Joanna Bolouri's Blog

My MS Story

When I was twenty-seven and pregnant, I woke up with double vision in one eye and my left foot began to drag when I walked. I was referred to the hospital where I was given weird plastic prism inserts for my glasses but due to my pregnancy, they couldn’t perform an MRI scan. Armed with a sick line for work, I was sent home and both issues resolved themselves in a few weeks. I went on with being pregnant and laughing about that time I looked a bit like a pirate.

Over the next few years my leg problem would return intermittently. I’d be walking normally, then suddenly my leg would drag, like a reverse, less badass Kaiser Soze. My left thigh developed numbness, my bowels went weird (well, weirder than bowels already are) and I became stupidly tired at the drop of a hat.

I visited several GPs about all these symptoms. Individually they could all be explained away:

Bowels – IBS and some particularly aggressive pushing during labour. Pelvic floor, bitches!

Tiredness – Anaemia.  You bleed a lot. You have endometriosis. We’ll just burn off your womb. No more babies but hey, you’re getting on a bit anyway, weak arse.

My numbness and foot drop – trapped nerve in your back. Do some stretches and stop picking heavy shit up.

All these symptoms combined are worrying, yet not one doctor referred me for further investigation. In fact, I don’t think I saw the same doctor twice.

Three years ago, I had a slipped disc which required surgery. After the surgery my leg problems didn’t go away, and I began to trip and fall more frequently. I remember a particularly spectacular, yet embarrassing public fall outside The Shard, which left me with a hideous black bruise and a real fear that I’d end up on YouTube. Eventually I was offered physio and referred to orthotics for a leg brace. Both the physio and the orthopaedic staff told me that my foot drop was 100% the result of my back surgery and I should pretty much just deal with it. But by then I was leaving the house less and less, due to a fear of falling, cancelling plans due to tiredness and feeling utterly hopeless that I had a leg brace that didn’t stop me tripping. I also had fatigue, so draining, sometimes I physically couldn’t open my eyelids after a nap.

Beyond frustrated,  I called my GP and asked them to refer me to a private specialist and I had my appointment a couple of weeks later. For £250, he examined me, told me he suspected spinal inflammation and that I’d need a brain and spinal MRI, possibly followed by a lumbar puncture. A month later my MRI showed numerous lesions. He informed me I had Multiple Sclerosis. I didn’t need the lumbar puncture; the damage was significant enough that they could diagnose me from the scans.

It’s now 2021 and my daughter is fifteen. That’s almost sixteen years of symptoms and I’m angry that no one listened to me or took the time to look over my records. Yes, I would still have had MS, but I would have been treated sooner. I would have had help and guidance sooner. I might have remained more mobile for longer.

So now I wait to be seen by the specialist MS team, to find out what drugs are available and what (if anything) can be done for my leg. It’s a twelve week wait, so I’ve used that time to arrange my own physio, look into diet and supplements, and rely on Doctor Google to predict possible treatments and outcomes. I don’t advise this.

Emotionally, I have good and bad days. My good days include being proactive and defiant, telling myself that I’ll write and sell enough books to get the best possible treatment and eventually become friends with Selma Blair. My bad days mainly involve me feeling scared, humiliated and worthless.

I want so badly to treat my MS with the bastarding contempt it deserves. I want my MS to be cureable and boring and not something I think about constantly. I also didn’t want to write some heartfelt, woe is me blog, so I’ve thrown in some GIFs to lighten the mood.

My future is a little uncertain now. I am single and the thought of rocking up to dates with a dodgy leg and chronic illness in tow is unthinkable. I imagine that previous partners are now wiping their brows in relief, so how could I possibly expect someone new to take all of this on?

Still, I figure if I can write books and raise a daughter on my own for fifteen years with debilitating symptoms, I can pretty much do anything.

Well, except this

Fuck MS.

Single After 40

I’m forty-one and I’m single. Not just ‘between relationships’ single, I’m talking decade long, thank god I enjoy my own company, I’ve now completed Netflix, single.

I’ve pretty much devoted the last eleven years to my daughter and my writing career, and while I’ve had a string of casual dalliances which have kept me sane, I’ve resigned myself to the fact that some people are just meant to be alone.

However, I live in a world where everyone is paired off and must deal with the bullshit that comes with being almost* middle-aged and single.

