Confessions to a neurologist
When it started, I’d tip my chin down to my chest,
loving the sensation of my body buzzing.
I’d wake, fall to the wall, panic crawl to the loo,
ask my wife if my palms were really burning hot
I choke on nothing but pretend that it’s something.
Take a day to recover from a few hours out.
The spasms can make me vomit and piss myself.
In all other respects I never multi-task.
I avoid terms like spastic, disease and chronic,
put on a front, joke that my life is MS-ey.
Speed bumps on my spine misfire signals from my brain,
makes me think of my old battered Renault 19.
Life has improved now I’m estranged from my mother.
The oil spill on the road when the wheel fell right off.
I miss running now I’m not allowed to do it.
I lift weights to improve my veins, I’m also vain.
The pain is not enough to take those ugly drugs
I know my brain is shrinking so I’m reading more.
I eat fudge because I lack fat around my nerves.
It seems to help me think and move, miracle sweet.
I keep tally of infusions and nurses laugh.
Each sacred cannulation, drug bag, drip, gives life.
Yes, I am fine, I’d kiss you but that’s frowned upon.
Ann Grant is a Cumbria based poet and workshop facilitator living with multiple sclerosis. Her poems have featured on albums by Clutter and Some Some Unicorn. She hosts Verbalise at Brewery Arts in Kendal. @annthepoet