I was excited today as we were all making a cultural visit to Liverpool. As soon as see the Mersey and the familiar Scouse accents my heart beats faster. The city where I was so happy. Returning from late night parties on the ferry, meeting Tim under the particular blossoming cherry tree in Sefton Park ( we didn’t have mobiles then) , nights in the Casablanca club painting our faces with snakes and butterflies, cycling to college with the lovely Helen where we learnt pottery, art, printing, gardening and of course basket work. Demonstrating against the National Front , Mandela being imprisoned and the Guildford Four with massive paper mâché heads we made of Thatcher and Reagan. Being so proud of my Tim as I went the opening of his photography exhibition at the Open Eye Gallery of photographs when he twinned Liverpool with Corinto in Nicaragua.
Sorry , so memories flood into my mind at the moment it’s like I have to capture everything and share it while I can . On arriving we ventured to the Walker Gallery and as soon arrived I just had to dash into the room I love and just be there…. absorbing all the marble sculptures and the chaos of creativity and history in one room . We then went to view my contemporaries ;Rankin’s ‘The Face of Death’, an honest and intelligent, creative exhibition of people facing their final moments . It was so refreshing to witness a display of a subject we hide away from but I can’t I felt comfortable and accepted amongst them strangely .
In the sunshine and the wind we then made our way to the dockside in search of the Chagall exhibition at the Tate passing Liverpool grandeur of days gone by . I refused to let my aching hips, tired legs and numb foot get in the way of my pleasure of seeing this man who had so many faces of vision , colour and ingenuity . It was five o clock when we our thirst for culture was satisfied, but hunger for food was not. Ruth sorted me a chocolate mousse but I was so hungry for real nourishing food!
The evening concluded with a return to the lovely Lebanese restaurant , I managed to eat but I noticed the difference from Day 97 when I went with my sister . Every mouthful was filled with anxiety of choking and I was conscious of getting the food in my mouth rather than smeared on my lips as my lips and tongue were just not rousing to the challenge. The white wine I enjoyed then was no longer a pleasure, more of a risk and my hands were so much more stiffer as I tried to keep up with conversation. I learnt then not to try and repeat the good times in my 100 days as the deterioration becomes more prominent.
The day concluded well with my lovely sons and long suffering victims of friends, but we smiled broadly at old photographs as more memories gushed in while my sons mixed up a White Russian, my favourite cocktail in the knowledge that my drinking days are very nearly concluded.
Living with MND 