*45 is technically middle aged. I will fight you.

Dating.

No one wants to date anymore. Everyone just wants to swipe your face with the same hand they hope to use in some disgusting way on your body, two hours after you meet. I’m so done with it.

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Socialising with couples.

It seems a lot of stupid, perfect couples like the company of other stupid, perfect couples, so I either decline the invite or third wheel it, trying not to steal husbands as I roll past. One half of the group will demand debauched tales of my single life, while the other half will tell me how glad they are that they’re not single anymore.

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My mother sees every man as a potential husband.

Anytime I mention someone of the opposite sex, my mother will immediately ask if that person is single and then roll her eyes because some other woman who had her shit together, married him first and why don’t I put some more make up on?

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Being picky.

Some people accuse me of being too picky because I haven’t found anyone and I’m old as fuck. Just choose one and then grow to love them you stinkin’ loser.

I’m really not that picky.  I’ve dated skinny boys in skinny ties, great big cowboy looking motherfuckers and everything in between. My only non-negotiable requirements are that he makes me laugh, likes horror films and doesn’t mind someone horse faced with a slightly dodgy leg. HOW IS THAT PICKY?

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Being set-up

My attached friends all have attached friends because it’s the law. However, if there happens to be one recently separated maniac in their circle, they’ll try and set me up because at least it’ll get me out of the house. I’M SINGLE, BITCH, NOT ELDERLY.

 

 

Falling for people I can’t have.

Of course, this doesn’t solely apply to single people, but it seems to sting just that little bit more, the older I get. There really is nothing worse than having feelings for someone you can’t have but it’s harder to bounce back from while gravity is dragging your tits and pelvic floor towards hell.

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Growing old alone.

I’m not going to lie; this scares me a little. While I might have spent the past decade with periodic intimacy and affection, can I really spend the next forty years without any? Soon my teenage daughter will be off somewhere being amazing, and I’ll still be here, cooking for one and asking myself how my day was until death comes.

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Match.com still have an app? Right?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Relight My Fire

The follow up to bestseller The List is now out!! Click below to buy!

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Cover Reveal!

Say hello to my fourth novel…

Available for pre-order NOW!!

Things that happen when you’re the only single friend left.

It finally happened. At the ripe old age of 39 I became that person. It’s quite the accomplishment, non?  But what happens next? Well, I’m glad none of you asked because I’m going to tell you.

You become the infamous Third Wheel.

Behold! Gather round and witness the awkward shuffling of a person who has no-one but still requires human company at social events.

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You will be forgotten about

It’s true and you know it’s true because when you were in a relationship, you did it too. It’s natural, especially in the early stages.  Just remember to check in on your last single mate from time to time in case they have choked to death on their own boredom.

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You will be useful when they’re free

You’ll become the party friend when they’re not padlocked to their other half for the evening but it’s ok; they’ll spend this time talking about them so it’ll feel like they’re there anyway.

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You have no one to pull with

You’re going to have to do it sober and alone. Fucking hell.

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They will say stupid things to make you feel better

I can’t believe you’re still single.

Why? You’ve met me, right?

You should get on Tinder.

You should get to fuck.

You’ll meet someone when you least expect it.

I least expect it right now and it isn’t happening, is it fuckface?

You’re better off single.

Says the person who isn’t and has no immediate plans to be single.

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You’ll convince yourself that you’ll die alone

Because that’s what happens when no one shags you. Death.  Death and cobwebs.

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You start trying too hard

Everywhere becomes a hunting ground when you’re in full panic mode.

Maybe you’ll meet someone in the supermarket.
Maybe you’ll meet someone at the cash-point. Maybe after they rob you, you’ll laugh about it and get a latte.
Maybe you’ll meet someone at the MacDonald’s drive-thru at 3am who also hates themselves.

Just maybe (you won’t)

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You stop trying completely.

If you’ve been single for years, you’ll come to the conclusion that it’s for a reason. Because you know you better than anyone else and even you wouldn’t date you.

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It doesn’t matter though because you have your health, your winning personality and your friends….oh.

Never mind.

 

Life After The List

Happy to announce that my fourth novel will be a sequel to The List and is available for pre-order!

Just click on the image below!

