A Temple of hope

I love the Timehop App, it's great for reflecting back on what you were doing this time so many years ago, and this morning it reminded me that I started on DMDs FOUR years ago. As with so many things it feels like yesterday.

It was also timely because Derry has just had the privilege of hosting American artist David Best, who has created Temples at the Burning Man festival in Nevada for over a decade. 

His Temple in my hometown was a reflection of many things but ultimately It became somewhere local people remembered their lost family and friends, looked forward with hope and left behind all manner of emotions that they wanted to forget, or simply move past. 

The Temple was then ceremoniously burnt last night as a way to cleanse those emotions left behind, a sort of clearing of the mind, it seemed to me anyway.

It felt like somewhere that I could connect with and as a result I left up one of my empty injection boxes, with a short message hoping for a life ahead that hopefully doesn't include injecting myself daily, and leaving behind some of the anger and resentment that, no matter how hard I try, still exists because of my diagnosis.

It felt so cathartic to be making a move to try and lose that sense of anger; anger at an illness that limits my life and in my hardest days, makes the road ahead seem impossible. The resentment comes at not fulfilling my career hopes and more importantly, for impacting on those around me, especially my girls.

I'm not naturally pessimistic, and I recognise that I have still managed to achieve many things despite MS, but it was also necessary to try to push that last vestige of negativity away.

Taking part in the Temple ethos and all it represented to me was a very good place to start. 

I was also privileged to chat to David Best and briefly mention that part of MS was something I needed to 'burn' ... he was so genuinely lovely in his response and it's a moment I will cherish forever.

It was also a moment captured on camera by a photographer friend and I'm so delighted that those few minutes are there for me to reflect upon for years to come. 

Photos courtesy of Lorcan Doherty Photography. 

Hugs, kisses and empathy

A while back, just after I had Charlotte, I was interviewed for parenting website Parentdish. It's a wonderfully informative site and I was delighted to be asked to talk about my decision to have children following my diagnosis.
I think the only way to educate people about MS is to talk about it. It's what I do here and it's something I don't hide from many people. If anything, I'm probably too open, but that's just my nature.
One of the comments on that post was from someone who obviously has no idea what having MS entails because she wrote that I was insensitive and selfish to have children when I knew that I had MS.
At the time I was incensed, disgusted and annoyed that someone who didn't know me, or anything about MS, would cast such a judgement.
After all, there are plenty of parents out there that face illness and much more, after giving birth to their offspring.
For us, it was never really an issue. Both Joe and I have always wanted to be parents and we took the attitude that MS is NOT the worst thing that could happen to me.
More than that, I personally feel that my children will grow up with a more rounded view of the world. They will see that not everything in life is easy.
And I can already see in Charlotte, who just turned two in November, a sense of empathy, caring and love that can only come from having a 'sick' mummy.
Last week my heart nearly melted when I said I was going to bed for a quick lie down (my legs have been playing up and rest, however small, helps) and she was straight over giving me a hug, saying 'Aww, mummy's not feeling well. I kiss it better mummy'.
I was quick to say I wasn't really sick, just a bit tired, because of course I have that maternal instinct where I want to protect her from the harsh realities of what MS means, but I am also incredibly proud of the fact she is so sympathetic.
She's a hugs kind of girl, who squeezes so tight sometimes I can hardly breathe. And I think that's what matters. She knows love. I must kiss her wee cheeks about thirty times a day.
And when I am well, we bake buns until we can eat no more, we dance around the kitchen like eejits, we play in the garden even when it's cold.
I make sure that she sees that life can be good, and it's the little things that count.
That, for me, is enough.
I am proud to be a mum with Multiple Sclerosis and until you live a day in my life, or walk a mile in my shoes, don't judge me or question my choices.

Photo courtesy of www.stephenlatimerphotography.com