Читать книгу Laugh or You’ll Cry: My life as a mum with MS and a son with autism - Sue Askins - Страница 7

In 1986, aged 24, having just finished my MA in London, I rented a studio in Ruthin, North Wales, with Julian. The slow way of country life appealed to us both and rents were vastly cheaper than in the capital. We just needed somewhere to live within easy reach of our art workshop.

We stumbled across an advert for a lodge, falling in love with it the first time we saw the place. I think the country setting, the Hansel-and-Gretel quality, will always have a special place in my memory. It was our first home together, where we enjoyed Josh’s first three years before we had any thoughts of autism or my illness.

That autumn we were married in Cheshire, in the same chapel as my parents and grandparents. Honeymoon over, we both loved opening our own studio and gallery, and as the years went by the studio became more established. We took our work ‘on sale or return’ to galleries around the country, and with contacts down in London bombed up and down the motorway on a regular basis. Alongside this I started to teach art and printmaking.

To prove what an exciting life we led around this time, when we got our first microwave we sat watching the baked potatoes cooking! It was such an invention, but, remaining nervous, I took heed of my mother’s advice: ‘Don’t get too close – might cook your kidneys!’

It was a happy time, living ‘the good life’. We picked veg and blackcurrants, and made wine in demijohns. Julian improved the house, happily gardening and digging, and building cold frames, all towards becoming more self-sufficient.

Late one November evening, there was a knock at the front door – which was extremely unusual as we lived in the middle of nowhere. The frightened young man, obviously with learning difficulties, had run away from a care home after an argument with a member of staff he thought was nasty. Poor lad, we did feel sorry for him. We invited him in, offered him a drink.

He was so nervous, cross-eyed; he couldn’t remember if he’d eaten. He told us his parents didn’t want to know him, so he’d been at the home for two years, learning how to cope with living independently. The care staff arrived within the hour. It made us feel how lucky we were, hearing such an unfortunate story, and it really upset Julian, who would have liked to help him more. Years later we were confronted with similar issues in our own family, but in 1987 it seemed so remote and no part of our lives.

June 1987. I wrote to Homes and Gardens magazine: ‘Any possibility of a feature article, and producing screen prints for your readers?’ A month later they rang to say yes. In December the Homes and Gardens photographer and journalist arrived, along with their 16 boxes of camera equipment. We borrowed a few items from friends to brighten up the house, and gave everywhere a good spring clean, as you would before being thoroughly scrutinised.

The grey rainy day made no difference as lights put outside the window recreated sunshine. It felt like a film set: four or five lights on tripods, cables everywhere. It was such an exciting day, it seemed strange going to sleep, thinking that less than six hours earlier, there’d been a camera crew taking photographs by our bed.

Months passed by; cash flow was very tight, as we’d had a lot of outlays producing our prints and it seemed an age before we got anything back for all our efforts. But it was a lovely surprise, before the magazine published up north, when we received two orders in the post. My friend Judith (living in London) rang and said, ‘Hi, Artful Couple!’ – which was what the magazine article had called us. How embarrassing!

I’m out shopping one day and notice my feet feeling strange. Sensations moving up to the back of my knees. What have I done? One minute I’m walking along, the next thing my legs hurt like toothache. Even the balls of my feet. Weird. I’m only 26!

Perhaps I’ve just been overdoing things. No need to panic. But by the evening I start getting pins and needles, like my body is half asleep. Stay at home a while, but I’m not used to sitting around. Want to be at the studio, working.

A few days later, I try wrapping pictures for a forthcoming show at the Royal Exchange, but can hardly stand. It’s rather pathetic. End up just sitting, watching, while Julian does everything. Feel sorry for him and he’s a bit fed up with me.

The doctor says I’ll be better in a week. Thinks it’s a virus, possible arthritis, and prescribes me Brufen – an anti-inflammatory. I’m so glad it’s nothing more serious. But the next day I can hardly straighten my legs. A bath might soothe them, but that idea’s useless – I can’t get my legs under the water. Decide to leave Julian in peace and go home to my parents. It is nice spending time with my mum and dad at home, Mum spoiling me. I’m not sure how good a house guest I am – apparently I’m allergic to Brufen and throw up all over her carpet! Sorry, Mum.

Return to Wales after ten days, feeling I can walk further, but by the end of July my hands, knuckles and arms have started to hurt. What a state! I can just about manage to go to work, but have to sit down. I even find washing my hair and taking a bath wipes my energy out. The doctor tries another medication to help with the pain, but I’m sick again. Worse than ever. That evening we hold a private viewing for the opening of our new studio. Julian has achieved miracles; it looks so professional. I’ve been no help, nothing but a burden.

By September, thank goodness, I feel pretty much back to normal. Like a fairy has waved her magic wand. The doctor still detects a definite weakness in my legs, but is not sending me for tests. I put the whole illness to the back of my mind.

In October, I start teaching printmaking on a degree course one day a week. A great job, but it’s a 90-minute drive away. Crossing the Welsh hills in a clapped-out car, through rain, sleet and snow, is certainly taxing. Feel like I’ve done a day’s work before I’ve even started.