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Cover Reveal

Hey Australia! Say hello to your new book cover…

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Order me on Amazon

https://www.amazon.com.au/gp/aw/d/B00G6EBW24/ref=mp_s_a_1_5?ie=UTF8&qid=1498135914&sr=8-5&pi=AC_SX118_SY170_QL70&keywords=bolouri

The List

I’m sooooo delighted to say that The List has sold over 1000,000 digital copies!!

I’m totally bragging. I’m not sorry. But thank you to everyone who has purchased a copy and if you haven’t….

Click here and grab a copy for 99p!

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ALTERNATIVES TO ONLINE DATING

Hate Tinder?
Failed to get a fumble on Bumble? (OMG SEE WHAT I DID THERE)
Sunk low enough to go on Plenty of Fish?
DID YOU SEE ANY SNATCH ON MATC–

OK, I’ll stop now.

Apart from a brief moment with someone (you know who you are)

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my love life has been non-existent for the longest time.  It’s true that this might be 85% my fault for being a bit well, me but I blame the other 15% on online dating. It’s miserable. It’s like a ‘choose your own murderer game’ or at the very least, a game of ‘which of these profiles look like they weren’t written by Donald Trump’.

So what are the alternatives? I’ve been researching and these seem to be the most common:

 

The Gym

Really? I want my first impression to be me beetroot faced, hairline dripping into my cleavage,  gasping for breath while an exercise bike slowly chafes away at my foof? I don’t want to be approached at the gym, in fact, I DON’T EVEN WANT TO GO TO THE BASTARD GYM; PEOPLE WHO GO TO THE GYM ARE THERE.

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First Dates

It’s certainly an option. Being on telly, might be fun, right? However, trying to find love while the whole of Twitter decide whether you’re a good guy or a wank is a little scary. I’d be the one with food stuck between her teeth and no one tells her.

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Take a class.

This always sounds promising. Meet someone who likes the same stuff you do! You do however run the risk of paying for an 8 weeks French cookery class surrounded by twenty women who all had the same idea as you.

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The Pub

This is the only place I’ve had any kind of success but everyone involved has been pissed and guided by genitalia.  Also you have to brave. You have to march up to someone and communicate with them without typing. Your face is your emoji. Probably the winky one that’s lame as fuck.

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God I hate this shit.

My Tinder Day

An example of how my brain works on Tinder.

Adds funny photo.

Removes photo. Men don’t want to see your entire face in that pose.

Adds sexy photo. Sexy is good. Sexy people have sex. Sex is that thing you did once, remember?

Examines sexy photo carefully. Renames it drunk as fuck photo.

Shouts “WHY IS THIS MY FACE?” at no one.

Adds least offensive photo and sighs.

Search criteria.

OK, so if you’re 38 then probably 25-48?

No wait, 25 is too young, you’re not fucking paying for everything and being his mum taxi.

Right, 30-48. But then he’ll be 32 when you turn 40. FORTY. FUCKING FORTY. YOU ARE GOING TO BE FORTY.

FINE. 35-48?  But 48? He’ll be 60 and you’ll still be pretending that you’re never turning forty.

FUCK THIS. *logs off*

 

Ten minutes later…

Right. 35-45. Within 10 miles.  Ten miles is fine for dating and late night emergency sex.

Swipe left…swipe left……….oooh he’s handsome. Facial hair – check…funny profile – check! likes being outside…oh fuck off.

Swipe left…swipe left..swipeleftswipeleftswipeleftswipeleft…WHY IS EVERYONE HANGING OFF A WALL? WHY DO YOU HAVE YOUR KIDS IN THE PICTURE? WHY ARE MEN SO….ooh he’s nice! He hasn’t written anything. He’s either really dull or lazy. I’m not sleeping with him ever.

Twelve hours later.

*search criteria has now changed to 20-109 within THE EARTH*

Why has no one super-liked me? I am super-likeable as fuck.

*gets super-liked BY A 62 YEAR OLD.*

swipe left….HOLD THE PHONE. Wow, he’s totally out of my league. Imma swipe him and ask if I can stand beside him at some point during my life.

YOU MATCHED WITH HOT GUY. You are so good at this.

*tells everyone on Twitter. No one cares*

Writes a message.  Mentions his hair and probably something about Die Hard or Sharpies, neither of which he has referenced in his profile.

Gets unmatched.

Starts again.

 

Buy me a coffee!