I've published and not been damned

Various reactions when I finally come clean to my family and the world about the MS. I kept it to myself for as long as possible to get my head around it. My husband R knew. My rock. My sister, who also has MS, knew, as did her husband, and really wanted me to tell people straightaway. I guess the knowledge was heavy for her to hold without sharing it. But I wasn't ready to hear the words from myself, let alone anyone else, and couldn't face the weight of other people's anxiety.
But with a family holiday to Hope Cove, Devon coming up at the weekend, our bi-annual trip to our lovely all mod cons but rustic retreat which tends to involve hearty walks to and from the sea, and to and from the pub, I knew that my dragging leg and reluctance to exert myself would be noticed and analysed as more than normal laziness, and then it would all come out at the wrong time and spoil our lovely break.
So we told my parents three weeks ago. Or rather, I bottled it and asked my R to tell them for me. Just like I got my sister to tell them when I was pregnant with no prospect of marriage. They were, as always in a crisis, shocked and worried, but calm. Accepting. Itching to get their hands on some research, information, advice, remedies of any kind. Proud that as a family we tend to keep our heads when all around are losing theirs. Chins up. Best feet forward etc. Makes us sound like some kind of marching band.
They already do so much, fetching the kids from school once a week, having them to stay, generally giving guidance and wisdom, helping pay for holidays etc, that I really didn't want this to burden them for the remainder of their days. But while they're hale and hearty, in fact, haler and heartier than me, I can show them I'm fine, and I intend to let them help me all they like!
Once they knew, I felt able to go really public. I mean, into print. First I had my hair cut. It's getting shorter and funkier, the grey roots resolutely covered in a kind of racy red. Not for me an entire column devoted to the rigours of going grey. I intend to do it with scarlet highlights and maybe the odd exotic turban when the time comes.
I submitted, and had accepted, an article by the Daily Mail, printed today. They sent a photographer to take grinning pictures of our little family. And in fact in the end used a family snap I'd emailed them just to give them an idea what we all looked like.
Anyway, the article is just talking, much as I am in this blog, about my life and how the symptoms all started and the diagnosis felt and how important it is that I keep going for my young family, how I'm going to deal with it. And I was paid to write it! Hurrah! There's our Christmas holiday to Austria paid for. And twice hurrah! I now, after twenty odd years of trying to wriggle out of it, even being pregnant on one occasion (pretty drastic I know), have a valid excuse not strap my feet into boots that look like plaster casts for the Elephant Man and slither down a cold, hard mountain! Can just sit in a beautiful chalet hotel staring out at the snow and my loved ones, tapping on my laptop, slurping schnapps and swallowing schnitzel.. but you'll have to wait for that instalment. Suffice to say it's paid for now and in these crunched times that is a real triumph.
I showed the article to my immediate boss at work, also a very good friend, who already knew about it because I'd let it slip the day I had my diagnosis. As well as a barrister or two up at the Crown Court she also showed the article to the others in the office who had not known before and were great and seemed really moved by my story. My fellow secretary, P, said it inspired empathy and she couldn't get it out of her head. I was thrilled, and told her so. She has summed up what every writer aims to do, to affect, to connect, and to stay in people's heads just like the Kylie Minogue song.
Our office is up a very narrow, dark set of stairs that one of our agents said reminded him of a bordello he visited when he was an undercover copper. Now my colleagues are all insisting that I should let them trundle and tumble down them to answer the doorbell when it rings. I said now that I make up their 'disabled' quota they should instal a Stannah stair lift. Which gave rise to much merriment on the subject of how naff disability and old age adverts can be. You know, those adverts in Saga for retirement homes and bath tubs where you open a little door and take a bath still in your bathing suit. Or reclining chairs and beds that practically fold you in half, or presumbly hurl you into the air like an ejection seat in an RAF jet, and two for the price of one. The hideous shoes that look like Cornish pasties my sister and I already refuse to wear. The pudding bowl haircuts. The elasticated slacks.
Anyway, one of the partners, a shy gentleman not given to sentiment, said an incredibly sweet thing. He'd shed a tear, he told me, when reading the article. And though he'd noticed my slight limp on occasion, he said he was relieved to see that the MS hadn't affected my good looks!
And then a tougher conversation, with my 20 year old son. I had told him briefly on the phone last night, in case someone saw the article and mentioned it before I got a chance, and then as luck would have it he was coming home from London anyway this very day to go with us all to the dentist - eccentric arrangment, I know - but also what a fortuitous day it was that I was able to see him face to face. Yes, he was more upset than I thought he'd be. He's a cool dude, beautiful to behold, but a sensitive and thoughtful dude and more so the older he gets. And if I'm boasting about how gorgeous my son is, well, I'm usually the first to castigate boastful mothers, but this time I'm allowed. I don't want this to make a difference to you, I said to him. But it does, he replied. Why? Because it means I must work hard, get a really good job, in case I have to help look after you.
Then he offered, for the first time in living memory, to peel the spuds for supper.
I guess, motherwise, I must have done something right.