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Twenty-five years ago this month it was the last few weeks before Keith and I were married.    Like other summers in the early 1990s, I had returned to the Bank for the summer and was walking to work.   However at the end of every day my right leg hurt, I was exhausted and if I couldn’t get a lift home I would end up resorting to a taxi.   By  the Monday before the wedding  it was becoming a more regular and constant pain and so, knowing I would walk down the aisle on the Saturday, I made an appointment to see a doctor that day.   I fully expected to be sent home with a decent painkiller.

Instead the doctor asked me who had brought me up to the surgery and, once he knew my dad was outside, he phoned the hospital and handed me a letter with instructions to go straight to A&E.    That night I was admitted with a suspected DVT (deep vein thrombosis) in my leg.

The holding ward was horrible and I didn’t get much sleep.   The next day my mum stayed with me as I was sent for scans and xrays.   At lunchtime on the Tuesday the consultant appeared at my bedside and told my parents to cancel the wedding as I would not be there.    Along with a DVT, there were pulmonary embolisms in my lungs.

Those of you who know me well know I can be quite determined when I absolutely have to be.   If Keith was happy when he came in to visit in the evening, then plans would still go ahead for Saturday.

A fabulous minister appeared at my bedside on the Tuesday afternoon and began to come up with ideas of how the Saturday might happen if we had to be married in the hospital.

There are a whole host of people who ensured that I got through the week in hospital and who made sure Keith was looked after.   I don’t think the nurses had experienced quite so many potential ministers appear to offer pastoral support. All kinds of fabulous friends visited to make the week a little shorter and much more light-hearted.   On the Friday it was confirmed that I would be allowed out of the hospital for the day on Saturday so I could go to a wedding, and that night I shared a sherry with three women in their 70s who were sharing the side ward with me (those days of sherry on wards have long gone).   Meanwhile one of my sisters played the part of the bride at the wedding rehearsal.

It was an eventful day.   The bride went straight to the hairdressers from the hospital.   The father of the bride forgot to put film in his camera.   One of the grannies fell ill during the meal.  A day not to be forgotten, and good fun had by (nearly) all!   The bride returned to hospital at 8.30am on Sunday morning and was finally released into GP care at 10.30am, with an outpatients appointment for a fortnight later.

After the wedding there were other tests that eventually led to the discovery that I had Antiphospholipid Syndrome (APS).    There is also a bonus gift of lupus anticoagulant antibodies present too.  The 25 years have had ups - two children we thought might not happen - and downs - more pulmonary embolisms.   Over this next few weeks I will be celebrating the 25 years that might not have happened and celebrating that I’ve shared them with Keith.  

As part of our celebration I want to show my support for APS research and care, and have finally signed up to this group and have made a donation.    Reading through the website it is good to see that in 25 years there is a significant change in the outlook for those with APS.   It's all very positive now, and less suggestion of what won't or can't happen.   

My new consultant is listed and seeing her name and remembering my previous consultant reminds me that I have been fortunate to have the very best care that the NHS could offer.

www.aps-support.org.uk