Post 123: Minutes, hours and days.
As you get older, three things happen.
The first is your memory goes… and I can’t remember the other two.
— Norman Wisdom
Mornings start the same way: I’m awake long before my Darling, my mind spinning with stray thoughts that refuse to wait for the waking daylight. Today I slipped quietly from the bedroom, leaving her curled up in sleep, the pill alarm still some minutes away.
On my mind this morning? Coffee. More precisely, whether I can risk leaving the comfort of my own loo long enough to join my little brother for one.
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Little Bro rang yesterday to say that after dropping his underaged daughter at her weekend kitchen job in a country pub, he and his wife might pop down to see us. He asked if we could all go out to a café for a coffee.
It sounds simple, but right now I have to assess whether I can manage the whole trip without a mad dash home. Am I being selfish if I say no? It would be nice to get dressed properly and not spend another day in my dressing gown. I think I should say yes… but my best bet would be to not eat beforehand — which my Darling will not approve of.
I don’t mean not eat at the café; I mean not eat at all from the moment I wake until after we’re back. Luckily, I’m never hungry in the morning, but lately eating has been followed far too quickly by a bowel movement — and then pain. So, yes, that’s my logic. First step: check online to see if the village café is open on Sundays.
———
Other thoughts swirl around too. The way I’m choosing — or being forced — to live my life has effects on my Darling, my family, my friends.
I keep busy with puzzles, my Kindle, feeding and caring for our precious cat Mr V. I have my big TV for distraction. But my bum is too sore for a motorbike ride, and I’m in no shape for steam rallies or bike shows. We’ve had two failed holidays this year already, and I’ve lost confidence in booking anything else. That’s the effect cancer can have on you.
And with all the computing power in the world, why is there no digital manual for living with prostate cancer? Where’s the guidance to get through the minutes, hours, days — and, if I’m lucky, more years? Why must I just sit and wait for advice, therapies that knock my metabolism sideways, and hospital visits that leave me sweating, bleeding, and exhausted?
I want my strength back. My forward-thinking back. Fewer pills, fewer appointments, less of the NHS in my life. I want my Darling to be able to leave me at home for more than two hours without worry.
Is that love? Is it love that lets a couple quietly shift into the roles of carer and patient? Or is it something deeper, something that makes her shoulder more than her share while I sit here feeling useless?
I’m not superhuman, but I wish I could cope better.
———
I checked — the village café is closed on Sundays. Good for them. When I was growing up, the Sabbath was a day for family and church (if you wanted it). Still, we could go somewhere else.
Funny to think that a coffee with my little brother now feels like a highlight of the week. How things change.
For now, I’ll put down my digital pen, turn on the TV, and drift away to South Korea in spring — walking hand-in-hand with my Darling under the cherry blossoms, the petals falling like snow. In my mind, I can almost smell the soft fragrance and feel the warmth of the far-eastern sun.
Ahhhhhh.
