A few hours of peace – I’ll type something on the computer
July 2001. Julian is taking the boys – Josh, 11; Harvey, 8 – to see Tomb Raider at the cinema.
‘Sorry,’ I mumble. ‘I’m not really interested in that.’
Amazingly, off they go, a boys’ outing (they’ll be picking up some tips for the PlayStation game, no doubt), leaving me at home alone for two whole hours, maybe even stretching to three if they stop for a burger on the way home. In which case, I might’ve written a whole page.
I’ve decided to try to tell a story – my story, our story. I don’t feel like a proper author. It’s a therapy, a hobby perhaps. I’m a bit nervous now. Shy. What do I type first? I trust you will bear with me as I tell a simplified version of the last few years; I am just a mum, not a professional writing a thesis.
Perhaps it’s time for a tea break. No, let’s crack on. But where do I start? Maybe by telling you who I am.
I am 39.
A hassled mum.
Red haired (with a touch of grey).
Family orientated.
Forthright.
Sparrow legs.
Loyal.
The opposite of lazy.
Retired.
Kind (hopefully).
Artistic.
To help me remember, I’ve found my old diaries. They mention Josh a lot, not surprisingly, as he was my first baby. It’s interesting to reread some of the entries 20 years later, seeing possible underlying messages.
But I’ll go back even further to a ‘pre-children’ era, when autism was just a word I’d heard from Rain Man, and MS was something that happened to other people. I can deal with all those issues later.
I’ll see what evolves on the computer screen. In fact, I think I hear a car. Yes, they’re back. I’ve wasted those precious hours on waffling, two cups of tea, three trips to the loo, a quick nap. I can see this is going to be a long process.
I retired at 35 after being diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. I can hear you groan at this point. Who wants to read a story of doom and gloom? It’s not a morose tale, though, so please don’t be put off! I don’t feel sorry for myself. So as long as you understand that I wouldn’t usually bang on about my problems then I can begin without any worries.
Without MS, I doubt I would’ve had time to sit and write. I don’t feel it’s an important issue to talk about normally – after all, thousands of people have MS; and many have nastier conditions to live with – but I can’t deny its presence in my life.
It is a strange disease, which can appear and then disappear for many years. I was lucky, even though I suffered silently for a very long time. I didn’t know what was wrong with me, which left me free to carry on with my life, get married, have children and live normally in total ignorance, and I’m grateful. Whether Julian thinks along the same lines, I don’t know – only he could answer that – but I’d like to think it would’ve made no difference to our lives together. Who can say what they would or wouldn’t do, if we had the future mapped out beforehand?
We first met at art college when I was 16; he’s one year older than me. I vaguely remember this boy who was on my course, but so were 40 other people. Our paths never really crossed until two years later while studying for our Fine Art degrees. We started going out together in 1982, and have been a couple ever since.
In 1986, aged 24, having just finished my MA in London, I rented a studio in Ruthin, North Wales, with Julian. The slow way of country life appealed to us both and rents were vastly cheaper than in the capital. We just needed somewhere to live within easy reach of our art workshop.
We stumbled across an advert for a lodge, falling in love with it the first time we saw the place. I think the country setting, the Hansel-and-Gretel quality, will always have a special place in my memory. It was our first home together, where we enjoyed Josh’s first three years before we had any thoughts of autism or my illness.
That autumn we were married in Cheshire, in the same chapel as my parents and grandparents. Honeymoon over, we both loved opening our own studio and gallery, and as the years went by the studio became more established. We took our work ‘on sale or return’ to galleries around the country, and with contacts down in London bombed up and down the motorway on a regular basis. Alongside this I started to teach art and printmaking.
To prove what an exciting life we led around this time, when we got our first microwave we sat watching the baked potatoes cooking! It was such an invention, but, remaining nervous, I took heed of my mother’s advice: ‘Don’t get too close – might cook your kidneys!’
It was a happy time, living ‘the good life’. We picked veg and blackcurrants, and made wine in demijohns. Julian improved the house, happily gardening and digging, and building cold frames, all towards becoming more self-sufficient.
Late one November evening, there was a knock at the front door – which was extremely unusual as we lived in the middle of nowhere. The frightened young man, obviously with learning difficulties, had run away from a care home after an argument with a member of staff he thought was nasty. Poor lad, we did feel sorry for him. We invited him in, offered him a drink.
He was so nervous, cross-eyed; he couldn’t remember if he’d eaten. He told us his parents didn’t want to know him, so he’d been at the home for two years, learning how to cope with living independently. The care staff arrived within the hour. It made us feel how lucky we were, hearing such an unfortunate story, and it really upset Julian, who would have liked to help him more. Years later we were confronted with similar issues in our own family, but in 1987 it seemed so remote and no part of our lives.
June 1987. I wrote to Homes and Gardens magazine: ‘Any possibility of a feature article, and producing screen prints for your readers?’ A month later they rang to say yes. In December the Homes and Gardens photographer and journalist arrived, along with their 16 boxes of camera equipment. We borrowed a few items from friends to brighten up the house, and gave everywhere a good spring clean, as you would before being thoroughly scrutinised.
The grey rainy day made no difference as lights put outside the window recreated sunshine. It felt like a film set: four or five lights on tripods, cables everywhere. It was such an exciting day, it seemed strange going to sleep, thinking that less than six hours earlier, there’d been a camera crew taking photographs by our bed.
Months passed by; cash flow was very tight, as we’d had a lot of outlays producing our prints and it seemed an age before we got anything back for all our efforts. But it was a lovely surprise, before the magazine published up north, when we received two orders in the post. My friend Judith (living in London) rang and said, ‘Hi, Artful Couple!’ – which was what the magazine article had called us. How embarrassing!
I’m out shopping one day and notice my feet feeling strange. Sensations moving up to the back of my knees. What have I done? One minute I’m walking along, the next thing my legs hurt like toothache. Even the balls of my feet. Weird. I’m only 26!
Perhaps I’ve just been overdoing things. No need to panic.