of the last six to eight months – not being able to give my arch enemy a name or any kind of face. Now I know, I’m not sure I want to.

I’m trying desperately to convince myself that it’s better to know, but I’m not doing too well. I’m not caught in the paradoxical nonsense of being sure I was happier when I didn’t know. Now I have to face up to it.

I suppose it’s a case that now sentence has been passed. Before yesterday, there was always the possibility that I’d been sitting on an uncomfortable chair (I have, but that’s by the by) or caught some virus that would eventually work its way out of my system and hey presto, all would be well again. Now I have to accept that all will not be well again. In fact, all will very much never be well again. Ever. Ever ever ever.

I don’t suppose there is a way of expressing on paper the enormous sigh that I just uttered after typing that last line. Sighs in prose always seem to be a sham, a linguistic trick to imply wistfulness or whatever, but I promise you, a sigh, deep deep breath, forcibly exhaled, was precisely what I just did, involuntarily.

I now face the task of telling my children. I will have to choose my words carefully. I want them to understand without freaking them out. I want to be honest and open, as I have always been.

Last night was extraordinary. A parade of phone calls starting with my father within a few minutes of getting home from the hospital at 5pm via friends in UK, Australia and USA, finishing at about midnight with my youngest brother. At first I didn’t think I wanted to talk to anybody. It seemed such a shock to find out. But then, when it came down to it, it wasn’t so bad after all.

I cried a couple of times, but only by myself, and only for a moment. I think that’s permissible.