Post 176: Kind friends and a quote to consider after a big deep breath.
We asked for what we wanted and got prices for all the stuff,
But all that confidence left us quickly, with a number too high enough.
———
Today I’ve got some visitors, and I’m looking forward to a chat, so I’d better get a shift on this morning.
But, as I lay in bed with the dull side-light on my pill-covered bedside table, glowing faintly in search of the corners of my recovery room, I pick up my mobile as usual for the blogging hours.
I really don’t know what to put down on the empty page sometimes—mostly—but today I’m sidetracked by a need for a reply to our benefactor who has asked willingly to help us.
My mind is set, but my heart is cold.
I’m cold not because I don’t think it’s the kindest thing we could ever be offered, I’m cold just asking for help. My Darling and I started with about £350 as a couple and, from that first glance across that Christmas dinner table in ’86, we’ve shared everything and grown together as best we could. Money issues were always second in our lives, but we made our decisions along the way to survive, and we did.
This period of time is so difficult and different in so many ways; it’s given us new and challenging circumstances to experience and solve. The weird thing is—there’s no real rush.
Slow-motion health issues cloud my mind as I start to explain in that letter how grateful we are, and why it is we’re proposing to accept this generous gesture. I pick up a thread of wordy decency as I carefully offset my thoughts of being the reason for it all, and push the focus toward my Darling’s future. That’s what it’s all about. Not me. But her.
It’s all going well when I get hit by another spontaneous emotional breakdown of some force. I’ve just tangled myself into the more personal side of the letter and been caught out. This isn’t just about her—it’s all caused by me. If this, if that, if the other. I’m now cut deeply inside, but I can’t help it.
This illness is unbelievable sometimes. I wish I could switch it off for a few days. I wish I could go through a day without crying behind my glasses, peering out from behind them with the usual stings and salty tears. It’s all part of the process. It’s just the way it is. I don’t like it.
I eventually complete the letter, send it, and turn on the brand-new TV at the foot of my bed. A Christmas movie helps change my mood and dry my eyes.
Later, I return to the blog, but I’m exhausted by the control I forced on myself to even ask for help. But it’s done. I’ll show my Darling the text when she arrives in for my morning hug.
God, I need a hug right now.
———
My Darling shouts up from the kitchen, “They’ve arrived! You’d better get down here.”
Ah—elevenses with a couple of friends.
Yesterday’s text from D and G was a lovely idea for a chatter, and because the nail bar was calling my Darling in for a corrective and glamorous new colour scheme, her fears about leaving me home alone were now gone with the unsuspecting Mr U-sitters who had just walked through the door. A serendipitous and happy coincidence.
She left excitedly when her escort arrived, and with cups of tea in hand and biscuits and chocolate rolls plated up between us, us lads entertained ourselves with all sorts of enjoyable themes and stories to while away the time.
I was able to pick their able brains about that seaside mini-break we wanted to challenge ourselves with, and I duly gathered all I could about the coastal hotels near where they live.
The time absolutely flew, but I did give my wonderful guests a quick tour of the garages and sheds where all my prized wheeled objects live. My Darling knows them as degenerating metal vehicles, but to me they are all part of me—and hard to contemplate ever getting rid of, though they all should (at some time in the future).
After they went on their way, I stood waving, feeling energised and so normal for a change.
We had sat for a very long time chin-waggling in the kitchen on fairly stiff chairs, and I was standing there without any pain or cares.
Little steps.
Large growth.
I am getting better; I am more normal.
My Darling’s nails looked great when she arrived home after all the pampering she’d had. It’s so nice she gets out more with her pal S and takes time for herself. Without that, there’s only the mundane.
She had eaten out, but I was able to get another big jacket spud onto my dinner menu tonight, to my absolute joy.
While that sat and simmered in the oven we had the call back from the plumber. He had the quote, and I wrote down the plan in my handy medical pad that’s always beside me (you know, the one we all use for all the calls we get about appointments and adjustments and stuff we’ll never remember unless we write it down immediately). The list was long and rattled off in machine-gun fashion.
The call ended with me overriding my Darling’s last few words, checking the two figures he had quoted.
I looked at she, she looked at me.
“Do we need a second opinion?” I ventured.
“Yes we do!” she said. “£10k seems like a hell of a lot.”
Little Bro rang from a field somewhere in England where he was working—or rather, taking a break to call me. We caught up with all the usual family stuff, and after I mentioned the crazy price of a bathroom makeover, he said he’d ask a pal who might be able to give us the clarity of another quote.
Great—we need a bit of clarity.
As I put the phone down to rest my weary head and concentrate on resting in the lounge chair with nothing but a K-drama and my Darling’s hand to hold, I heard a voice I didn’t expect.
I’d pocket-called our good mate S accidentally. Oops.
I quickly picked up my phone and realised she was not herself.
“S, what’s up? You don’t sound ok,” I said.
A very anguished voice squeaked out, “I’m not ok. I’ve been in pain for two days. It’s probably my gallstones, but I can’t get in to see my GP till the end of the month.”
At that point I realised how serious it was—and how damn lucky it was that I’d mistakenly called.
I went into pushy-but-caring-friend mode.
“Right, S. Ring 111 now.”
She butted in and said she’d tried and failed because of all the buttons you have to press to get anywhere, but I stopped her in her tracks and gave her a blow-by-blow account of what she was going to do when I ended the call.
“Ring 111, do the buttons thing and wait for triage. You’ll be rung back. Be patient. The ring-back will be a doc—repeat everything to them and don’t forget to be totally honest about your pain. You’ll have to be patient, but it’s either that or A&E.”
“I don’t want that,” she said. “Hours in A&E.”
“You don’t,” I said. “Do as I’ve just told you and you’ll be able to stay at home till there’s a plan for you—paramedics or a slot in A&E readied for your emergency care. Easy.”
I dropped the call on her after asking her to please do the 111 now and keep me informed when she could.
OMG. That was meant to happen, wasn’t it? How weird.
———
The seaside break is still not sorted yet. We’re hoping to sort something out and go for a couple of days away locally.
It’s not our thing to arrange holidays because we’ve never done any holiday planning. The apps and websites with all the info about getaways and short stays confuse and hamper free thinking about the choices we can make—but it all gets too much and overloads my weary brain too quickly.
We’ll try again tomorrow to sort stuff out. Rome wasn’t built in a day—nor our bathroom, or seaside break.
We’re off soon to see the friends we ought to have been with on that special wedding holiday to Florence in May, which chemo killed. They’re such good old mates, and we’re longing to see them. We missed his 60th birthday too, so we’d better take a pressy—but it’s the hugs and chat we want to give them that’s much more important.
I didn’t hear back from the patient patient S, apart from the fact that the paramedics were on their way and she needed to swallow some aspirin. Good luck, S.
I feel so normal sometimes, I’m starting to get used to it being here to stay.
May you have a normal day too.
