Post 212: Spring bulbs and clever stockings.
Reviewing the patient status right now, I’d say things are medium bad, but there are glimmers of hope.
———
After two days where my emotions stayed firmly in their cubby hole, today I had a few outbursts of tears while chatting to my son’s fiancé about none other than… myself. The evening became exhausting, just when I needed strength the most.
I was, however, full of beans this morning.
The intention was to get those bulbs in the ground before setting off for an afternoon with my son and his fiancé G. So I was up as normal and headed downstairs as normal — but when I got to the conservatory’s sliding door, I saw a little paper notelet on the floor. I picked it up.
“Fed the cat, 7:30,”
I looked at the kitchen clock which showed 11:45, that’s when I remembered that its battery needed replacing, then checked my wristwatch: 9:30. My morning schedule was intact; only the clock was fibbing, but Mr Vicious was content.
I found a double-A battery of unknown origin in one of the magical kitchen drawers. Sometimes those drawers help, sometimes they hinder, but today luck was on my side. I yanked the big triangular clock off the wall, swapped the battery, corrected the time, and stuck it back up for all to see.
One up for Mr U — useful, normal, and smiling about it.
The bulbs could wait for Mrs U to arrange them in the flower bed later. But, fuel first.
After sucking the last remnants of muesli off the spoon and washing the bowl, I headed for the garden. No signs of life upstairs yet, so my Darling was having a lie-in — just what she needs. Cancer spreads its tentacles far and wide, and these last few days have been tough on everyone, especially her.
Sleep on, dear. Spring is a long way off yet, the bulbs will be still be there when you wake.
Today was day two of testing the mediums out on my legs.
Oh yes indeed — I’ve kept quiet about them until now, but they’re working very well.
Come on, spit it out, I hear you cry.
Alright…
Compression stockings.
Not to be sniffed at. (Oops — couldn’t resist.)
Earlier this year, we went to New York New York — our only holiday that actually happened — and for that we bought stockings, in a range of sizes, to help prevent DVTs on the long transatlantic flights. This was back in January, before the massive bilateral pulmonary embolisms in April. Back when PE’s were just a twinkle in my weakening heart’s aorta.
Anyway: day two with the mediums, and going well. On the two days before, I’d wrestled myself into the large ones, which were hard enough, and I didn’t expect to ever squeeze into mediums.
But I did — and now I’m running around in them like I’ve worn them for years. When I say running I mean limping quickly. Anyway, it means I’ve cracked the installation and the removal. Easy! I’m actually enjoying following doctor’s orders and reaping the rewards. My feet, ankles and legs are now slim and ready for a catwalk, let alone the back garden. Sexy, even.
Alright, Mr U — get a grip.
You’re over-egging it now.
But truly: they’re helping, and I’m going to need some spares for the wash days.
Getting back to where we were; I slipped back into my red coveralls, donned the gloves (now air-dried after yesterday’s weeding), grabbed the hand-fork and kneeler, and headed out of the conservatory into the fresh air.
After nearly half an hour, my back started complaining and — right on cue — the foreman arrived on site to end my shift. My Darling called time but before she disappeared, I got her to arrange the bulbs, on the prepared ground, so I could then bury them later.
Later… bulbs always seem to need bigger holes than expected, as if they grow in your hand and resist being planted. But they all went in. Buried. Watered. Done.
My Darling had her lunch, and when I returned to the kitchen I told her to shake a leg and get a shower if we were to reach our youngest’s by 2pm. She climbed the stairs and showered while I cleaned up and grabbed a bite — soup and a sandwich, prepared earlier by the foreman.
We arrived at our destination slightly later than planned. We hugged, de-robed, and sat comfortably in their kitchen looking, through the stunning glass wall of windows and doors, at the town over the tidal mudflats. The tide was out and the boats were resting on their temporary mud beds.
We talked happily around the table about all the house improvements since our last visit only a month ago. The kitchen has had tons done — gas hob, hot and cold water, a new Belfast sink. How things change.
Darkness fell, and we moved to the lounge. More chatting. The TV showed a big welcoming digital fire, which threw out loads of digital heat thankfully, because our walk to the curry house later would be a scarf-and-hat affair. Probably 7 degrees outside with a slight sea breeze. Brrrrr.
We swapped the digital fire for the warm glow of the Calcutta Restaurant seamlessly and chose our seats then chose our dinners.
The conversations never stopped. I sat opposite my son’s fiancé, and we had our own little side chats. I started to tell her about the email I’d sent Macmillan, asking for help with a question about a presentation I want to give to the lads and lasses at work — and in a split second I stopped talking and stared aimlessly down where my white cloth napkin was being speckled with salty droplets of sorrow from my despairing, hopeful, caring eyes and everything and everyone in my world stopped.
Without a sound, my Darling put her hand on me, slowly rubbing my shoulder. I let the droplets fall — stuck as I was in this public room, like a crazy sad water feature.
I composed myself while my Darling explained what I had been trying to say.
That wasn’t the only time the sprinklers came on, and the final occurrence signalled the end of our time in the curry house. We had a lovely dinner and my foreman called time yet again.
We wandered home in thoughtful pairs — my son and I bringing up the rear. He wasn’t very chatty, and I was trying to be brave and Dad-like as we stepped up and over the pedestrian bridge above the hidden mudflats, somewhere in the night shadows below and now in the salty sea.
———
The tights — no! the stockings — are the best things ever. My oedema is minimal, and my foreman is as happy as Larry. It surprises me how effective compression stockings are at easing such a worrying, mentally exhausting ailment.
They’re a bit of a bugger to get on, yes, but I’ve mastered the art. I should make a YouTube video of my morning and evening technique. It would be an overnight sensation. Ha ha!
I’m slowly accepting that my clicking “fractured rib” really is mets, and radiotherapy is the only way to blitz it. But I hate the thought of my left lung being scarred for life after the nuclear beam zaps through it. I’m not happy at all.
As for the nigh-on useless Ra-223 or the 50% chemo option — well, the jury’s out. The judge wants more proof that either of them will do me any good.
Good night, all.
