Post 132: She’s leaving on a jet plane.
That old Peter, Paul and Mary song from 1969 still haunts me, in a nice way. I was only five when it was released, but somehow it has always carried a sense of loss for me. A beautiful tune, one I can’t shake out of my head today.
———
My Darling leaves for Dublin on the 11:30 tomorrow. She still hasn’t found a dress for the gig, so this afternoon she’ll be out shopping. Meanwhile, my only task this morning was to face the dentist for that long-overdue filling in a lower canine.
The waiting room was full of muttering about timings and missed appointments, but I was too doped up on oral morphine to care. Numb, calm, I just waited until they called me. Unfortunately, they sent me to the hygienist by mistake. Sitting in the chair, I smiled at the clinician and said, “I’m here for a filling… am I in the right place?”
A gentle laugh, a shuffle back to the desk, and then I was pointed towards the right room. Hygienist postponed, filling reinstated. Double booked. What next.
The rest was routine: whirring drills, water spraying, suction pipes slurping. Oddly enough, not a twinge of pain. First filling in fifteen years and it was over before I knew it. I was impressed with how neatly it was done.
But then came the real sting — “open wallet surgery” at £220. Out I walked with a numb mouth and a receipt to prove it.
My Darling was waiting patiently in the car park and chauffeured me home, where I spent the rest of the day dribbling like an old tramp. As if I didn’t already have enough troubles, I’d gained one more.
———
Our eldest had driven through the night to see us, arriving at 2 a.m. last night. He and his wife are here to keep an eye on me while still juggling their own work -working from “home”. It’s nice to have the company, to catch up on their DIY projects and their cat, Shadow — a new, old, fat cat who already rules their household.
But for some reason I couldn’t settle. Not angry, just frustrated. Two people chatting in the lounge beside me, my Darling laughing and enjoying the news from Cumbria — and there I was, head spinning, eyelids drooping, restless and unable to concentrate.
I wanted to join in, to dip in and out of easy conversation. Nothing serious. Nothing about health. Just chatter. But my body wouldn’t let me. So I excused myself and trudged upstairs to bed.
I hate feeling like a misery. Quiet, aloof, inviting the constant “are you okay?” questions. Sometimes it’s easier to just retreat. Today all I wanted was for my lips to lose their numbness and for rest to actually feel like rest.
———
That song — “leaving on a jet plane” — took me further back, to the cars Mum and Dad had when I was small.
First, a Morris Minor Traveller, all wood-framed at the back like a little station wagon. Later, a Morris 1100. Really, it’s the photos I remember more than the cars. I was too young. But I remember the wipers, the radio, the way music filled the air like a kind of magic.
Dad was rarely behind the wheel — he had his Post Office bike or van. The car was Mum’s domain. I can still hear the radio tuned to Radio 1, late sixties hits washing through the speakers. Family favourites, singalong choruses. Music that could lift and carry you, even when you were just a child too young to understand the words.
And oh, those rainy days. Sitting in the front seat, watching the raindrops gather, merge, and slide down the glass, only to be swept away by the wipers. Circles of water appearing and disappearing, again and again, a little world of movement and rhythm.
Strange, maybe, but that was my entertainment. I could watch for hours, fascinated, happy. A simple child, with simple delights.
Maybe that’s why I remember it now. In this world of pain relief and side effects, I find myself reaching back for the simple things — raindrops, music, the feeling of being safe in the car seat while the world went on around me.
———
This afternoon, though, I need a nap. My eyes are closing even as I write.
I’m bumbling along on this bus, the days slipping by without much effort, without much effect.
The chemo cycles roll on. My fear is that, somewhere along the way, I’ll lose too much of myself to the drugs meant to save me.
But for now, I’m still here. Still humming an old song. Still watching the rain.
Happy in my own little simple world.
