Post 353: Asking for help in the garden, and getting caught in the headlights.
Spring cleaning has to be one of the strangest — and most satisfying — urges of the year.
It just arrives.
Out of nowhere, there’s this pull to sort things out, clear space, make sense of the mess. And when it comes, it feels so natural you wonder why it wasn’t done long ago.
The room I sleep in is a case in point.
Still crowded with remnants from when it was our youngest’s room — back when he and his fiancée returned from their three years on that tiny island in the far reaches of the Seychelles, tending to giant tortoises — it’s never really been reset. Life changed its purpose overnight with my life changes, and somehow the room never caught up.
And that’s the thing, isn’t it.
For those of us living under what I call the PCU — the Prostate Cancer Umbrella — life is in a constant state of shift and shuffle. Priorities change. Energy dips. Some things get left.
Not forgotten… just left.
But not forever.
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The bookcase, the one I stare at every day as I perform my now well-practised manoeuvre — that careful roll, that 90-degree swing to sitting, slippers waiting — that bookcase has been quietly accusing me for weeks.
Today was the day.
But first… food.
For me. For the cat. For my Darling, eventually.
I pull the conservatory door open and in charges the hairy beast — a blur of fur, noise, and enthusiasm — performing his usual acrobatics before tangling himself around my legs as we both aim for the same destination: his empty blue bowl.
I lose, of course.
I always do.
Food is delivered (with appropriate precision, dead centre of that blue bowl), immediately scattered, and consumed like he’s never eaten before. Chaos settles slowly.
Order’s restored eventually.
Now I’m allowed to eat.
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Granola for me (uninspiring) soon consumed, I make the decision.
Shelves or weeds.
The grey shale is calling.
But first — upstairs.
Two empty shopping bags in hand, I begin the clear-out. Quietly. Methodically. Sorting the dross from the useful, the forgotten from the keepers. Before long, the bed is covered in piles, and the two bags are filled with rubbish and recycling.
That’ll do.
Not everything needs to be done in one go.
Progress is progress.
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Later, my Darling appears, already tackling the clothes washing.
Perfect timing.
I ask — gently, sweetly — if she’d help me in the garden. Just a bit. Just the spraying. I can’t manage the weight for too long.
She agrees, in fact she insists I don’t do it.
And so, for the first time, I pass on a job I would normally do myself.
We spend an hour applying “Roundup” to the weeds. She gets into it. I can tell.
And I feel… proud.
Proud of her. Proud of us.
A small shift, but a meaningful one.
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Lunch follows. A proper sit-down. Earned.
Then, just before she heads off for her nail appointment with her mate, she says something that stops me cold.
“I think I’m depressed.”
And just like that… she’s gone.
Off out the door, leaving me standing there, caught in the headlights.
I didn’t know what to say.
Part of me felt relief — that she’d said it out loud. Another part felt the weight of it immediately.
I stood there, unsure.
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With time to myself, I do what I can.
Small jobs. Manageable things. The cordless vacuum gets a run — hall — landing, bedrooms. The familiar battle with cat hair, which today I win (judging by the full container).
Bathroom sorted. Plughole cleared — not glamorous, but necessary.
Then outside again, with a long handled picker and a bucket.
My rule: one bucket, then stop.
I fill it with winter debris — bits of pyracantha, hawthorn — and eventually call it.
Enough.
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My Darling returns, lighter in mood.
I don’t ask questions.
Some things can wait.
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We settle in early.
Tired, but in a good way.
I’ll keep an eye on her. She carries a lot, and though she does it well, I can see the edges fraying at times.
We’re talking about another short break — somewhere simple.
And I’m still thinking about work. Maybe a few hours a week. Something to reconnect with that part of me.
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For now, that’s enough.
A day of small wins, quiet moments, and one sentence that changed the tone of everything.
We’ll take it one step at a time.
Good health, and good luck.
