91Èȱ¬

Interestingly I didn’t get an envelope. I got a phone call. I’ve been summoned. I thought that I’d be stressed out about the whole thing but actually I’m strangely calm. I’m a good few years older than the last time I went for a DWP medical examination and a lot more confident in myself. I know why I can’t work; I just need to explain it clearly to the appointed Doc. What’s got me most frustrated is that I’ve got to take the time to go and do it! Ridiculous I know. In all likelihood it will only take a couple of hours in total. But in reality it takes up a whole day.

I never have enough time. My M.E. (I’m never sure whether to refer to it as ‘my’ or ‘the’. I’m going with ‘my’. I think it helps to indicate that every sufferer experience different symptoms and restrictions) means that I’m pretty much limited to one activity each day. Whether it’s a trip to the shops; a hair-cut; or an hour of volunteering somewhere, I usually have to abide by that rule. The rate at which an average week fills up is absurd, especially when you take into account that I need a couple of rest days in there somewhere.

Time becomes a strange entity with this type of disability. Rarely does it pass at a normal speed. It’s either flying by with disconcerting speed, leaving me unable to fit in everything that I want to do. Or it’s passing at the pace of a particularly wearisome snail. At which times I’m usually pretty ill and want nothing more than to fast forward through the next fortnight. I read in the paper last week that scientists think that they may be getting closer to time travel! A time machine could definitely be a useful little gadget but I’d still prefer a teleporting device. Just picture it. No more transport nightmares or long, exhausting journeys. If all these brains can’t come up with a cure for this illness, then the least they can do is build me a Star Trek-esque ‘beam me up’ machine!

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