Post 210: Tears; for fears.
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There are no words to ease confusion,
of the uncertainty of a future conclusion.
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Only dry white tissues help me with the streams that are abundant today. I haven’t a clue what I’m going through.
I hide them from my Darling as she heads for the front door and her weekly escape.
There is only quiet after my Darling heads off to the café for chats and catchups.
I’m left with quiet silence and a loud TV banging out adverts for series and programmes I won’t ever see — nor am I interested in. But it’s better than the silence that hurts my ears and makes me feel sad.
What is wrong with me? Why can’t I fathom the simple questions in front of me regarding my health?
I’m not sure “health” is the right word if you’re afflicted with cancer, but it’s the health workers I will have to tell soon what my answers are. Which direction I choose to go in.
Hobson’s choice, perhaps — but then again there’s two options, and then again there’s one more, making three. The third one only for the brave — or is choosing not to choose, the choice I’d be better off taking? I will never know.
Do I want more poison inside me? Do I think that would be fun?
All I want is the timelines of each valued but poisonous path. Someone tell me the expected durations of each path; give me a bit of a lead, a likely scenario that both my Darling and I can see, feel and understand.
I’m in the darkness looking for an exit plan.
This gloom is hard to break out from. My normal routines aren’t kicking in yet.
Ring ring.
My mobile calls me to answer, it’s a doctor — I didn’t catch his name.
He asks about my blood test earlier this week, when I went into the surgery about my fat legs (maybe that’s where all the tears are stored).
He asks if I knew what the bloods told us.
I replied with a confused no, and burst into tears and as much as the doc tried, I couldn’t carry a conversation without bawling, so he gave up and told me he’d contact Urology, Cardiology and my GP too, with the results.
I’ll believe that when I see it! I’ve heard it all before — yesterday, in fact (Dr Sally said the same thing about writing to the Dr, the baker and the candlestick maker, you know how these promises go) — and what happens? A few weeks later they say oops, sorry, I didn’t get chance to write that letter. Grrrrrrr.
Left on my own I am hopeless — but saying that, my Darling is not the easiest of partners right now because she’s as lost as me and gone inside herself and extremely quiet.
My Darling has many qualities I love and respect, but if she doesn’t want to talk about something you’d better stop asking about it or else! I know from bitter experience there is no way you can coax her out of her shell if she doesn’t want to.
So when I ask her about the meeting and how she feels about it, all I get is “there’s a lot to think about” and nothing much else.
I’ll have to bide my time until she’s familiar with the circumstances when she might open up about it. Until then I’ll just have to be patient.
But I feel like time is slipping away.
And I think that’s the big issue.
How can we best use the time we have left? We still don’t know, it could be years — but I feel that we now have much less time.
It’s the winter. Why is the bad timing persisting? Why is it winter? We can’t exactly stroll every evening under the stars whispering sweet nothings in each other’s ears, can we? I’m in bed by 8pm and she’s tired after all the fetching and carrying she has to do for me.
I have to think out of the box.
Perhaps visit a Christmas Market as a part-day out — but that’s not possible because there’s plenty of housework to do, etc etc. But it would be a first.
That reminds me. I felt like I needed a distraction from crying while my Darling was (hopefully) enjoying a midday break away from me. I did a little housework. Not too much, but a little. One load of washing and drying, a bit of tidying up and a couple of things I’ve forgotten but must have done, to help obviously, if you know what I mean.
During that time my eyes healed up and I felt happy that I was doing something, for a change.
I promise I do do things around the house but it’s so minor even I don’t notice.
While I was doing very little I had a couple of ideas that would be helpful —but replacing old towels with new ones doesn’t seem like the best idea now I think about it.
But it does need to happen. We definitely need to get shot of worn-out towels — especially the ones that have shrunk across the stitching at each end, the ones that are really hard to fold or roll up because of their weird shape. Actually they’re not easy to wrap around my belly either, for the same reason. Either that or I need a new belly.
We both like music and live shows — perhaps I should book a few short stays away that include a show. We would love that. I’ll get onto that.
I just hope my body puts up with it.
Oh dear! Here we go again. As soon as I think of something to do, I think of a reason why it’ll be a flop. Medicines, pain, jostling in busy places like show venues or public transport concourses and escalators or busy vehicle corridors. There’s no end to my vivid imagination when it comes to health and safety, god damn it!
It’s just I was “born that way” (Lady Ga Ga).
One great big circle closes in again. I’ve convinced myself to book something, then convinced myself why I can’t book it. I’m going mad. It’s hopeless.
Then my Darling arrives back with the front door swinging open and there’s nearly a dead heat between the two competitors — but with the heavy bags of shopping in her hands holding her back, Mr Vicious wins by a whisker.
There’s a squeal of delight from the cat and a stumble and a couple of swear words from the lady of the house, as the quiet house becomes a living, breathing home once more.
“Nasi Goreng for dinner!” she shouts as she waddles down the hallway toward the kitchen with the bags of shopping while the cat weaves around her feet in the way only cats can.
I reply “that’s lovely” and retire to the comfort and safety of the TV chair and go back to wondering about days-out and dreaming of where we could go if it wasn’t for…
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I’ve emailed the Hospice in the hope they can allow me another 6 sessions of treatment for my head. I have a real need for counselling now, since the Powwow, since I can’t stop wailing like a banshee.
I should donate some more money.
I hope they have a space for me to attempt straighten my head, and all that’s in it.
Anyway, I do know there’s fewer tears right now — something must be better.
Good night, sleep tight, see you in the morning.
