Modern Man

You know how there are some things that should just be kept private? Well this is one of them. Promise me one thing: you'll laugh. I'm needy like that.

The problem: Chemotherapy can affect fertility, I know I want children in the future and with MS I can't get it up. My consultants recommended I went to andrology (the sperm bank) to discuss this.

I spoke to a receptionist about this and explained I have erectile dysfunction and severe tremors so I can't even masturbate if I could get it up. (I barely have the dexterity to eat with a spoon, for me to wank I'd need a 3 foot dick. Needless to say I do not have this.) This conversation was in a small room with about five other blokes. The receptionist (not medically trained) looked at me and said, 'Just try.' Excellent I thought, I'm 24 and haven't had sex in two years because I've not been trying. So off I went into a small room, there was a bed, a TV that didn't work and a porn mag. An Amsterdam brothel it was not. Have porn mags even been printed since the invention of the Internet? Knowing hundreds of other blokes will have wanked over the blonde bird featured wasn't exactly a turn on.

So back to reception I went, needless to say with an empty bottle. The receptionist looked a little disappointed and said that before they could consider other options there had to be two failed attempts. She then said (the room had become busier by this point) that next time I'd have to try with a vibrator! She gave me a sheet with the name of said vibrator and told me I could get it from any Boots or Superdrug.

I'm a modern man I thought, let's try it. (Total lie on reflection, sex is for special occasions, lights off socks on, missionary only, right?)

Next problem: I'm visually impaired so can't read, I don't have a clue what that sheet says. Who was I in London with? My mam! She looks at the sheet and tells me I need Durex Bullet. So that evening we went to the nearest shopping centre and bought The Bullet. (Needless to say she had to find it on the shelves because I can't see. My mam clearly wants grandchildren!)

So the next morning back to andrology I went. An out of shape Eastern European couple had just gone into the room next to the one a Greek receptionist with a rather questionable moustache showed me to. Allow me to set the scene: The tiny TV worked this time and on it there was an American porn film, very dated and thanks to my vision all I could see was a cowboy hat swinging about. The walls were paper thin and on my right all I could hear was the portly Eastern European lady tossing off her fella and ahead of me I could hear Sky News from the TV in reception. This was on Tuesday morning, they were reporting on the death toll from the Brussels terrorist attacks. I turned on the vibrator, dropped it immediately (tremors) and just began laughing. Who'd have thought sitting in a small room, listening to coverage of radical extremist attacks and trying to hold a dildo your mam all but bought for you isn't a turn on?! I'm just pleased I didn't attempt to use the vibrator only for me to realise I'm not gay and actually it would be extremely unpleasurable.

So that was my two attempts done. I went back to see my consultants and told them of this wonderful experience. They laughed (Of course they did, professionalism goes out of the window when you hear a story like that!) and have arranged a testicular biopsy. I'm coming (pun very much intended) to realise nothing worth having comes easily. A testicular biopsy means going under general anaesthetic for a surgeon to cut open your ball sack, inject a needle into your testicle and extract a sperm sample to be frozen. You then walk around in a jockstrap for the next three days and in my case hope to God that the dog doesn't jump on you. This is all booked in for Tuesday. Best part of it all is that my fertility will almost certainly not be affected as I am only having one course of chemotherapy. This is all for just on the off chance!

Other things did happen this week, like the collecting of my stem cells but I think that's enough for one blog. If you're hungover at all this bank holiday weekend just think, it could be worse, you could be getting a needle in your balls! Happy Easter.

Snap out of it.

It being hospital. I'm not a very good patient. Very few people like hospitals (Why would you? For a place where there are so many drugs, very little fun is had.) but I get cabin fever. Quickly. When I was first admitted to Sunderland Hospital in May 2014, one morning I got up at about 0400, walked home (about 3 miles), emptied the dishwasher and had some porridge. When I returned to the hospital (walked back, obviously) at about 0700 the nursing staff were speaking to the police on the phone, concerned about my whereabouts. I suppose I'm actually a very bad patient.

Last week I was in hospital in London so walking home wasn't an option but I'm sure the staff on the ward were pleased to be rid of me. I get anxious in hospital. I'm not claustrophobic but I like there to be the option of leaving when I want. I feel more comfortable outside in the fresh air. If it was permanently sunny I'd live outdoors. (Although I'm no Bear Grylls. I'd have to go back inside for food, two showers a day and to sleep. Actually I think I'd just spend more time outdoors instead. Much more hygienic.) I was meant to be in the hospital from Tuesday to Sunday. I lasted until Thursday then effectively discharged myself (Not like that, grow up!) and went back on Friday morning to collect the medication I needed. I'm far from rude (In fact I'm overly polite, the most offensive thing anyone could say to me is that I am rude. I'd be gutted.) but when I get anxious I lose my smiley exterior. So really me spending as little time in hospital as possible is good for me and for the nurses. To quote a great man (Ali G), "it's like knobbin' two birds with one conny".

Next problem: I'm equally as bad at recovering at home. Stubbornness is one of my greatest qualities and one of my biggest downfalls. It's stubbornness that has made me get up every morning, remain as active as possible and do as much as I can. However, it's stubbornness that stops me from listening to my body. Well, taking any notice of it at least, I hear it loudly and clearly and for the past couple of years it's been screaming, 'REST!' For a supposedly relatively intelligent person, I'm really stupid when it comes to all things medicine. I find it difficult to comprehend that treatment I have received and drugs swimming around my body can make me tired. In my head I'm still the man who can get up and comfortably run 9 miles under 55 minutes and then go about the rest of my day without any feeling of tiredness or lack of energy. In my body I am disabled and suffer terribly with fatigue. That oxymoronic state of being is something I have found extremely difficult to accept. Impossibly so.

