I have a confession to make. I hate the big shop. You know the one I’m talking about. The. Big. Shop. Not a quick nip into the shops for M&S picky bits and a bag of Percy Pigs. Not the frantic, last-minute trip to Tesco in a panic over if I’ve bought enough tonic water and nibbles for guests visiting. I’m talking about the big weekly shop. The “how am I going to feed myself and nourish my chronically ill body” expedition to the supermarket.
A domestic goddess, I most certainly am not, but I would much rather scrub toilets at home than traipse to the supermarket on one of my precious days off work.
No amount of jovial advertisements or loyalty points can ever change how I feel. I can’t even blame this hatred of the food shop on my MS because I’ve never liked it. The food shop pre-MS did not look like an episode of Supermarket Sweep. MS just makes me loathe and detest the hunting and gathering of my weekly sustenance even more.
Bad vibes
The bad vibes start before I’ve even made it into the car. Firstly, there’s the list. The List – it’s deserving of capitals. Once a week, me and himself have to sit down and figure out what we want to actually eat for the next week. The list usually comprises a starter of ‘I’ll have whatever you fancy’ and a side dish of ‘I don’t mind’ and a main course of ‘I think there’s chicken left in the freezer’. Shopping without a list is unimaginable. Between brain fog and fatigue, I fear I’d never resurface from the middle aisle. I’d just have to accept that this is my new life as some kind of budget Bear Grylls amongst the ski gear, leaf blowers and camping equipment.
The frantic weekly search for a trolley token ensues. Is it in my car, his car or some forgotten pocket of a hoody somewhere in this house? The food shop begins once I’ve gathered up my shopping bags, The List and whatever remains of my will to live.
I grab the trolley with the obligatory wonky wheel and head off (almost) in the right direction. The aforementioned wonky wheel mixed with other customers suddenly turns the vegetable aisle into an episode of Whacky Races. MS and coordination aren’t exactly best friends. Some days they’re not even acquaintances. Trying to push the trolley, hold my phone with The List, check off each item as I go along and grip the handheld device for scanning each item makes me feel like a one-man band. I’m convinced only an octopus could manage this juggling act along the juice aisle.
Purgatory among the produce
Midway through, this expedition feels like it may never end. It feels too late to back out now, but the end isn’t in sight. I’m stuck in some kind of purgatory among the produce, in limbo surrounded by legumes. The recycled bottles being spat out at me by some petulant toddler of a machine feels like an age ago.
Let’s not forget that I’m paying for the privilege of this experience. One in five people in Ireland with a long-term health condition is living in consistent poverty. The combination of the increase in the cost of food and living with a condition like MS is a recipe for disaster. Regardless of what supermarkets tell me, no amount of shop boop and save is going to change the fact that having MS makes it far more difficult to earn a living to pay for healthy and nutritious food. A person living with MS needs a balanced diet to help with energy levels in order to go out and earn the money needed to provide that food. It’s a chicken and egg situation. Chilled foods and aisle seven in case you’re wondering.
I push on, literally and figuratively, clutching onto my recycled bottles ticket like it’s a shiny invite to a chocolate factory. Pushing my trolley around that last bend before the self-service checkout is akin to crossing the finish line of the Dublin City Marathon. Instead of being handed a medal and goody bag, I’m handed a bill for at least €100 and I have to pack my own bags. Energy levels are so depleted at this stage that there’s no rhyme or reason to my packing system. The toilet cleaner ends up in the same bag as the vegetables and I just have to pray that nothing bursts on the journey home as I dodge the crater-like potholes in the car park. I leave himself to pack away our loot and I can only hope that - much like the potholes - I’ll get to dodge this dreaded expedition next week!
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