Post 166: Crying into the forum’s arms.
I’m not the only one, but I don’t see that until I get online and look for where I can help.
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Today my youngest and his fiancée came for a working visit. My orders were clear: I was to stay in my lounge (prison) chair. I could demonstrate how I’ve mastered it, but outside, where all the work was being done, I was only to offer verbal guidance.
The willow had grown wild this year and needed a serious pruning. So, while I pointed out shed keys and tools tucked away for the job, I wasn’t allowed to be my old busybody self. Back to the chair I went, for safety’s sake.
That “watching remit” isn’t really my way, but I followed the advice, grudgingly. Bless my son’s fiancée G, though—she is a considerate and passionately inquisitive soul of the very kindest order. So we had a brilliant, dry-eyed catch-up.
Meanwhile, in the kitchen, a bonus breakfast-brunch was sizzling away. As the happy feeder (my Darling, of course) popped in and outside with advice for the gardener, my audience grew and vanished, until the table was finally loaded and ready to rock up in the kitchen.
We gathered like hungry pups, eyes greedy with the feast my Darling had conjured. We ate and laughed and listened to tales of their home renovations—almost finished now, just the windows to go. It sounds fantastic, and we grew excited to see it in the flesh.
We should have been visiting them today, and my youngest and I should have been at a creative writing session we’d booked. Another cancelled plan for 2025. Only New York had survived before the year turned sour. And now Kev’s gone, G his widow is grieving, and my muse is gone — I feel lost.
Better days ahead, I tell myself.
Our lovely guests had a wedding to get to, so left earlier than I’d have liked. I didn’t get to say goodbye properly—just waved from my “prison chair”—because I’d picked up a call from a workspace friend. He had good news: new horizons ahead.
He isn’t my equal—he’s head finance director of the whole worldwide group, a million pay grades above me—but from day one we’d hit it off. Our secret friendship always kept work out of it. Instead, we talk about family, history, invention, exploration—big ideas that spark and fly. We waffle for an hour, and it feels like a minute.
So forgive me, kids, for not saying goodbye properly. That call had to be taken. I hope it’s not the last.
Afterward, my Darling joined me close to the “prison chair”, the physical awkwardness abounds, but we chatted happily about our youngest’s pruning triumph and the feast that had loosened our belts. Hand in hand, we let distraction TV do its thing.
Later, fruit and chatter filled the afternoon. We hadn’t caught up with Irish Sis J for over a week—unheard of—so we braced ourselves. My Darling asked first: “How are you?” J’s muted reply—“getting better”—was a mask. In truth, she was struggling under the mountain of grief from losing her brother. Returning to work had only added to it: every kind customer asking after her loss made it harder.
When she finally broke, we broke too. Tears, silences, deep breaths—it had to be done, our week of troubles hurt her more but it was a big relief to open up and let it pass.
After that, more distraction TV until the stair-lift carried me to bed.
It’s good we’re in separate rooms. My Darling can breathe in the cool night air with her windows wide, while I roast in my recovery suite, my fingers always white and cold.
Tomorrow is another day. But first, I’ll check on my forum buddies.
Not my blogger friends—they checked in earlier—but those looking for advice on muscle wastage. Reading a post about shoulder loss cut me to the core; I’ve felt it this week too. My reply ended up more about me than them. Still, it helped me let out the scream I’ve been carrying all week.
I’m losing my body to cancer. Frailty is a massive worry, sitting on top of pain, grief, and my shrinking sense of what’s possible after each climb back up the hill.
Other members chimed in with better answers, more support, more encouragement. Bless this forum for being there, for holding my hand each day. Sometimes I give, but mostly I take.
Tonight, my tears aren’t of sadness, but of gratefulness.
Sleep well, friends.
