Post 213: Home, work and uncertainty.
Although the green wheelie bin is jammed full of hawthorn and bramble with a sprinkling of wild garlic — which sounds more like a gastronomic delight from Clarkson’s new venture than a heap of garden waste — I decided there was still a mass of clearing up to do in the back garden borders. I doubt it’ll ever end, starting with the oversized pampas grass. So even though I have nowhere to put the detritus from its reshaping, a haircut more akin to a skinhead I’m hoping, the rubbish would have been happy enough sitting on the patio until the aforementioned bin is emptied tomorrow.
I wanted to get all this done before the foreman awoke and stopped me from giving the pampas the haircut I had in mind — which she’d sooner I leave well alone. Forever.
The cut was done in minutes thanks to my trusty Japanese saw blade, and the mess it left behind was remarkable. In under five minutes, the patio looked like stabling for a rhino. I couldn’t believe the chaos I’d created, and the grass leaf spears couldn’t just stay there looking like I’ve just murdered it — certainly not if my Darling looked out the window and saw it. I’d be out of a job.
So I crunched across to one end, turned my back on the mess, and — using the heels of my yellow worn-out Caterpillar boots — performed a kind of reverse walking sweep, kicking backwards as I went. Odd method, but very effective. Soon I had a nice tidy pile of garden waste, not a patio drowning in shredded pampas. Game over. I think I’ll get away with it… maybe.
I really hope so.
All this busying about in the borders feels like “nesting”, if you know what I mean.
Later there was a squeak at the conservatory door and there she was. After a nervous hug and kiss there was a wee chat with the foreman, myself and the pile of grass, but before she could say anything too scathing, I jumped in with, “I think Old Pampas likes his new haircut,” to which my Darling replied, “Yes, it does,” and with that success, I moved swiftly on…
“Shall I make a cuppa? I’m bushed!”
My back needed a rest and my stockinged feet needed elevating, so I cleaned up and headed in to settle in front of the TV with my Darling and a well-earned cuppa.
We started to have a little word about the choices ahead of us, but very quickly she jumped up and headed into the kitchen with, “I’ll start making the lemon rice pudding for tonight”. “I won’t be long”. “The TV’s yours,” and just vanished.
Lemon rice pudding. Hmmmm. Sounds good.
Being Monday, there’d be no response from oncology about my MRI questions — more’s the pity — so I distracted myself with other less important bits on my phone, half-watching the TV series I should have been concentrating on. The smells from the kitchen were tempting, but as it’s a slow-cooker recipe, the final result would be a long time coming.
Time ticked on, and soon it was nearly time for my Work Health Review. I showered and changed into some long-forgotten workwear — which still fitted. bonus, and said my bye’s.
I felt good heading into work, and the idea of getting everything off my chest felt positive. After an hour’s explanation with only one brief emotional collapse, the meeting went well. Then the lads swapped places with management and we had a less formal catch-up and laugh. A real lift. A welcome break from my reality and a dip into theirs. Our worlds are so different right now, but I long for work days to return.
We said our goodbyes and I headed home thinking of a certain homemade pud.
There was an email from the hospice — the counsellor replying to my request for help.
No regular slots available as she’s so busy, but she could offer me a one-off on Thursday to talk through everything new. I jumped at it and accepted straight away.
When I got home, dinner was already on the table. Later I discovered that using “Find My Phone” helped my Darling time the cooking perfectly, when she had seen that I’d left work. Clever.
The new five-spice burgers were accompanied by lovely beans and homemade wedges. Jubley.
I should tell you about me occasionally, but I’m finding it hard not to keep going over the same ground and boring everyone, including myself.
I still don’t really understand what Radium Ra-223 is about, even after reading loads. Does it actually do anything? Is it snake oil designed to make me feel better because it won’t hurt “liddle ole me”? Will it help me?
And the underpowered chemo — will that do anything either? At 50%, does that mean 12 or 20 sessions? Doubt it. More likely it’s 50% to start with, ramping up if I tolerate it. Surely it’s better to start at 100% and lower it to a level I can manage?
Oh, I don’t know.
There’s radiotherapy first, on my ribs (and lung). I still can’t get my head around the idea that I’ll be left with scarring on my lung. Forever. Wow.
All of this is supposedly for my wellbeing.
What a mess I’m in.
My eyes were shutting down early, as usual. I went to bed with the usual burning rib pain.
But with morphine and paracetamol taken I fell asleep quickly — only to wake at 2am in pain.
It’s not fair.
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In case you were wondering… the lemon rice pudding was horrible.
No it wasn’t. I’m joking. It was out of this world, especially with that dollop of tangy lemon curd melting through it. Oh my. Wonderful. A great end to the day.
Good night.
