There’s a Vibe in the Soup: Part IV
If you have been holding your breath, you can now let it out.
And now breath in ...
Out … and …
Yes, you have got it .
Slippers on. Stoke that fire.
The Meddlesome Wife, bereft of her hero, arranges to meet a friend for a walk with the dogs. Despite having to make several attempts to park at the assigned meeting place, and despite being absolutely soaked by the end of this walk, all this is a very ‘good thing’. She is 'getting out.' She is seeing the world outside and 'meeting people.'
This is how it should be. This is therapy.
(Fill in the scene with the beautiful countryside of your choice.)
There is, however, one sobering truth that is brought home to the Meddlesome Wife on this day and it is this: she and our Hero have been housing, feeding and pampering dogs which no-one else could possibly love.
You know those dogs that bounce up with muddy paws and splatter your clean trousers? Those dogs that put their sharp noses into places only a latex- clad doctor’s finger should go? Those dogs that terrorize postmen? Those dogs you see dislocating their owner’s shoulders as they are dragged round the countryside?
You are getting the picture.
Those dogs are the dogs with which our Hero and the Meddlesome Wife share their countryside idyll.
These hounds from hell used to our hero’s responsibility. The Meddlesome Wife would come home from work and there the hounds would be: exercised, fed, bright eyed, calm and beautiful.
She has now discovered that she has, in her sole charge, two juvenile delinquents and the canine equivalent of the slightly senile and manipulative mother-in-law.
The thought occurs to the Meddlesome Wife that our poor hero has been too tired and ill to deal with some basic training, and that this is one of the many signs she might have picking up …
But we all know about the benefit of hindsight, don’t we?
Oh yes – back to the important part of the script. Our hero, with lashing rain behind him, and the gathering snowstorms before him, meets with our ‘expert’ in the not-so-warm-and-exotic South. The ‘expert’ has a really good look at the primary tumour and says, when the husband comes round from the anaesthetic, that he will do the treatment in the New Year and that the ‘cheap as chips’ version (are you paying attention?) would be completely inappropriate because of the length of his tumour. As you can imagine, our joy is not unalloyed.
Our ‘expert’ has also dilated the oesophagus so that our Hero can enjoy his Christmas lunch.
“Ho, ho, ho,” chuckles the ‘expert.’
What has not occurred to anyone (well, not any of the professionals) is that it is only the tumour which has been holding back the acid in our hero’s stomach. The valve which normally controls these things is completely compromised by the tumour. The acid, which was blocked by the tumour, now isn’t … But the tumour …
Oh, you work it out!
Our poor, exhausted hero returns to the North. He is whizzed by wheelchair round the airport and then is driven home by the Meddlesome Wife, who manages to look quite accomplished at the parking barrier. (Another first!)
Now, as well as the problems he already had with getting any food down, our Hero has gurgling acid coming up to greet any of the food (usually soup) trying to go down.
It is not romantic.
But he is our Hero and, my goodness, he is trying.
The Hounds from Hell sleep.
Our very hungry Hero sleeps.
The Meddlesome Wife?
She is still trying to brush up on her Italian and she still gets stuck when she gets to the future tense
Keeps the vibes coming … And if you have any ideas about what else can be added to the soup to keep our Hero going until the New Year, let me know.
