Post 145: Who am I?
We all live life without thinking too hard about who we are—until something happens.
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I was a much-loved boy in a house of five, and as the middle kid I was neither first nor last, hot nor cold, good nor bad. I had a big Sis and a little Bro who, back then, were rivals for the last chocolate biscuit and the biggest part of my life—at least until I met my Darling.
This evening we went up to little Bro’s, and I was last for a change—big Sis was already there in his lounge waiting to see me.
That made the three.
Although the planned walk down the road to watch the torchlit procession was thwarted by my gurgling tummy, both my siblings were kind enough to make the most of me while I still felt comfortable—before I needed to get back to my own home and toilet.
Such is life right now: my bowel movements steer my social networking.
When we got home, My Darling and I watched the end of an old classic film, Misery. After that she was so tired she headed up to bed with a big kiss and her smiling sleepy gaze.
And I’m left here, crying over nothing I can quite put my finger on—but it has something to do with the love I felt tonight.
Why do I feel like something huge has changed? Was it arranging the pension drawdown? The need to tidy up my finances? Or is it the thought of when I might finally be released from the hospital’s claws and able to spend some quality time on this small island I’m stuck on with the love of my life?
Why can I easily tell my siblings how bad the treatment plan feels, when I can’t really fathom it out myself? I feel like I’m on autopilot, talking over their questions about my health without a care. Numb. I don’t think all this cancer it’s about me at all. I wish it was about someone else. Why isn’t it someone else?
Why is it you are when it could easily have been others.
Why us?
Tonight I feel lonely.
Lonely among all those who love me.
Lonely because I seem to be slipping away, down the toilet of life—and at some stage the flush will wash me away.
I’m not at all ready for the flush.
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Earlier this afternoon, my Darling spent half an hour in the pharmacy while all the confusion over my prescriptions was ironed out, eventually leaving with the bag of drugs I need for another month.
While she was gone I read the solar panel generator meter for the quarterly check and sent off the numbers via the computer interface—another few pounds and pence for capturing the sun’s life-giving power.
By then my back was aching, so I lay down for a rest.
My Darling came home with both the drugs and tales of the struggle to get them, then let me sleep until she woke me at 4:30 for dinner (in bed) and asked if I was still up to popping out to see the carnival.
At some point today she also mentioned she’d be going to mass next weekend. I didn’t question it. It’s her way of being close to her family and to Kev, on the occasion of his month’s mass. Yes, it’s been three weeks since his burial, how time is flying.
His painted image is still on the cabinets glass shelf in the lounge, his smile beaming at us continually. Much loved, much missed.
Am I going to be missed?
Does it matter?
My chest hurts tonight. It’s a pain I’ve had for a few days. No other symptoms, so I’m not worried. But it’s sharp, fixed pain in a small area, and just a little left of centre—where, I guess, my heart is.
I think it’s the inevitable breaks that opened with Kev’s death, and keeps breaking further because of the sadness building up from my own jealousies about my age, quality of life, and the comparison with what others much older than me still get to enjoy.
I’ve gone full circle now on this bitchy blog. I should stop the bleating and get to bed. I should count my blessings and let better memories bubble up to soothe my soul. But they don’t.
I just want to be normal again, for a while. To do normal things with my Darling, and normal things with everybody else.
She doesn’t want a new car. She must be going through hell at the moment. What can I do to help? Can I really help at all?
I need to stop being so selfish and think of her more. Hold her hand. Support her through her own troubled seas.
I haven’t been a good husband these last few days. I’ve been a bore. I’ve not been attentive. I’ve been locked in my own world, with the ever circling thoughts about me—not us.
It’s time I thought of us more.
I’m not as perfect as I thought I was.
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Two sleeps until the PSA report, and the decision about chemo. Another decision about my life pretty-well out of my hands.
The waiting is always a nightmare—but as usual, there’s no rushing it.
Good night.
I’ve been sprung—my Darling just woke up, and I’ll be in trouble if I don’t go to bed right now.
PS
After all I’ve said in the misery blog I think I prefer the fact that I’ve got cancer not my Darling or my siblings.
But I really wish all of you didn’t have to go through the hell of prostate cancer.
Mr U
Over and out.
