I was 10 years old the first time my dad fell in front of me.
He fell hard. So hard that he had cuts on his hands and knees, with blood running from them.
At the time, dad was my netball coach, and being just as stubborn as me, he refused to stop officiating at netball training to clean his legs.
Instead, he finished all the drills and ignored my own and eight other girl’s scrunched up noses and various exclamations of “ewww” as we looked at all the quickly drying blood on his legs and arms.
But even though he continued the training, dad knew something wasn’t right. At this point in his life, my dad was nimble, he was fit, he was an ex-VFL player, a PE teacher and only 48-years-old…. And he had tripped far too easily.
Fast forward through a series of doctor’s appointments and scary days of waiting and we soon learned that dad had Multiple Sclerosis, or MS.
I could count the things I knew about MS using only one finger, before my dad was diagnosed. Once a year my school read a lot of books to raise money for the MS read-a-thon. This is where my knowledge stopped.
Thirteen years on and of course, I now know a lot more.
I know my dad has Primary Progressive, or “the good kind” of MS, as he jokes.
I know that his condition may slowly deteriorate. I know that one day, out of nowhere, it may level off, or even improve.
And I also know that one day, he could be in a wheelchair.