Post 221: Laxido and the Lesser-Sipped-Morphine.
By midday I’d given up hovering over the phone waiting for a call from radiotherapy. I needed to get on with other things — I can’t spend the whole day imprisoned by an 8:30–5:30 “we might call you” window.
Do you see how much better I am?
I’m off the oral morphine, and have been since 00:30 this morning. How’s that for improvement? The only problem is that due to the months passing by all too quickly, I’ve now got to reorganise where I get my sick pay.
It could have been simple, but because it’s me, it’s going to be awkward if not impossible.
I found myself humming that tune again. Still one of my favourites, and the reason I bought the album So. Five singles off it — and the videos helped a young, barely-known MTV become something bigger.
———
I had the window cracked open today and the little oil heater switched off to let some fresh air through the room. It’s not stinky, but it definitely benefits from a bit of an airing.
Speaking of “benefits” — as I said, I now need to sort out what to do since I’ll get no pay from my employer from now on due to me being off 28 weeks. Yes, it’s a crazy situation, but here we are.
First step: ring the DWP (the department of work and pensions) and ask to start the process for ESA funding (Employment and Support Allowance).
I’d already written a whole list of personal details to help me breeze through the caper but it wasn’t enough.
Unused as I am to grovelling to government institutions, I was surprisingly quiet… and emotional.
The questions kept coming. At one point I needed extra info and the kind lady let me rummage through my phone and papers. Twice I grabbed the tissue on my bed due to a sudden collapse of emotional distress — not over anything objectively awful, but awful enough to me.
By the time we reached the final question, I breathed the deepest breath of freedom. Freedom from the relentless pressure to answer, agree, promise, pledge, and essentially sign my soul away to the DWP and the Devil.
A text was promised — and arrived — with the link to send my sick note details and the QR code for yet more proof.
For goodness’ sake. I asked for help and nearly got strangled with red tape.
———
The girls were having their nails painted this afternoon, so before heading out my Darling gave me a hug and kiss — and in doing so accidentally scattered a few papers around.
Nothing important. Just me, grumpy and fragile.
It was around then I was humming Rain Rain and Don’t Give Up by Peter Gabriel. They summed up the mood. They also dragged me straight back to the general malaise of my home village, and to that other iconic track of the era: Ghost Town (The Specials AKA). Was there a better song to sum up those tired, colourless times? Thatcher’s time. A time history prefers not to remember.
Being penniless wasn’t unusual back then — it even spawned a fashion and cultural offshoot called “punk,” which we all either loved or hated.
And despite my poor grades at school, living and breathing those days of music, telly, and slightly terrified presenters trying not to detonate something live on air… well, it was magic.
But I digress.
I was humming somber singles while feeling utterly crushed — crushed and wrung out by the company I work for and my country. I still don’t understand why I’m forced to jump through a hundred hoops just to see if I’m eligible for a naff payment to support myself and my poor wife.
I get the logic — if everyone got it the universe’s banking systems would collapse. But I’ve worked over 40 years without claiming a bean except child benefit for our two lads.
So please — just let me have some of my tax or NI back. I’m not exactly going to cost you a bloody penny when it comes to my pension now is it?
Grrrrrrrrrrrr!
———
Moving on.
I’d already cancelled the tooth-polisher appointment I should’ve had today — all because of this radiology call (if it ever arrives).
I had a bit of rest-bite while I chatted with little Bro whose gutter had come down over the conservatory roof. Oops. That won’t be easy. But big Sis might have a scaffold tower spare, he said. I told him she and Bro-in-law had just come back from Wales, so they might be able to help.
We chatted about his youngest, my niece, whose rugby is now taking up more time than the dance classes she used to love — but she’s happy, so that’s what counts. We parted on a cheerful note while I sat on the bed in the sunshine.
Gone were the grey, cold days of Gabriel and Thatcher.
Laxido is my go-to drink again, as the morphine cork is back to drive me mad. It doesn’t seem fair, but there we are. I’ll let you know how it goes, though radiotherapy comes first.
And finally — just after three — the phone rang. No Caller ID.
My call from the radiotherapy suite at last.
A few questions which I could answer off the top of my head, despite the brain fog, and the appointment was set up without fuss.
The bloody cat spent all afternoon with me because the window was open just enough for the furry marauder to slip in and park himself in the sunny patch on the bed, flicking a thousand hairs across the duvet and carpet.
Bloody cat. Mr V, please bugger off.
I should say my Darling’s nails were beautiful — as were her great friend Ms S’s, in red and sparkly colours. Nothing so bold for my Darling, of course, because of A&E codes of practice. Something neutral is better, or else it’ll have to come off.
Since I didn’t get those flowers I’d planned a while back, I magically dropped a one-er into my Darlings account and texted her:
“Money in your account for yours and Ms S’s nails — call it an early Christmas pressy.”
It’s never too early, is it?
I got a massive hug and kiss from her when my Darling got back from the town. I got one of my favourite dinners too as a thank you. Lovely jubley.
Good night.
