As 2006 moved into the summer months, I decided to embark upon a career change and go back to university with the intention of becoming a Business Studies teacher.
I started at Leeds Trinity & All Saints University in September of that year, and initially, everything was going to plan. I'd had good feedback from the people on my course as well as the course leaders. All good, and everything was going smoothly.
The thing about MS is that it doesn't give a flying fuck what your plans are. Shortly before and during the Christmas period, things started to take a turn.
I'd had a cold before the term ended and was looking forward to a break and getting over the dreaded "man flu." Unfortunately, my newly acquired lifelong passenger decided that this time of year should bring facial numbness and a walk that made me look like Bambi on ice. A phone call later and I was back at the Walton Centre.
Sitting with my neurologist, he made it quite clear to me that things weren't looking great. He wanted to intervene with a new course of treatment involving a friendly drug called Mitoxantrone, followed by daily Copaxone injections once that course was completed. Fortunately, he was running the trial, so I was able to navigate around the strict criteria patients usually had to display to be part of it. I remember him telling me to go home and weigh up the risk vs. reward of starting it, given the potential side effects and health complications. I decided I wanted to take the aggressive approach, so I informed the university that I'd need to pause my course for a year to undergo treatment.
The first dose went without a hitch. All my tests were completed without a hitch—aucun problème. If you believe that, you'll believe anything.
The ECG was fun. I lay on my back, wired up to the computers, before being asked to roll onto my side with my hands above my head so they could get a better picture of the old ticker. I stayed in that position for 15 minutes until the nurse had taken all the required images: profile, panoramic, and whatever else. Occasionally you get to hear the rhythmic thumping of your own heart, but that’s about as exciting as it gets.
Now, I firmly believe it's the nurses who give you the real diagnosis. If you get a nod and a wink from them, you know you’re OK. And by OK, I mean fit enough to undergo chemotherapy—because heaven forbid they put ill people on chemo. The nurse spent 15 minutes writing a report for the doctors, but she gave me a reassuring smile before I headed back to the ward and said, "I hope it all goes well for you." That in itself put me at ease. Nurses know their stuff; in my experience, they know just as much as the doctors—on an individual patient level, anyway. My heart was fine, and the treatment could go ahead.
Or so I thought.
Upon arriving back at the ward, I was informed they didn't have my blood test results. This was a surprise, considering I’d had them done a week in advance as requested. They had my liver function tests but were missing the full blood count; both were mandatory before starting. So, I had to have another draw right there on the ward and wait for it to be rushed to the lab. Because Mitoxantrone isn't a standard, off-the-shelf MS drug, they don't keep a ready supply on the ward—every test has to be checked, approved, and signed off by a doctor before anyone even thinks about hooking you up.
After an hour of waiting, I was strapped to an IV and put on a 1-gram steroid drip. Around this time, I was reading a book by Montel Williams where he talked about his aversion to steroids due to the strain they put on your liver and kidneys. In my case, though, their immediate impact on my symptoms was positive. (It's worth noting Montel was taking 40 pills a day and injecting Human Growth Hormone to manage his condition—whatever floats your boat, different strokes for different people.)
After another two-hour wait, a blue bag containing what looked suspiciously like Parker pen ink was brought out. They hooked me up, and within 40 minutes, it was done. You don't actually feel anything while it's going in. The steroids do a grand job of pumping you up so you don't feel like an immediate write-off.
The rest of the day gave me the false impression that this was going to be a breeze. I felt fine—no fatigue, no nausea. "Ha," I thought, "I'll show this chemotherapy nonsense. Walk in the park." On Saturday, I even went out to visit friends and carried on as normal.
Then Sunday morning arrived, and I woke up feeling decidedly shit.
I couldn't believe the stark contrast from the night before. I'd stayed out a bit late, so initially, I blamed it on a mix of tiredness and late hours. But the reality was simple: the steroids had just bought me a two-day grace period before delaying the inevitable collapse into feeling total, complete, and unadulterated shit.
For the remainder of Sunday, all of Monday, and most of Tuesday, I was the proverbial "Village Wellie Man"—that bloke you see propped up against the wall of the takeaway at 2:40 am, having consumed substantially more than his own body weight in alcohol.
The technical term for this phase is Blurgh.
I had zero motivation to do anything. I didn't want to eat, didn't want to stay awake (though I slept... a lot), nothing. I forced myself to swallow food not out of appetite, but out of sheer necessity, knowing I'd feel slightly more human afterward. But son of a bitch, getting to the point of actually putting food in your mouth was an absolute chore. It's just a phase you reach, and you have to grit your teeth and wade through it. Simple as that. The nurse hadn't been kidding when she warned me to take the treatment seriously because "people can get quite sick."
The silver lining—and the best feeling in the world—is when you realize the stuff is actually working.
I hadn't been able to see properly since mid-October, and suddenly things began to clear. Originally, it was my right eye: total loss of color vision, followed by double vision. Then, just as the right eye started recovering, my left eye decided to join the party, leaving me feeling like I was looking through a thick layer of clingfilm. I couldn't focus on anything directly in front of me. My peripheral vision was intact, but I was forced to rely entirely on my right eye (which had been absolute garbage for months).
But then it cleared. I could see remarkably well out of my left eye, and my right was near—if not completely—perfect.
That clarity meant I could get back behind the wheel of my car. It was a massive moment and gave me a genuine sense of achievement. I know driving a car sounds routine to most people, but to me, it was huge. When you live with a condition that has no cure, you learn to celebrate every single victory you can claim. Getting my driving independence back was a massive win.
I'm not a religious man. I don't believe in a higher power orchestrating things from above. You get dealt a hand in life, and your only job is to play it as best as you can. Based on my own experiences—not to mention what goes on in the wider world—I just can't bring myself to believe in a God. You take things as they come, come to terms with the reality of the situation, and figure out the best way to keep moving forward.
I've learned to actively hunt for the positive side of every mess. Sure, you can sit back, wallow, and whine about the raw deal you've been handed, but it changes nothing. That's not to say I never feel low, or that I don't occasionally want to scream "Why me?" or "This isn't fair!"—but what's the point? It serves no constructive purpose, makes you feel worse, and only makes the burden heavier to carry.
I prefer the philosophy of Denis Leary: "Life sucks, get a fucking crash helmet."
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