The letter you always wanted to write

I wasn't properly introduced to you until 2005, when I was nine, but I remember Mam and Dad sitting me down for the first time when I was six and explaining why Dad had a funny walk. My response was: "I want my next daddy to be fit." Everyone just laughed it off. I used to hobble behind my dad, copying his posture and facial expressions. He would laugh and swing me high up in the air. I felt as if I was flying.My dad being 6ft 5in, I virtually was.

Although my dad couldn't run after me, he could throw the ball high in the sky and see who caught it first – me or my sister. He could stand at the top of the drive and give me a big push on my bike. He gave me tips at football and I would listen, as he used to play professionally, but he could never show me. I never thought anything of it because he was my dad. Some were bald, some were short, some were fat, some were thin – mine just had a funny walk.

Until the summer of 2005. My little brother's first holiday. Holidays are supposed to be relaxing, fun and enjoyable. This is the case for the average family. Not for us. On the first night of the holiday, we were met by my dad in a wheelchair because his "walk" was worse. We were devastated. The look on my mam's face said it all, her smile was as see-through as a window and my dad's wasn't much better. My mam sat us down and explained about you. It was a conversation I do not wish anyone to have to experience. I could see the fear in her eyes and I knew this was serious.

After the holiday, if that's what you'd call it, Dad said us he was getting a mobility scooter. I was shocked. I thought only grandparents got those, so why did my dad need one? He would get better, wouldn't he? This is when I first truly met you. Any question I asked, the answer was always the same MS, MS, MS.

As the years went on, you weren't a factor in my life, you were my whole life. My dad got worse and worse. You had already affected his legs but you were selfish and spread around his body to his arms. No more throwing the ball in the air, no more pushing us on the bike, no more flying.

You weren't just affecting Dad. My mam was not her jolly self, she was getting more upset and frustrated every day. This had an effect on me and my brother and sister. Why were our parents serious and upset most of the time? Why couldn't we go where other families went? MS.

So you affected five people hugely and one in particular, but it didn't stop there. It became apparent to many friends and family that he didn't just have a dodgy walk. My dad hadn't wanted anyone to know about you, had wanted to carry on being his normal hilarious, lovable, sarcastic self. But he had kept you a secret for too long, so he began to tell people. Nobody really understood you. People don't really think about MS, until you affect someone they know and adore.

You wormed your way into many lives, but why my dad? Is it because he is respected and loved by many people? Because he was the clever man who went to Oxford and played football and tried to make something of himself? Or because he was the nicest, kindest man you ever met? You might be a big part of my dad's life now, and have taken away almost everything, but you will never take away his sense of humour or personality. I beg you to stop. You have already stopped a man teaching his only son the sport he loved. You have a stopped a man fulfilling his career. You have stopped a man living his life. As you live inside people, taking away every part of their lives, what thrill do you get? Go away and let people live the lives they have left. I wish we'd never met. Hannah

The Guardian, Saturday April 14 2012

http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2012/apr/14/a-letter-to-multiple-sclerosis