Downstairs, my two-year-old son, Lucas, is playing. He’s a beautiful, clever and sweet little boy who lights up my entire world.
Upstairs, I lie in a single bed, trapped in the shell of a body; bedridden permanently and suffering dozens of symptoms that mean that on most days the most I can do is crawl to the commode just a metre away.
Because of ME, I can only imagine being the mum that others get to be. I can’t hold, touch, speak or hear him as the sensitivity has an unbearable effect on me.
Yet, some people - even doctors - refuse to accept ME exists. They say it’s all in the mind and that I can wish myself better. I’ve lost friends and some of my family also think that it’s just sheer laziness.
