I'm with the Quendi

The 6th Largest Army

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Nothing to see here...

Bitching about my health has been the through-line of this LJ. On Thursday morning, I found out why. I have multiple sclerosis.

Neurologist: [pointing at Lipstick-brain on screen] And these are areas of inflammation.

Me: No, they are the mental scars from loving Fëanorians.

Neurologist: We need to do lumbar-puncture to be 100% sure, but I would advise you don't come alone to the next appointment.

Mae & Mags: What's he mean by this alone business?


[In Costa Coffee]

Maedhros: What are you doing?

Me: [evil glint in eye] Writing a list of everybody who called me lazy in the last ten years. There will be payback. Mwa-ha-ha-ha!

Mags: [nibbling on a half-price sugar mouse] Oh dear, Lipstick, that could take time and we have to move house tomorrow.

Lipstick: O.O

Lipstick: [Summoning waiter] Can I have seventy-five more coffees, please.


Solicitor: Sign here -

Lipstick: Fuck, I hope I'm not committing fraud.

Maedhros: No you gave your full diagnosis at the time of asking to your provider.

Lipstick: Lady-of-a-certain-age who is seeking attention from medical profession in lieu of a husband?

Maedhros: That's the one. Get the keys, Lipstick - he's handing you the keys.

Lipstick: From my Estate Agent to my Solicitor, this has come to me! *clutches key to breast*

Solicitor: The carpets are a bit wet as the vendor has just had them cleaned.

Maglor: See, they've even got rid of the dragon. It will be perfect for you.


Elves: *Enter flat* Ai, Ai, No!

Elves: *Rush back out* No, no - give it back!

Lipstick: I can't give it back now, I've gone and bought the thing.

Mags: *Blocking path* Please don't go in, your mortal frame will not take it.

Lipstick: *Raises eyebrow at drama queen elves* *walks slowly into flat*

Lipstick: What?

Elves: *Peering nervously round corner* The sofa, the couch, it is hideous!

Maedhros: It burns us

Maglor: *whimpers*


Yeah, interesting times. The flat was really weird. I was spooked for a while at how much stuff had been left, not just furnishings but cutlery, bottle openers, glasses, three blank DVDds and a copy of cosmopolitan. I'm going to get the locks changed. But overall, being left with the stuff has saved me a fortune.

With the diagnosis, I'm fairly chilled. I'm more nervous about people's reactions but as a good chunk of my friends are nurses, drug workers and probation officers, they're all masters at inappropriate humour and disability positive.

I also now feel more confident in saying: I can't do that, I'm exhausted without beating myself up. I've got access to pain-killing medication at the appropriate dose and no longer feel like a middle-class junkie having to buy codeine pills all the time, and I know that the knotted pain in my right shoulder isn't cancer. All this is good.

The downside is it seems to have got progressively worse. I have found it difficult to keep track of symptoms, because I think I have been told so many times over the last nine years that there was nothing wrong, that it was everyday aches, pains and tiredness I had convinced myself they weren't happening. I'm naturally pretty dissociative and suggestible, and using OTC painkillers masked what was going on. So I've just got to be a bit more rigorous with noting when I have symptoms for them to work out an accurate prognosis.

My parents ~ yeah, Mum had a wibble. They came round and saw the new flat, Mum took one look at the sofa, turned green, chanted in Black Speech and stepped back; the sofa was subdued under cushions and throws into an agreeable state of beige and burgundy.

After that, the Witch Queen of Soft-Furnishings did have a bit of a wibble. I gave her a hug and reminded her that nothing about me had changed, I've just got a name for my laziness and clumsiness, and that although everyone thinks of that film about Jaqueline Du Pre:

Mother: Oh she was weird anyway.

Me: *Relieved there is a lot Mum does not know about me*

For many people it never progresses past being a nuisance.

Dad looked fine, he just took pictures and fixed my smoke alarms. Sadly, since my Auntie's death in 2003 and his cousin passing away in 2007 he has almost no family left. So I know he's going to worry about me too. And so I'm going to worry about him. Family huh?

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It most likely will go against the grain, and not exactly be career appropriate, but my MS friend swears by a bit of judicious weed when things get rough. At least you have the contacts. Oooops... did I write that?

Take a nap on the tamed sofa and think of Quendi... but then maybe that isn't going to be so restful after all. {{{hugs}}} Glad to hear you are being very positive. Best wishes to the New Flat and all the Quendi who sail in her.

Heh the marijuana it does nothing!!!

Sorry, my internetting is really intermittent at the moment due to the moving house thing. So sorry for the late response.

But seriously, there's been a lot of research into cannabis receptors recently, and it has answered a lifelong question from my misspent youth - why can't I get stoned?

And the answer is: I don't have the right kind of receptor, apparently, the ability to get mash-up is genetic, some people (approx. 30% population as an estimate) carry a gene that means cannabis doesn't really affect them, and I'm guessing I'm in the unlucky 30%. Which explains why I am possibly the only drug worker I've ever met who can't roll a spliff.

Now Gabapentin on the other hand, that baby works a treat.

*G* As long as there's something out there that will grease the wheels! My friend swears by having her's as leaf, crumbled into a paste with good quality hot chocolate before adding hot milk - two hits and a fatty beverage! I joined her in a mug before we watched 'Fargo' once... now I know the movie is funny, but not THAT funny. I chortled like a hyena on steroids all the way through.

I feel like a massive fake now, but I should tell you following an MRI scan, I don't have MS. That still doesn't explain why the weirdness, but at least it's not that. So good news I guess.

*massively pleased*

I'm told there can be cryptic initials annotated to medical notes, GOK and FOK... as in 'God only knows' and 'Fuck only knows'!

So not faking, merely flummoxed... Here's hoping the NHS's finest can eventually find a name for whatever.

My daughter has had joint and muscle pain, deteriorating knees and hips and a hugely low Vit D count for year's and they're still trying to figure out how they connect, if they connect, or if she's just lucked out genetically speaking.

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