22 June 2007

22 June 2007

Well, I guess it was bound to happen sooner or later. I think I’m having my first relapse, well the first since my diagnosis anyway. Yesterday evening I was ok – not great, but ok. I was tired, but then it’s been a busy day, a busy week. During the evening I was getting around fine, up and down stairs as well as I usually do. But when I went briefly into Tesco to get some milk, I found I was dragging my feet. Like seriously dragging my feet. I dismissed it as just me being tired. I went home, and went to bed. I figured that having a good night’s sleep would help.

I slept well and woke up a little late, but that was fine. I felt wobbly moving around the flat getting showered and dressed. My legs felt stiffer than usual but I pushed on.

It seemed to take me forever to get ready. Of course it wasn’t, but it felt like it. However, I didn’t leave until just after 8, so I was expecting to be able to get the 8.16 (is that the time of it?) train. That was not going to happen. As soon as I set off I was dragging my feet.

I tried, I really tried, as I usually do, to walk normally. I try to walk in a controlled way, with normal balance, with normal steps, avoiding trip hazards. I concentrate hard so that if anyone sees me who knows me, then maybe they wouldn’t realise anything was wrong.

Today was not a day for walking normally. Today was a day for feeling a looking like a cripple. I make no apology to those who find that term offensive. It’s how I feel, ok? I was dragging my feet, tripping over every unevenness in the paving (there are a lot, believe me) and finding, to be perfectly honest, that I really really wasn’t sure I was going to make it at all.

It’s strange how when you’re struggling you can still walk along following a familiar path without being actually aware of quite where you are. Does that make any sense? So I was walking along and thought to myself, well at least it’s not too much further, as I continued to scuff the toes of my new shoes against every protruding flagstone edge. And then I realised where I was. Less than halfway to the station, on a slight uphill rise, struggling. I seriously thought about going home, I was that uncertain if I could make it. But then I wasn’t sure I could get home either. I dragged my reluctant legs along the pavement, wondering what the fuck I was going to do if they just packed up.

But I did it, in the end. Because I’d missed my usual trains (both of them) I had to go to Waterloo East. On the plus side it meant I got a seat on the train, and avoided the up down up down stairs at Lewisham, so I guess it wasn’t all bad.

So I got to work and managed to make it to my desk without it being too obvious that I was struggling and dragging my feet. A lot is down to the fact that as much of the distance as Canary Wharf is vertical as well as horizontal, so it can be negotiated by riding the escalators. And the flooring is all smooth and level, which is a definite plus.

So there we are. A long time since I wrote anything here, but then a long time since I had anything much to write. Today is a bad day. A sad day.