Can I ever go on holiday again?

Of course I bloody can and of course I will! Stupid, slightly clickbaity question.

We're just back from two splendid weeks in Cyprus. Hugely stressful in so many ways. And utterly exhausting. Holidays shouldn't be stressful or exhausting, but Multiple Sclerosis dictates that it will always be that way for me, with the stress bit rubbing off on Mrs W too.

BUT, and a big, ouzo-flavoured, suntan-oiled, feta-cheesed BUT: the fun and the love and the relaxation and the adventure and the splashing and the laughter totally outweigh that teeny bit of stress and fatigue I mentioned.

Why was it so tough?

Finding a resort (and a room) in the first place that could handle my level of disability and yet still be child-friendly and child-fun. Getting specialist insurance. Nagging for a doctor's letter. Preparing my endless list of medication and equipment. Worrying that I've missed something. Worrying some more. Sending detailed info to the airline regarding my weird and wonderful wheelchair. Watching helpless and feeling useless as Mrs W covered the whole packing and preparing malarkey. It's been her role for years now, but it still pains me to sit by like a 1950's husband. And squeezing in some more worry about my medication.

Getting to the airport early, only to discover my wheelchair info hadn't been received. We oh-so-nearly missed the flight while the ground crew tried to establish how the battery could be transported safely. The inevitable tutting, harumphing and glaring as we were pushed past various queues. Stumbling to the loo in a demeaning, 'manhandly' way on the plane. And knowing everyone was watching my struggles. Worrying the entire flight my wheelchair would be ok after so many scare stories, (it was fine!).

On arrival... Dealing with the heat - a frequent, debilitating issue for many MSers. The worst bit this holiday: finding out I could no longer swim, my 'good' leg now too weak to help my crap one function at all. Another of life's pleasures gone. An hour or two every morning to get out of bed and get ready, while the rest of the family were already breakfasted and by the pool. Sneaking off in the afternoon for naps, then hauling myself back up for the evening meal.

And to top it all off, a good ol' bladder infection as the holiday ended. Complete with raging temperature, which meant that I only got a 'fit to fly' certificate with 30 minutes to spare on the return journey. (more fretting about my wheelchair, all was fine again).

Phew! All those minor inconveniences were offset in spades by the fabulous time we had.

My new Trekinetic wheelchair left me largely independent for the first time in years. More fun for me, less hassle for Mrs W and our long-suffering 12 year old.

An amazing disability specialist driver / helper called Ali. A roaring laugh and a bear of a man able to haul me up and around the awkwardest of steps and obstacles. He took us on some fabulous escapades which I could fully share with the family. A mountain-drive. Turkish Delight tasting. Pottery (bloody hell I was rubbish). Dodgy wine-tasting. Parasailing in parallel with our 12 year old, with the cheery boat crew happy to manhandle me on and off the boat and into my gear. And my teary, emotional highlight: after a 15-year gap, I was able to scuba dive again. Technically at least. Basically I was dragged round underwater by my dive buddy. But the delicious feeling of weightlessness was so mind-blowingly thrilling. To share it with my son was just amazing. Right up there with my three skydives...

So yes, I dread the next holiday and all the challenges I know we can look forward to. But I can't bloody wait!

Taking my wheelchair to untested heights. Pooping myself.

So I've got this fantastic new wheelchair, see. And it's red and funky and off-road and crowdfunded, see.

And even though the weather has been 'beige' and soggy at best, the mile-wide grin on my face each time we've ventured out, has kinda sizzled its way through the mist. Beamed out like a new lighthouse for the South Coast. Though lighthouses don't shout for joy much. Or travel at four miles per hour. Or take selfies. Or go home after a jolly good trip out. Bad analogy.

Even making tentative steps, so to speak, I've already managed ecstatic bundles of 'first time in years' moments. A snowball fight (see previous blog for a thrilling blow by blow account); a muddy promenade along the cliffs, with my twelve-year-old daredevil son begging me more than once to inch back from the edge; a crunchy wheel spin through soft sand; a whizz along the sand flats; and a rather embarrassing 'back wheel sink' into the wet sand at the water's edge. Briefly marooned. Oops. I make Mrs W so proud.

But now comes the real test. The one I'm pooping myself about. Not literally. That's for another blog.

Tomorrow we're off on holiday. On a plane. And at some point tomorrow - hopefully only at the foot of the plane - I have to surrender my expensive new lifeline to be loaded into the hold. I'll spend the next few airborne hours worrying about my 'Trekinetic' (which needs a name by the way. All suggestions welcome, though I have one in mind). Will it be damaged? Lost? Will they remember I need it delivered on the tarmac? Gah! And the entire flight I'll also be wondering just how they plan to get me to the loo in the very likely event I need a pee. Apparently it's all very awkward. Great.

I'll report back from the sun lounger. All will have gone swimmingly. I promise. I hope.