Post 142: What could possibly go wrong?
One sleep to go till the pow-wow and my brain has stopped functioning, it’s too full of questionable questions.
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I snuck downstairs and settled in the comfy rocker after giving Mr Vicious his life-saving dried food, as it seemed he was his usual famished self again. I sometimes forget he was a massive cat when he was rescued and he’d shed over two kilos in the first few years we had him. He’s been with us nearly 10 years now and I guess he’s nearly forgotten too – but his stomach reminds him, every day.
While I’m not hungry at all, I am in need of counting up and listing the things that have changed in the last couple of weeks to my body and soul, to impart to Dr S as an initial report on my wellbeing.
I’ve only met Dr S once, spoken on the phone to her once, and tomorrow’s meeting is the first where I expect to be able to ask a few questions myself. Suffice to say, she knows me better than the meetings appear to show, because of the chaos I’ve caused via the 8 A&E admissions since mid-June.
So I really ought to be careful and patient-like to keep her on my side, even though I am truly frustrated, confused, and concerned. Keep one’s mouth closed Mr U.
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My Darling was rushing around upstairs in a bid to break some kind of world record. Her clock snooze worked ok but her tired eyes didn’t realise the time, so this was a mild panic to get ready for her mate’s pick-up for getting her nails shortened and painted. She was a blur for a short while, then disappeared out the front door with a blown kiss for me and a clutch bag and purse for her.
I continued to flit from Sudoku and K-dramas to medical quandaries, but if you could see me in my dressing gown with a pint of water for the pills, I’d look mainly confused and worried. I was getting nowhere with my questionable list.
While my Darling was at the fingernail painters and decorators, I could contemplate this afternoon’s date with an old drinking buddy in a local seaside town for a right good catch-up. In fact, wouldn’t that be a good time to run through the clinical questions and answers while updating him on my physical and mental state? Yes it would, I’ll leave the questions for now. It would allow me to concentrate on my Sudoku and procrastinate some more about the meeting. Ha-ha.
Along the way, and before my Darling got back with her beautifully dressed French-polish talons, I had prepped and eaten a chunky malted bread, Stilton, chutney, and strong pickled onion sandwich, and had changed into some going-out clothes that would pass my Darling’s inspection of my very own fashion choices – which are nearly always a huge disappointment to her. When she arrived home, there wasn’t any time for dilly-dallying and we strode off to the bus stop in time for the number 53.
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I had dosed myself up for the bumpy ride, bracing myself with a mouthful of morphine and a pocket full of pills for later. I was ready for anything. I even had a light waterproof just in case the windy showers that were due to blow away sometime in the afternoon, sought us out.
We got to the “real ale Mecca” first and sat down with a pint of mild and a red wine for the lady.
This is where I can hear some grumbling from readers worrying now about my level of abandon shown by my reckless choice of beverage – considering my physical situation and chemical toxicity. Well sorry, but I don’t care today. I’m having a beer. It’s only 3.4%, a flat, old-fashioned mild, and certainly won’t kill me.
My pal arrived promptly and the chatter didn’t stop for three hours. We did my health and his retirement plans. His son’s wonderful wedding and our cancelled holidays. And best of all, the Goodwood Revival trip arrangements for a week Saturday – our long-awaited 1940s motoring-centred big day out. I can’t wait. Spitfires and classic racing bikes (and cars).
My Pal was able to indulge me in the ways he could care for me during the day away from my Darling’s eagle eyes. But after he had soothed her worried mind, he was delighted with himself in suggesting that another Goodwood day out would be planned for next year. Yes, a future “dangling carrot” to keep my chin up and focused on another far off delight.
His face was a picture of happiness, and inside my head I was crying with thanks for such a kind gesture.
I held myself together this once, and as his Darling was on her way to pick him up, we headed out of the bar and walked a short way to the meeting point where we duly hugged and said our goodbyes and thanks to him and her.
This is where the lovely afternoon turned into a dreadful evening.
I don’t really know how. But it did.
We walked into another bar – a massive chain of pubs with the best pizza oven and a cheap-and-cheerful ethos. The food was ordered on the app and arrived swiftly, as did the hot drinks.
Where did it go wrong? It was me!
I was tired and not very hungry. I was talking about the new car. I was talking about the test drive and my Darling’s capabilities in the 32 years she’s had a full driving licence. I was bigging her up – and all I got in return was a glum face, then a tearful eye and a tiny sad voice telling me how she hates driving and has no confidence, etc. etc. etc.
I was not ready for this conversation and mishandled it badly. I boldly suggested all the things I thought would boost her confidence and curtail this silly and out-of-balance attitude of her own abilities. “That,” plus the background of hurt from Kev’s recent death, and my incessant moaning about this bloody meeting tomorrow, caused me to shamefully snap and rise up and tell her that if she didn’t want a new car, if she didn’t want to drive, if she didn’t this, that, and the other, then all of the plans (that are in their infancy) could be cancelled! Just like that!
And just like that, we both fell silent.
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We returned home on the bumpy bus and She went to bed.
I stayed up I didn’t know what to do.
At 01:30 I went to bed.
We hardly spoke a word on the bus.
She’s not yet awake.
We still haven’t spoken.
I feel dreadful…
