So I’m swimming in the sea with the kids. We’re at a beach in Bathurst New Brunswick. We’re having fun in the waves, you know, splashing around.

When all of a sudden I feel something on my leg, like a huge sting. I look down and there’s a fucking shark attached to my leg. A shark! On my leg! In New Brunswick! Not a great white but like a blue shark. Maybe 4 feet long.

So I’m standing there obviously in shock, the shark let’s go and backs up a little. The water starts to turn red. I start to snap out of it and look at the shark. Then I turn my head and look at the kids. I look back again at the shark just as it darts towards us. Then before I know it I leap towards the shark and grab it by the neck and start punching it the face. I yell “GET OUT!” To the kids. With such force they know to listen. The shark wiggles free from my “neck grip” and darts back for my leg, it smells the blood I imagine.

This is a sharks basic instinct to eat, to live, versus a humans basic desire to survive, a mothers instinct to save her kids. It bites, I punch, it shakes, I bite into it’s fin while I wrap my arms around its neck again. I look back, kids are still getting out of the water, so I look back at the shark and just punch it over and over again. I’ve never felt such strength. It’s so powerful, awakening. The shark wiggles a bit, still in my arms, I look back again at the kids and they’re out of the water, finally! I start dragging this thing to the sand, he’s fighting really hard and he’s so heavy, but I’ve got him. I’m out of the water, I throw the shark further down the beach with more strength then I’ve ever had, I watch it wiggle in the sand a bit, I look at the kids safe on the beach, they look shocked.

I look at my bleeding leg, flesh, blood, skin hanging, bad, very very bad, I fall to my knees.

I look at my kids, I look at the shark, he’s no longer moving.

I look at my kids, they look sad.

I look at my leg, I’m sad too because I know what this could mean.

I look at my kids, they’re holding each other, perfect, they’re there for each other. My leg, so red, so much blood.

I’m so tired that I fall unto my hands, I try to hold myself up but I fall into the sand. My face is turned towards the kids. They’re crying and moving closer.

I stare up at the blue skies, I hear the faint sound of waves and nothing else, I look at  my kids, I imagine them having BBQ’ed shark for dinner, I smile. And then I close my eyes…..

Would you rather hear that or…

I have MS

Over the years now I’ve been asked many times, by many different people, some form of question about what’s wrong with my legs. Were you in an accident, did you get hurt, what happened? I can only imagine that they were somehow expecting some exciting story about either a car accident, a plane crash, falling down the stairs or me taking part of the humans versus robots war. Because every time I tell someone I have MS they look disappointed.

I don’t mind talking about it, I’ve come to accept it. To me it’s not a downer, IT ISN’T FUN, but it doesn’t get me down. It’s like telling someone I have a kitchen table. It’s incredibly dull. But It is very hard seeing the look of disappointment on their faces every time. I can’t blame them. I can’t imagine anybody telling me they have a degenerative progressive incurable disease and not being sad upon hearing this. But I also don’t want to be rude and say nothing. And I’m not comfortable with lying. It has come to a point where I’m really anxious, almost fearful about meeting new people, because I know I will eventually become the downer in the room. The total buzz kill.

So after years of racking my brain about how I should answer this inevitable question i believe i have come up with a comfortable answer …

“let me tell you this crazy story”

…

I like to imagine I would look like this if ever I had to tackle a shark

But truth is I would probably look like this