Post 122: Replies, whisky and a short walk.
Once all the bad things are over – all that’s left is the good things.
———
It’s a better day today.
Even my Darling, arriving downstairs after waking and wondering where I was, said that I looked and sounded a little better. That’s always nice to hear.
The sore botty is much the same, but over the day I ate small plates and later got the munchies. My Darling has worked hard to investigate the best diet for my dodgy gut, and I’m honestly benefiting from her efforts. The rich tea biscuits were the icing on the cake—hard to refuse and apparently good for me, though I’m not yet sure how many is too many.
My Vicious has been very happy to swap his expensive, rice-based, allergy-friendly dry food for pouches of proper meat. He’s allergic to metal, which turns his white fur a pinky-red if he’s naughty, so all his bowls are plastic or earthenware. Fishy treats must come from plastic sachets, never tins.
He’s 12ish now and still survives very well on his rice food—remarkable for a natural meat eater. We know a human couple who feed their dogs and cats a vegetarian diet, and I’m always surprised what animals will eat if it’s the only thing they’re given—much like humans I guess. I’ll eat anything put in front of me, though I do enjoy a treat now and then. Being a veggie, I’m told I don’t count as “normal” anyway.
Mr V’s special rice food we ran out of is ordered so life will return to normal for him soon.
My Darling togged up and went to town for her Friday meet-and-greet with friends. At last, she could have a bit of time away from the lazy, good-for-nothing sudoku puzzler who tests her patience and drives her mad with stress… me.
I’m not thrilled with that assessment—though I admit it’s accurate—but the selfish lazybones with no energy is rarely far from his comfy chair and the control of the remote controls.
She came home later with a basket of gut-friendly treats and some essentials, saying she’d had a good time. It’s always nice to see her back, and I dutifully told her what I’d eaten for lunch, just to reassure her I can be left alone without mischief. If I don’t, I doubt there’ll be any treats next time.
While she was away, I remembered to ring the oncology secretaries to chase the email I sent yesterday, asking it be forwarded to my oncologist, Dr S. I left the usual message. Later, a lovely secretary confirmed it had been sent on—but Dr S is out until next week.
Well, well, well. Another proactive move dashed. Still, by Monday everyone will be up to speed before the treatment meeting. Hey ho—that’s life.
I did my utmost.
With that, I returned to my K-drama, pausing at lunchtime to honour my promise to my Darling. I should have made scrambled eggs made with water and salt, no pepper, as instructed, but the marmalade in the cupboard begged to be spread thickly on hot, lightly buttered toast (not too much dairy—“not good for the gut,” she says). The toast won out, and whisky marmalade was slathered on generously to make up for the lack of butter.
That reminded me of my love-hate relationship with whisky. I do partake socially, but it somehow sobers me up—odd, but true. I avoided it entirely for over 25 years after one teenage misadventure that left me gagging at even the smell.
(Big Sis—I empire you to skip ahead to the next line of dashes, please.)
It started as a dare. Two boys, pooled pocket money, and a Finefares store in town.
I was tall, with big feet and little sense; my friend was short and in the year below me. The plan centred on a half bottle of whisky. I’d buy it, we’d drink it, then head to the disco at the top of town, transformed into dance-floor kings.
We met in secret at the allotted time,
behind the bus station, I took the money and anxiously headed off to the shop.
I trembled at the counter. “A half bottle of Bells, please,” I said in my best pre-adult voice. The assistant didn’t blink. I paid, bag in hand, and scuttled back behind the old bus station to Master A my co-conspirator. That was the dodgy bit done obviously.
He took one sip, spat it onto the pavement, and abandoned me.
So the stupidest kid in town drank the whole lot himself.
I staggered through backstreets to the youth disco but was refused entry—money in hand, speech and balance long gone.
A local lad, knowing my family, ran to get his dad, who kindly drove me home. My father, a postman up at silly o’clock, opened the door to his drunk son. Without a word, he thanked the man, guided me upstairs, and let me pour the whisky into the loo while rubbing my back.
That was it for me and whisky for decades, and even now, some varieties still make my body recoil.
———
Looking back, I wonder where that world has gone—where a drunk teenager was treated with care by strangers and returned safely home. A world without ID checks or CCTV, which would have stopped us before we started—but perhaps also without the lesson that’s kept me from becoming an whisky drinking alcoholic.
——— (here Sis…)
The treatment plan meeting is in three days.
If by Tuesday, a week after my A&E visit, things haven’t improved, I’ll ask my GP for a second opinion on my bleeding bum.
My gut feels a little better, but I’m staying on my Darling’s diet. It’s still excruciating to move my bowels.
The buses are waiting with open doors, and I’ll hop on in due course.
Oh, and the short walk—about a mile—was lovely. Holding hands with my Darling is what it’s all about. Fresh air, a little freedom… though it ended in a nervous march home, thankfully without incident.
I’m off this time.
