Post 187: Bed rest and a street parade.
Like it or lump it I needed the rest
So I’ll laze for a day and acquiesce
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The summary for this last week is, in short, a pretty damn good week.
I’ve walked over twelve miles.
My smile has been found and used every day.
I’ve helped create two brace of festive cakes, which are now maturing in the darkness of their storage tins.
I’m free from the clutches of the chemo.
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I woke up really tired and, because I couldn’t be bothered, I stayed put and started the day with two remote controls and a need to find a good drama.
My Darling pushed the door over and came in. Her tired smile suggested she might do likewise and have a lazy day, but when she started listing the things she needed to get done I realised she’d be a busy bee.
“The washing won’t do itself,” and, “you need to stay in bed to rest.” Both comments were fair enough, but I felt wholly inadequate and so far from the helpful and willing Mr U that I used to be.
A bedside cuddle was all that was possible before she was off out my recovery room and downstairs.
“Yes please,” was all I could call after her in view of her suggestion of breakfast in bed.
A few minutes later the CNC cornflakes were under my nose, and I was crunching the bejesus out of them.
My rib pain is all I have to bother me, and it’s now hurting me badly.
An area around my left nipple has been the issue, and from time to time — it’s a really sharp pain — like a nail has been hammered in my chest — and sometimes it’s a heartburn-type pain, or even an ache.
But the pains have got worse in the last few days, and this is getting me down.
As I’ve said before, there’s not much that can be done for a rib anyway, but I need to tell the cancer team what’s occurring in case there’s a bigger problem they can do something about.
So, between aches and sharp pains, I slumber in my pit, wallowing in the medical bed’s comfy folds — wondering what to do about the ribs and how to avoid the “click” and the pain.
By the end of the day, and the darkening of the room, I had done nothing but lie there and eat three meals while occasionally moaning about the rib pain and dozing all the while.
Whereas my Darling was defending my rest day with obvious care, she was having to run around making food for me and sorting out the weekly shop, while feeding the washing machine and its twin, the dryer, with a pile of clothes that “won’t wash themselves”!
I felt bad about not helping, but, “for my own safety, it’s better I rest”.
The morphine taken orally is a must before I descend the stairs and join my Darling and two friends who’ve swung by for us and will be with us for the evening.
Returning downstairs, I take the big empty bowl that had had the chilli-non-carne dinner in it. It’s only then I can really thank my Darling for the delicious food — perfect for warming myself up on a carnival night like tonight’s.
The town will be lit up with golden torches in the hands of hundreds of costumed lads and lasses in their localised groups, all loosely celebrating the Gunpowder Plot and all that it meant.
Everyone was waiting for me, but they are so patient and friendly I really don’t feel like I’m holding them up. Perhaps I’m getting used to being the “one that needs care” now. It’s all I can do, so I suppose I’d better get used to it.
Stepping outside and heading off to town in the dark meant we could chat all the way, but my Darling was quiet and thoughtful rather than excited and happy. Her sciatica was at her again, and by the time we were in the closed-off High Street where the parade would pass by, she was in need of some painkillers herself. But we had none. She’ll have to suffer in silence. But I hold her hand and try to make her feel more comfortable and loved. Not much but it’s all I can do for now.
I’ve never seen so many people in town. The warm evening and the promise of the huge parade was enough to get what seemed the whole town out.
We bump into very old friends we haven’t seen for years and have a good old catch-up. While we chatter, the drums and the distant orange flames foretell the street’s new use, and within minutes there is smoke and noise everywhere. The costumes vary from cowboys and gals to skeletons, pirates to Indians, with some Tudor and Elizabethans tagging along — all co-conspirators in this mesmerising and colourful collection of fundraising locals.
They’ll all have a beer and some chips later and raise glasses to the plotters of old, but first they’ll stop and show their respect at the WW1 and WW2 memorial where prayers and wreaths are laid in kindness, appreciation, and solidarity.
Soon the parade is sweeping away again and heading for the park, where the fireworks will eventually be set off in one massive display only possible once a year. Tonight.
It’s always amazing, the fireworks, but after a quick straw-poll my Darling and our guests decide to head home for relative comfort. It’s not so much that the whole town can’t crush into the firework park, but more that we all need a seat and some pills to ease our pains.
Oh dear, what has life become? Going home early and missing the display — this is a new low.
We battle along against the flow of people, the darkness, and the piles of fallen acorns as we head home.
Our goodbyes are fond hugs and kisses as we go our separate ways. There’s no night cap tonight.
By the time we get in, Strictly is over, but I ask my Darling if she wants to watch it on the recorder — which she jumps at and happily smiles through the many dancers and many dances.
Although this was a nothing day, it should have been a dazzler.
The town’s big day has passed us by.
Our day was quiet but restful, and I should be thankful for that.
Just ‘afore ye go, I have to say that my rib is now the most worrying development.
I’m not at all convinced that it will just go away on its own. It can’t fix itself.
I’m going to have to advocate for this myself — though there’s nothing much that can be done — however it’s currently wreaking occasional havoc and startling pain on me, and I’m getting so fed up with it.
Monday I’ll email my lucky Nurse T and see if she can pass on the worries and seek some investigation into this broken bone.
The last MRI has already been looked at when I mentioned it before.
Now they need to look more carefully.
All I need is some super-glue to fix it and it’s done. Happy days.
While I’m about it, I’ll ask Dr S (my oncologist) if I can now go on short-haul flights?
Ooooo, yesssssss.
That would be interesting.
I wonder…
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That’s it folks.
