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!)
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