Ah, summer 2023—filled with overtime shifts, a week away, outdoor swims, and adventures. Except, life had other plans, introducing a new trio of companions: nausea, balance problems, and the more rapid decline in my ability to walk. The twist? A diagnosis of multiple sclerosis (MS). Unexpected? Certainly. Yet it was the conclusion to five-year battle with NHS GPs who seemingly thought my symptoms were more of a “female imagination” problem than, you know, a serious neurological issue. Medical misogyny—you outdid yourself again.
By the time doctors finally stopped dismissing me, I’d woke up on the 8th of August unable to move or feel anything from the waist down, unable to pass urine and contemplating how I could have done this to myself? These thoughts were due to a previous A&E visit. Roughly one week before, a certain TikTok-famous doctor with impeccable Gucci trainers had mentioned and dismissed MS as unlikely cause of my issues because it didn’t run in my family. He instead suggested Functional Neurological Disorder (FND), handed me a website link and sent me home to do some research while he’d write to my GP to suggest that they order an MRI. Unfortunately, Dr Gucci shoes did not deem an MRI urgent at the time.
Fast forward to my return to A&E and after a 7 hour wait, my bladder had stretched like a balloon. I was given a catheter and sent for an MRI due to suspected Cauda Equina but I was quickly cleared and admitted to a private room in the Infectious Diseases ward at the Queen Elizabeth University Hospital. I had nothing better to do but wait to find out what was wrong, wonder if I’d ever be able to walk again, if I was dying and contemplate the nuances of how I could get to Switzerland in my state. That and if any of my friends would be a pal and help me get there.
A couple of weeks after my admission, I was relocated to the Neurology ward to await a second MRI. The first scan, focused on my lower back, hinted at lesions in my spine. This time, the culprit emerged in full: MS. The PICC line and plasma exchange swept in as the medical equivalent of a surprise party: dramatic, invasive but oddly fascinating all the same. This led to the introduction of Natalizumab, which I can only say as it resembles my name.
After my 2-month vacation at the Neurology ward, the Neuro rehab unit became my worst enemy. A place where I quite literally learned to take new steps. Relearning to walk was equal parts determination, frustration and comedy. How could I forget to do something I’d been doing for 30 years? From wobbly zimmer frame shuffles to crutch-assisted strides, it was victory, chaos, and the occasional tumble. No broken bones, thankfully—just battered dignity.
As if the MS diagnosis hadn’t turned life upside down, my long-term relationship unravelled in slow motion. While I was in rehab, I was prescribed multiple types of anti-depressants and referred to their psychologist. This brought up feelings. My long-term partner hadn’t believed I was ill. Over months of debilitating symptoms, their disbelief and their choice to always believe what the GPs had said-“trapped nerve”, “lose weight”, “hormones”. It wasn’t until the harsh reality of a diagnosis was staring them in the face that they said they were wrong. There was never an apology for the blame on me for not following the doctor’s advice to “keep walking” and losing weight. I mean I was, but difficult when your mobility is deteriorating. By then, I realised the emotional absence had left a scar. It was me finally choosing myself, even while drowning in the aftermath.
Post-diagnosis, the fallout isn’t just physical. Nearly 2 years on I have bad balance, terrible memory, I have to self-catheter due to my bladder not working and for fun, surprise incontinence incidents. These are my new normal. The emotional weight—crippling depression and suffocating medical anxiety and sickness from chronic UTIs—have wrapped themselves around me like a dark, heavy blanket. The trauma of dismissal and knowing that if the MS had been caught sooner, that most this stuff wouldn’t have happened is still an unwelcome guest. Accepting my new reality often feels impossible but every move forward—literal or figurative—is mine. And that’s all that matters.