a lovely bunch of coconuts...

There's a lovely chap at our local parkrun: he's in his eighties now and has volunteered nearly 200 times without ever once feeling tempted to go around the course himself.  He's an absolute institution and everyone who comes along on a Saturday morning to walk, run, jog or volunteer at our parkrun loves him.  He marshalls the part of the course we call "the split", where, first time around, runners turn left and then, later on, turn right with a couple of hundred meters to the finish.  We've actually now officially named the split after him and given him some specially personalised signs so that every runner can thank him by name as they go past him.

As a member of the core parkrun team for the last couple of years, I've been lucky enough to get to know this chap quite well.  He's a cheeky sod too, and has particularly taken to teasing my wife at every possible opportunity... pointing her back around the course when she approaches the split for the second time, instead of directing her to the finish.  This week, he directed me into a space as I arrived and then held his hand out for five shillings, which he doubled when he saw my wife was also in the car.  That kind of thing.  He's a lovely guy.

Just recently, he's been particularly kind to me: he knows that I had an operation in the summer that stopped me from running for a while, and he's made a real point of coming up to me every week since and asking me -- quietly - how I am, and telling me to look after myself.  I didn't really think anything of it other than the fact that he's a gentleman.... until last weekend.

Last weekend, as he was quietly enquiring after my health, he went on:
"I had a friend who had a testicle removed, you know.  It took him a few months to get back up to speed. You look after yourself!"

I can't help but wonder exactly he's heard about exactly what I had done over the summer.

Still, his heart's in the right place.

fritter and waste the hours in an off-hand way...

I've been expecting an appointment through from one of the many consultants that I see.  I had a consultation in December and was told to expect a follow-up in six months.  Although I've been anxious to chase this appointment through, I've been as patient as I possibly can be, hoping that my name will pop up on their system in due course and that appointment will come through and everything will be tickety-boo.

I nearly called to chase them at the end of May, but counted the months back carefully on my fingers and realised that I needed to give them more time, even though I knew it was probably going to take a while between chase and appointment.  So I waited.  I was hoping there would be something on my doormat when we got back from the USA last week... but there was nothing.

So, today I called them.

"Oh yes.  You're on our system. Well, as you're on the phone now, I'll check to see what's available.  How about the 4th July.... oh!  That's tomorrow! No? Well I have an appointment on Saturday and then nothing until November."

So.... I suppose the positive to take from this is that I have the appointment I've been waiting for later on this week, which is good.  On the other hand, I can't help but think about what would have happened if I hadn't made that call this afternoon.  Presumably, that appointment on Saturday would never have come my way, and I could feasibly have been waiting until November for my follow-up.  That seems ridiculous.

Look.  I love the NHS.  My father dedicated most of his working life as a doctor to it and I've experienced up-close just how amazing it is.  Since my diagnosis with MS, I've received literally hundreds of thousands of pounds worth of care; the drugs I inject every week are worth hundreds of pounds each time, never mind all the scans and consultations and diagnostics and things.  The quality of care has been excellent and unquestioning.  I've never paid a penny directly for any of it.  That's an amazing thing and something to be celebrated and cherished.

But this episode with my appointment just seems a bit....haphazard.

the dead man's hand again...

Perhaps it’s my age, but I seem to be accumulating medical specialists at an alarming rate at the moment. Naturally, a good deal of this is associated with my MS... but over the last six months, I seem to have acquired several more appointments with various consultants in treatment centres around Nottingham that are nothing at all to do with multiple sclerosis. In a way, this is great news: the longer my MS remains stable and relatively low maintenance, the better. On the other hand, I’m not seeing these other medical specialists just to pass the time of day.

As I was recounting my medical history to the most recent consultant as he carried out his examination, I jokingly suggested that I was beginning to feel a bit unlucky. He immediately called me on it, reminding me of the importance of maintaining a positive outlook in the face of whatever life has to throw at you.

He’s right, of course…. But it made me laugh to hear him say it because I’m pretty sure I must be one of the last people who needed to be told. I sometimes hear myself talking about my MS and I’m aware that I sometimes come across as perhaps the most phlegmatic, stoical man in the world. Perhaps I am, but the simple truth of the matter is that I fail to see the point of wasting energy on things that I can’t change. I might as well howl at the moon.  I can’t do anything about what MS (or anything else) does to my body, but I can try and control the way I feel about it. I would never have run a marathon (two marathons!)  if I had allowed myself to believe that people with MS don’t run marathons.

Actually, I think that having MS has actually changed me for the better in this regard, although maybe mellowing is just another benefit of age. I’m far less likely to rage about things now than I used to be, and I think at least part of that is down to my health. Considering MS as a blessing! Whatever next? Well, why not? It’s certainly been character building.

And the other stuff? Well, I’ve had a good innings. Chewed a few bones; chased a few cats… perhaps it’s the kindest thing to just put me out of my misery now rather than to let me suffer?

I’m allowed to joke about it though, right?

...as long as everyone knows that none of these indignities have broken me.

Not quite yet, anyway.