Sue Askins - Laugh or You’ll Cry - My life as a mum with MS and a son with autism

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.

November 1988. Felt queasy. I was pregnant. You’re never too sure if it’ll happen straight away, but it did; aged 26, we thought it a pretty good time to start thinking about a family. I organised a surprise meal for Julian (who had absolutely no idea I’d got pregnant that quickly); after the food, I handed him a gift. He unwrapped the nappy pins and pink fluffy pig, and the card saying, ‘Guess who’s coming to stay July ’89.’ I was on the edge of my seat anticipating his reaction, but needn’t have worried. Although shocked, he was ecstatic.

Everyone was thrilled with our news. Mum said, ‘It’ll put a spring in Dad’s step and a twinkle in his eye.’ My pregnancy kicked in and I felt surprisingly well; Julian and I looked weekly in the baby book at the stages of babies’ growth, attended Mabel’s NCT classes and had all the attentiveness that time allows for first babies. We began to nest-build, making alterations at the lodge.

One evening while watching TV, what a shock! There was one of my pictures, All Set for Tea , on the set of a BBC sitcom. That was quite fun, but on the negative side interest rates were cripplingly high. I suppose the first thing you stop buying when times are tough is artwork!

At eight months pregnant, home alone one summer’s day, I heard a knock at my back door. I assumed it was my friend Stella, but instead it was the eccentric farmer who lived with his long-suffering wife on a smallholding, down a muddy track nearby.

Driving past our lodge on his old grey tractor, which he did numerous times a day, he’d wave, and if I was in the garden I’d wave back. They were quite a couple of characters, he and his wife. The tractor was their only form of transport. He’d take his wife shopping, with her clinging to the back of the tractor for dear life, wearing her oversized man’s coat tied together with baler twine.

Anyhow, on that particular June day, stood at my back door, he wanted to know if I’d like some new potatoes.

‘Yes, please,’ I said.

He was very hard to understand, having such a strong Welsh accent and more spaces in his mouth than teeth.

‘I hear you’re going to be a father! Do you want a boy or a girl?’ he shouted, with peculiar incorrect use of gender.

He started to feel my tummy. This all seemed friendly enough, but then he lifted my shirt to grab hold of my trousers and see how tight they were, like he’d never seen a pregnant woman before. He mentioned my belly button, pulling my trousers further for a better look.

I said, ‘Oh, yes, all normal, thank you very much,’ pulling away.

I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt and remain civil. But before I knew it, he’d lifted up my T-shirt and squeezed the end of my tit!

Why did I let him! God knows. It happened so fast. He was treating me like one of his cows. I tried not to be rude, but had had enough of these shenanigans. He must’ve realised I wasn’t going to be pawed any longer, and just marched back to his tractor.

Once he’d gone, I felt a real fool. When I relayed the story to Julian, he thought I should’ve slapped his hand or face. Looking back, I agree, but the farmer was offering potatoes, and was maybe not the sharpest knife in the drawer! After that experience I decided I definitely wasn’t going to wave to him any more, in case he thought I was encouraging him.