Nothing's gunna hurt me with my eyes shut.

The man in the room next to me was released on Friday. He had been in for a few days having being re-admitted after a longer stay on the ward. I was surprised initially because I could hear through the walls that he wasn't well. He had leukaemia. On speaking with the nurse I realised he had been released because there was nothing further the hospital could do for him. He is going to die.

Sometimes life is grim. Cancer is an exceptionally cruel disease. The treatment is nauseating at best and usually much worse. And depending on the type of cancer, you are far from guaranteed a happy outcome. This doesn't come as a shock to me, people in my family have had the disease and my Nana died from it. I can only hope she didn't suffer like the man next to me was. 

Everyone has in some way been affected by cancer. Yet still on Friday morning I felt naive, stupid even. I hadn't even spoken to the man, he is nothing but a stranger to me. But the news of his fate really shook me. (Chemo by the way can pull down your mood, I'm not soft or anything, I mean I don't cry at most films!) (Although the first time I saw The Lion King I had to be taken out of the cinema because I was crying so much when Mufasa died. Scar was a bastard.)

Unless directly exposed to them, we are blind to the injustice of life. You have to be, any kind hearted person couldn't function otherwise. But this experience has taught me that life is a gift, not a right. We should treasure it and live it to its fullest. (Maybe I should join the priesthood? I haven't had sex for a while and this is sounding very preachy!)

I'm pleased we have our own separate rooms on this haematology ward. Most people here have leukaemia (cancer of the blood). All are unwell and some are dying. Throughout the last two years I have never felt unwell with MS. I have felt weak, demoralised and humiliated but not unwell. I feel slightly fraudulent being here. The treatments we are receiving are no less dangerous, many on the ward won't be having a transplant at all. The difference is my treatment is life defining, theirs is life deciding. Given the conditions we have we are all fortunate to be here but I feel especially so.

I began writing this blog on Friday morning. The man next door was never released. He was clearly too unwell to go home and presumably they could not find him a bed at a hospice. I think he died in the early hours of Sunday morning.

Life is finite and we spend so much of it worrying about the most insignificant of things. (I've lost my hair after the first stage of chemo a few weeks ago. I don't look nearly as good with a bald head as Natalie Portman did in V For Vendetta and this disappoints me. Doesn't surprise me like, after all I never looked nearly as good with hair as Natalie Portman in Black Swan!) As long as we and those we love our safe, healthy and happy then we should be grateful.

This has been a bit of a gloomy read and I think part of appreciating life is to laugh so I'll leave you with a joke.

Police arrested two kids yesterday, one was drinking battery acid, the other was eating fireworks. They charged one and let the other one off.

(Copyright Tommy Cooper.)

What are you waiting for?

Allow me some pop music, I'm not well! And even though she divides opinion, I think Ellie Goulding is fit.

The good news is I've had the transplant and all went well. It was no different to getting anything through an IV drip. They defrosted the bags of my stem cells and put them back in me. The only unpleasant part of it is that the preservative the stem cells are frozen in stinks of sweetcorn. As a result, I and my room now stink of sweetcorn for a couple of days. Good job I'm not a puff and I know BBQs are for meat and not corn on the cob because I'll be avoiding sweetcorn for a while!

The chemo is starting to take its effects. I've been lucky so far and I just feel tired. Very tired. My biggest problem is feeding myself. In my last blog I said what makes you bad makes you better. Actually, what makes you bad makes you worse then makes you better! My tremors are horrendous, I feel like I've sparred with Mike Tyson just brushing my teeth. Getting food from a plate into my mouth therefore is difficult. I've  already lost some weight and anyone who's seen me knows there's not that much to lose! (Only in comparison to you John and the ever shrinking skinny Quegan!)

Reinforcements have therefore been called. My mam (the angel that she is) is coming down today so she can help to feed me! I've insisted on my independency for the last two years to the point of spilling, throwing, smashing and falling but I'm now past the point of embarrassment. The more I eat, the stronger I will get and the quicker I will get out of here. I've also been given more menus. I eat a healthy and varied diet so the standard menu of pie and chips didn't really suit me. (Strange, I used to eat plain food only. I also used to be about two stone overweight!) I've now got the kosher, Indian and North African menus. So really I'm going to be hand fed curry for the next fortnight, it's not all bad!

Two years ago I wouldn't take a paracetamol if I had a migraine. Now, they're giving me about 20 tablets a day and I'm on an IV drip of antibiotics three times a day. I don't like it but I know I need it. From the chemo I'm currently Neutropenic. That means my white blood cell count is dangerously low so I'm wide open to infection. I have to wear a mask over my mouth and nose to wade off airborne bacteria. I look a bit like a Japanese tourist walking around London with a SARS mask! I like to think I'm a duck with a beak. Quack.

So now it's a case of waiting. I've had the treatment, had the transplant and now need to sit here until my blood counts return to a normal level. About two weeks. The nurses have told me having a transplant is a bit like planting a seed. It takes time for the effects to become recognisable so I will see no improvement quickly. I'm quite impatient and have never been a horticulturalist so we'll see how this goes!

