Page 73 of One Last Thing
I glance at Laurence over my shoulder and then turn back to Megan, lowering my voice. ‘Yes, about that, our handsome pilot has invited me to join him for dinner.’
Megan’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘Are you serious? When did he do that?’
‘While you were taking a breather and he was pouring me the champagne.’ I hesitate. ‘I’d quite like to go. How would you feel about that?’
She snorts. ‘I appreciate you asking, but considering I’ve been fine with you dating other people since you and Dad broke upfifteen years ago,and you’ve been married and divorced again since then, you can probably guess that I’m fine with this.’
‘Yes, yes, but, you know, this is a special trip,’ I say impatiently. ‘It’s been quite the day, too. You conquering your fear. Us talking about . . . things.’
‘Yes, it’s been moving,’ she says drily. ‘But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t go out and have fun. He seems nice.’
‘Doesn’the,’ I gush, biting my bottom lip and taking another moment to admire him from over here, before saying to her conspiratorially, ‘I have to say, I’m very pleased the vulture took off with my nude bra and prompted me to wear the lacy one I’m wearing today. Much more appropriate for this evening, should things go well.’
‘Oh god, Mum, gross!’ Megan hisses, screwing up her face with disgust.
‘What?’ I can’t help but laugh at her reaction. ‘Parents are people, you know.’
‘I know, I know, but still, come on! There are boundaries,’ she huffs. ‘Anyway, given what we’ve talked about today and what you’ve told me, are you sure you should be, you know—’ she gives me a pleading look, searching for the right words but I don’t help her ‘—partaking in . . . any physical activity that might . . . you know . . .’
‘What?’ I say innocently.
‘You know,’ she repeats, sighing in frustration. ‘Should you be doing anything that mightoverexertyou?’
‘Oh, I see what you’re saying. No, don’t worry. It’s not like having MS means my heart is going to give out should I have an orgasm, Megan.’
She recoils in horror, clamping her hands over her ears. ‘Mum! What the—Okay, please justdon’t.’
‘Don’t what?’ I say, amused.
‘I cannotbelievewe’re having this conversation,’ she mutters, shaking her head as though that might shake away the memory of this. ‘Mum, I beg you, please don’t use that word in my presence ever again!’
‘Which word?’
‘Youknowwhich word,’ she seethes, glowering at me.
‘We’re both adults.’
‘Still!’
‘Fine. I won’t use that word.’ I take a sip of my drink, before adding, ‘You have to agree, from Laurence’s confidence, I’d guess he certainly seems like the kind of man who might be more than capable of giving methat word, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Thank fuck, there’s Nico,’ Megan cries, standing up abruptly and literally sprinting away towards the car rolling down the dusty path towards us.
***
The first two weeks after my diagnosis, I chose to go out and live my life as though nothing had changed. Yes, I’m free for drinks! Yes to an eye-wateringly expensive lunch! Yes, I’ll go to the theatre! Yes to a weekend away! Yes to everything! No to sitting around and feeling sorry for myself! It was exhausting, but I simply didn’t know how else to deal with it. I had no intention of thinking about what this meant for me.
Around the time of that fateful appointment with my consultant, I was dating a lovely divorcee named Caleb, who I’d been set up with by a friend of a friend. I didn’t tell him about the pains or the numbness or the fatigue or the diagnosis. Instead, I saidyesto a fifth date of dinner at his house and then sat at my laptop and googled whether I would kill myself by having sex. As hoped for, the answer was no.
I read through the information about how MS could cause some problems for women such as loss of libido (no problem there yet, I mused), some dryness down below (they have marvellous products to help with that, which were much appreciated by myself during a misguided dalliance I had with a man I dated years ago who was into poetry slams) and difficulty achieving orgasm (we’ll see who’s up for the challenge then).
Having done my research and feeling positive that I was unaffected, I approached the date at Caleb’s with excitement and vigour. The dinner was delicious, which was his triumph, and the sex was fine, which was my failing. I don’t think Caleb noticed anything, he messaged a lot afterwards which backs that theory. But I was knocked by the experience.
My confidence had . . . gone. Without me noticing it had flit away. The moment we were in bed, I felt like I was adifferent person. I had a body I couldn’t necessarily control now and therefore didn’t recognise. I was scared of moving into a position that might hurt. I felt like I wasn’t as beautiful or sexy as I’d been a few days before when I didn’t have the diagnosis yet. All these questions and fears and doubts were whirring around my head. They were shaking my poise and dissecting my sense of self.
I was devastated. I liked meeting new people and finding a connection and I liked great sex. I was perfectly content on my own, but I suppose the romantic in me had always hoped I might meet someone else again.But who would want me now?
After that, I found myself slowly retreating from everything and everyone. I ducked out of events; I kept my distance from friends. I didn’t want the world to see this version of me that I couldn’t even understand. I wasn’t who I was. I didn’t want to explain why.
