Post 128: “Webbles wobble but they don’t fall down”.
The above catchphrase to a child’s toy I never had but have never forgotten and is a very positive message — and thank you, Puddock, for yesterday’s blog reply.
You made me reconsider my day instantly and took me back in time.
For a start, the little Webbles can’t be down for long. Their innate design insists that they smile and roll right back up when they’re knocked down.
Wave upon wave of knock-backs beset us all, with our cancer chauffeur taking us to god-knows-where. But every trip is just a trip, and the eventual destination is, hopefully, not in sight.
I like the thought of picking myself up in my writing, even though inside I still feel hurt and confused.
I do fall and feel down, but I try to smile, a little Webble smile getting back up.
———
I so wanted to get cracking today with positive vibes for my Darling as much as for me, and I did the usual drug and cat food sweep around the kitchen and conservatory. I’ll come back to Mr Vicious later, but he was going to be my shadow today, I later found out.
Not Shadow, my eldest’s fat black cat, recently rescued from a Glasgow cat rehab, who’s on a crazy diet and pills aplenty — but Mr V was a dead weight on my legs all day, every time I sat down.
But I had the second day of steroids to take, so again I made what I call sloppy Weetabix (other breakfasts are available of course). A Winnie-the-Pooh cereal bowl (yes, we’re still Disney mad — Disney is not just for kids) with one brick, cover it to the top with milk and zap-ping for one minute. Then grab a tablespoon, dip it in some runny honey to the bottom of the jar and hey presto — straight down the hatch.
Fifteen minutes later, after the water to swig the pills and the sweetened breaky, I had a few gurgles in my tummy and the rest of the day was thrown into jeopardy with a tight tummy and toiletry tether.
Enough said. Bowels loose. Straight in, straight off — like a car ferry.
So whilst I so wanted a trip out with my Darling by my side today, it might not have been the best idea in the circumstances. But that’s ok, I can still be here beside her to ease the grief and pain she’s hiding inside her troubled mind.
Over in the USA there are plans to get Kev’s remains back home to Eire, and both Geety and my Darling’s eldest sister are working towards the funeral as best they can. Remembering that I can’t get on a plane due to treatment, we have enrolled both our boys to help chaperone my Darling to and fro. This is especially awkward as my Darling will not leave me alone for more than a couple of hours.
This worry of being away from me has heightened since the shock and sudden death of Kev, only two years older than me. So you can imagine the hoops we have to go through to plan this special and sad trip so that everyone’s happy.
After avoiding any verbal contact with my endless list of Irish siblings (which I love so much but can’t talk to right now) I picked up an afternoon call while I was still in my comfy rocker, close to the loo, with Mr Vicious once again on my lap for his comfort — not mine — and my Darling had snuck off to the chemists for another bag full of drugs for me. It was a call from the sister who is our mainstay and most communicative sibling, the one who often stays with us. She’ll just say casually, “I’m at the airport, see you in a couple of hours,” and that’s fine with us. She’s an easy guest and never stays too long.
However, the call was cut pretty short with more tears my end, but not before the big news: the funeral will be Thursday…
“Gulp!” I thought.
For a few moments I thought back to the previously suggested date, two weeks away, caused by the logical idea that an array of red-taped delays would take time. But this makes the flights and accommodation harder to find and book. Thoughts now were, when will there be confirmation that it’s on Thursday? That will be Monday, probably. That leaves two days to get things done. Oh hell!
My Darling walked in with a big bag from the pharmacy and asked if everything was ok. I looked at her and noticed she’d been out for longer than usual while I sat and pondered with the cat.
“How are you?” I asked. “You look washed out.”
She replied quietly, “I popped into the graveyard and sat a while.”
I said no more, my eyes matching hers. Nothing more to say. Just a quiet, quiet.
———
After a long hug and enough time to settle, she noticed the texts buzzing between the kids and me on a group chat. She then realised we needed to chat to the boys about this week’s possibilities. I texted Geety for any confirmation she might have, and she relieved my mind with the idea that this Friday would be the best day — especially so the travellers from afar could get there.
This alleviated the initial panic and set all the wheels in motion for a more sensible solution.
Geety still hasn’t found the bloody car keys though. Come on Kev, where are they?
———
Bowels aside, I had a relatively pain-free day and look forward to the new morphine modified-release capsules I’ve now got, which give me background pain relief 24/7. Hopefully that will make my wake-ups more cosy after the nights’ ebbing pain relief.
As for the cat — well, as I said earlier, he stayed by me all day. But the downside was his incessant cat-flatulence! Oh my lord, it was bad.
Lucky I always have a beautiful oriental paper fan close by for the regular hot flushes, to wave away the pong!
Bloody cat.
No, we didn’t do much yesterday but we did survive.
The chemo is good, the bus on track, the pills in the cupboard, and the plans for later this week are in hand. Not a bad day after all.
Sunday tomorrow. Maybe a stroll out to another peaceful graveyard for contemplation, or a wander through a local wood with eyes foraging for the autumn species I love so much — fungi.
All I need is a man-nappy and I’ll be fine in the woods for hours 
.
———
Like the Commodores used to croon in 1977:
“I’m easy like a Sunday morning.”
Take it easy out there 