I'm bored so this has been a bit of a ramble. As a thank you for reading, I will leave you all (especially the blokes) with some life advice. Do whatever you can to avoid having a catheter put in you. On Sunday when I had the temperature and fell over they told me I couldn't leave my bed. Man's got to wee so I needed a catheter. (If you're eating you probably want to stop reading now!) A thin plastic tube is inserted into the penis, up to the bladder and then inflated. You then dribble piss what feels like constantly into a plastic container at the side of you! It was the single most uncomfortable experience of my life and it lasted less than two hours before I told them to take it out. I've fallen plenty of times now and none have hurt like that so if the choice was to fall going to the toilet or sit with that in all day i'd take the fall every time! Between this, the oral tablets, the daily temperature check and thermometer in my ear, the nose swabs to check for MRSA and not forgetting The Bullet experience at the sperm bank, I've had something put into every orifice of my body now. I didn't like hospitals beforehand and I sure as hell don't like them now!

A massive thank you for all the messages of support. I haven't replied because I'm too sleepy but everyone is a morale boost and is helping me through this. Much love!

Don't stop thinking about tomorrow. Don't stop it'll soon be here. It'll be here better than before.

I'm writing this on day minus one. Today is a rest day. The previous four days I have had chemotherapy and ATG for the last three. I've been on a 24 hour drip for the last 100 hours. Tomorrow is day zero. Transplant day.

I feel pretty worn out already and have been warned the next week will be much harder. All of my symptoms are currently worse and I'm scared but what makes you bad makes you better. I'm nearly there and just need to keep thinking about tomorrow. (Well a couple of weeks anyway.

A very short blog (Size isn't everything, see final paragraph.), no humour and not particularly uplifting but I thought I'd give you all an update. Plus it's a great lyric from Fleetwood Mac.

(Okay, one funny story. I fell over in the shower yesterday morning. I had a temperature and fever from the ATG. There were two nurses who came to help me up (eventually), a black lady and a Filipino man who kept calling me his darling. Not to stereotype, but stark bollock naked as I was, I imagine he thought. 'Wow, that massive!', while she thought, 'Wow, that's tiny!')

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.

TheFear

One of my best mates from uni used this term to describe the panic that would set in a couple of days before an exam when you realise you know nothing about the unit and need to start cramming. If he got The Fear before 1800 he would start revising, if he got it after 1800 he'd usually roll a joint and get high in preparation for a full days work tomorrow. He graduated with a first in engineering so there's a tip for any students reading. He also once traded in. his Xbox for £10 at Blockbuster so he could come on a night out. I'll leave him anonymous because he is now a civil engineer and still gets high twice most weeks but we all know who you are mate. Love you buddy!

Needless to say that isn't what this blog is about.

What are you scared of? I think most people are afraid of something. Almost all fears are irrational. I heard someone on the radio recently say they are 'petrified of sharks'. Just don't go in the sea then, it's not like sharks are going to kidnap you while you are shopping and hold you to ransom! Most fears are just a strong disliking to something too. My sister and my best mate (Will) both really don't like butterflies. (That one's irrational too. I mean The Butterfly Man would make a really rubbish villain in a superhero film.) Bamboleo's scared of loads of things. He acts the hard man but turn the hoover on and he runs away shaking. Apparently it's best to face your fears head on but I've tried that and I wouldn't recommend it. (Unless you're scared of chicken. In which case go eat some chicken. It's good.)

(You'll have realised I have cleverly diverted the conversation to chicken. As an aside I'd like to propose an idea. Chick-atarian. Apart from chicken I'm pretty much a vegetarian. In fact, I'm pretty much a vegan since I was told I was lactose intolerant just before Christmas and should cut out dairy from my diet. This by the way was an exceptionally cruel blow. I have MS, I don't have a job, I don't have a girlfriend and now I can't drink proper milk! Anyway, vegetarians who eat fish have a special title (Pescetarian) so why can't I? And it's not like chicken is a real meat anyway. Who's ever seen a hen have sex? I think they grow from the ground, just next to broccoli. Plus, a chick-atarian doesn't need to be as disciplined as a vegetarian. Lamb curry every now and then is fine. And so is fish.)

Back to being scared. My hypothetical question asking doesn't stop at Would You Rathers. I cover a very diverse range of subjects, admittedly most of them stupid. I once asked my mam what was her greatest fear? (Aside from the obvious of her really amazing son coming to any harm.) I can't actually remember what she said (I have a habit of asking questions and not listening to the reply!) but I know what I said when she asked me the same question. I replied, 'Getting MS.' It sounds unbelievable but it's true. I feel stupid now because back then (summer of 2012) I didn't even know what MS really is. But I knew MS would inevitably lead to a loss of my independence and my ability to be so active and I suppose really that was my greatest fear. For the last 21 months I have lived my nightmare. I hate everything about the disease. Ever since I first went into hospital (28 April 2014) I wished I had a brain tumour rather than MS. I would have taken any chance of survival over this condition. That is selfish and I feel guilty for feeling that way, but it's true. A letter from a senior doctor recently described me as having 'rapidly progressive relapsing remitting multiple sclerosis'. I felt sick.

One day though I will beat MS. And when I do, however that victory comes, I will be scared of nothing. My eyesight will almost certainly never be perfect again. But that's okay. I can't read or see in great detail but I can still go where I want to go (if I could walk properly!), I can still look out to sea on a clear day and appreciate how beautiful the world can be and most importantly, I can still spot a pretty girl. (Admittedly I need to be slightly closer to her but if she's that pretty that's no bad thing.) All of my other symptoms though I believe will be fixed and when they are I know I will have conquered my fears.

And hopefully that day is not very far away. I have an appointment at Hammersmith hospital in London to finalise details and dates for a treatment that was the feature of a recent Panorama documentary. Only six people are to receive this treatment initially and I am first in line so I feel extremely fortunate. The appointment is on 23 February and I'll be able to give you more details after then.