And on it goes...

On my way into London to the last of my Month 3 appointments, a woman got on the train at Leigh, sat next to me and greeted me like an old friend. Other than asking where I was going, she talked about herself all the way to Fenchurch Street, barely pausing for breath. I knew all about her by the time we got there. I was relieved to get off the train.

The doctor leading the trial came, checked my lungs, glands and stomach, said “You’re good.” Then disappeared in a flash.

At the Research Centre, the nurse took my blood. Then picked up the vials to send them to the lab, and realised that she had missed two. My motorway vein went into hiding.

My next three month’s supply of medication arrived and I took the first tablet. The empty bottle and what was left of my first three month’s supply was returned to the clinic.

The doctor who usually did my blind assessment was on his honeymoon, so there was another one. We talked about how the scoring of the EDSS is subjective to the assessing doctor. “Yes, that’s its downfall”, she said.

There were two pegs missing from the nine hole peg test. She went in search of another. My right hand struggled to put the pegs into the holes and take them out again. There was a bigger difference between my hands this time. I’m right-handed but my left hand is stronger and steadier.

Andrew said “Hi” on his way past. He was finished and heading home. A man with a foreign accent almost bounced in. “You got MS?” I nodded. “Me too. I’m Peter. How long have you had it?” Good question. “Well, the diagnosis was ’97.” “Long time. Me? Seven years.”

 “I live each moment,” he said. “I know people. Get diagnosis, go right down.” He indicated with a down thumb. “That’s why me? I live for the moment.”