‘Shit,’ I cry out loud. ‘What’s going on?’

I lie there for another few moments, trying to tune in to what I’m feeling. I’m very weak and also clammy again, like yesterday. It’s like the car didn’t just park on top of me; it ran me over first – at high speed. With my attempts to sit up thwarted, I change tactics and attempt to exit the bed sideways. Putting everything I have into it, and using my body weight as a lever, I eventually manage to roll over on my side and slide out of the bed onto my knees. It’s as if I’ve attempted a marathon with zero training. I crouch there, panting heavily, sweat beads gathering on my forehead. My head swims and I have to grab at the bed frame to stop me from toppling over.

‘Oh, shit,’ I cry again. ‘Shit. Shit. Shit.’

I reach across and grab my phone from my bedside table. After I’ve caught my breath again, I google ‘MS relapse’. The list of symptoms in the top search result immediately confirms my worst fears. That’s what this is. I’m having another relapse. After months of hard work to get back on my feet and having a life again, I’m back to square one.

‘No,’ I wail. ‘This is not happening. I’ve got a project team meeting this morning. I need to be there.’

Clutching the bed frame, I attempt to stand up, but halfway to my feet I’m overbalancing again, my legs buckling from sheer exhaustion. I allow myself to fall forwards onto my bed. Then I use the last of my energy to pull my legs up, so I’m at least lying down again.

Shit, this is bad. What the hell am I going to do? One thing’s for sure, I’m not going to work today. I’m not going anywhere at all. I can’t even make it to my own kitchen.

As this thought crystallises, I realise that not getting to work should be the least of my worries. How am I going to drink? Eat? Go to the toilet? I’m in serious trouble here – exactly the kind of trouble my mother and sister predicted. I can’t call Matt; he doesn’t know about any of this and I’d be mortified if he found me in this state. There’s no way I’m calling my family and letting them gloat – because that’s what they’d focus on, not actually helping me. Sasha’s miles away, and anyway has to be at work herself. I realise I have no choice. I’m going to have to call a doctor. But first, there’s another call I need to make and I’m completely dreading it.

‘Morning, Alex.’ I hear Emmanuel’s kind and jolly voice in my ear after two rings. ‘Everything all right?’

I go to speak but nothing comes out. Shame and mortification settle over me like a thick woollen blanket.

‘Alex? Are you all right?’ Emmanuel’s voice changes to one of concern. ‘Talk to me. Can you talk to me?’