It is that refusal to accept this seemingly inevitable decline in my activeness which has brought me so close to beating MS. And therefore on leaving hospital, rather than rest and recuperate, I revert to type and do as much as I can. Physically I feel as weak as I ever have done yet I still insist on walking myself to exhaustion three or four times a day. The only thing stopping me from swimming (drowning) is the pic line hanging out of my arm. I've already fallen a few times since leaving hospital because I push myself much too hard. (Although one of those falls was Bamboleo's fault. It's like he's on speed all the time. It's a good job he's so good looking.)

(That last paragraph wasn't intended to portra me as some sort of brave soldier who struggles on but instead as an idiot. I was nearly in tears when I phoned my mam asking her to pick me up from hospital on Thursday. How's that for brave? Although real men do ccry. And fannies like me.)

So here's where I am at: I had some chemotherapy last Wednesday, I was on another drip until Thursday and I am back in hospital this Monday to have my stem cells collected. They will be frozen for a few weeks and then I'll be back to hospital for more chemotherapy, to have the stem cells transplanted back into my body and then wait for my immune system to recover.

That final phase will take around three weeks. I've already pre-warned consultants and nurses that I will not play the perfect patient, lying in bed and eating grapes. I'm hoping to get some drugs prescribed to zone me out a little. (A lot actually.) This longer spell is referred to as isolation. I've got images of being treated as though I've got Ebola. Depending on what medication I get it could be a lot like a Chemical Brothers gig: me on another planet with people around me all in white boiler suits. (And I wouldn't recommend solo raving either. I got lost at Bestival a few years back and went on the wander for a few hours. I remember very little, only that I accidentally stood on a girl's face. In wellies. Being the perfect gentleman I was very apologetic but lying in a field, in the dark, at about 0300 is a bit silly really.)

I'm sure it won't be like that really. I've begun a rubbish couple of months which hold the prospects of a much improved rest of my life. An extremely small price to pay. (In fact, I know a few people who would see lying around doing nothing for ten weeks as an added incentive!)

Hold it in, now let's go dancing. I do believe we're only passing through.

A lyric from Time Is Dancing by Ben Howard. I take it to mean this life is not all there is and instead of complaining about problems we face, it's better to appreciate and enjoy life. That's much easier said than done but it is I think a good mantra to live by. Seeing the good in bad makes for a much nicer world. I was in a taxi in Manchester the other week and the driver was commenting on how it always rains. He then said that's why England is so beautiful, with all the green fields and hills. I thought that was a nice way of looking at things. (Although I don't necessarily agree. Deserts can be beautiful too I'm sure. And dry. And sunny.)

This outlook got me to thinking about the good things that have come from my MS. I don't know  if any of these positives have been  worth it. They are silver linings and I hate clouds. I hope once I'm fixed I'll feel differently. Anyway, there was nothing wrong with me as a constantly running addicted, mostly teetotal and occasionally surly twenty something year old!

The first of these positives I think will surprise those who have only known me with MS. (Big up the Fausto massive. (I'm really gangsta' and kind of a big deal by the way so I'm allowed to big people up. Big up all my brethren in fact.)) Anyway, despite that previous sentence, my chat is better. Yes, it used to be worse! My best mate has always likened me to Jack Dee down to my dry, deadpan and sarcastic sense of humour. I'm a satirist by nature and I certainly haven't lost that but I've become a little more upbeat. I've recognised it's nice for people not to think I'm a misery because I'm not! I'm a lot like the old me but sillier. Me dressed as a clown if you will.

Next, I now know how amazing my friends are and how much they mean to me. In my first few months with MS I missed the stag do and wedding of my best mate growing up (John). I wrote him a letter explaining why but in short it was because I was unhappy. I've lived to regret that decision because over the last two years I have realised how important friends are and that it is they who make me happy.

Last Easter Danny, Matt and Will did the three peaks challenge in 24 hours for an MS charity. Last summer Cathal (Pronounced Carl or Cattle in an Irish accent. He also responds to Dr Heavey. He calls the toilets the jacks, silly Cathal.) cycled all around Ireland for an MS charity and spoke to people every night about what the disease can do, to raise awareness. (These conversations were in the pub and he's Irish so he was always going to talk to total strangers about something, it might as well have been MS!)

Even going on a night out I am reminded how good they are. Last month I went to Manchester for Will's birthday. It was the best night out I've had in the last two years. For everyone else it was probably a run-of-the-mill night. (Probably wasn't even that for Will. He threw up outside a club, not even sure you made midnight mate!) Having MS isn't fun at all and I don't go out nearly as much as most 24 year olds. (Probably still more than you mind Chapman if you're reading!) For the lads to do simple things like walking at a snail's pace between bars and jumping in a taxi with me means so much more than they realise. 

The final one is Bamboleo. He's a chocolate brown Labra-doodle and he's a bit stupid. I think of Bamboleo as my brother. We play together, we tease each other and we annoy each other but most of all we love each other. It's nice to have someone there when I fall, smash something in the kitchen or I'm just a bit fed up. I was going to make a disparaging comment here, comparing Bam to my other sibling but I've just read a lovely card from Hannah wishing me the best luck with my treatment and it is for that reason I will not mention that Bamboleo smells better. (Love you sis!) (The card had some tits and an ass on them. The tits were the udders of a cow and the ass was a donkey.)

So a better me, with better friends than I knew I had and a brilliant, if a little bonkers, dog. Maybe it has been worth it? My treatment starts next week and by the end of April I'll hopefully be in a much better physical condition and able to really get my life started again.

Wow, this one has been a bit emotional. A quick shout out to Ben because he hasn't had a mention and I know he doesn't like to miss out. Hi Ben. I'll leave you all with a joke. I tried to catch some fog yesterday. Mist.