Post 361: An email and phone call that makes me happy.
My eyelids gave the game away this morning. I was all ready to get up—but they were not.
They were in cahoots with my legs and arms, and the overall feeling my body had decided on was one of dramatic tiredness.
Is it a lack of iron or the cancer spoiling the party? I don’t know—but I’m not having it!
It can go and take one… after, that is, I’ve taken a few more hours’ nap in bed.
I was sound asleep again at 10am, and the next pill alarm at midday meant I could have another two hours napping.
Which I certainly did.
I wasn’t bright and shining inside, but I performed like I was on the outside. I walked down the stairs again and passed the chairlift with the confidence of someone who doesn’t use it—ever. Ha ha.
This is me trusting my body more than I’ve been conditioned to up to now.
I’m not wearing myself out—I’m getting fitter.
I’m not putting myself in danger—I’m raising my confidence.
The upbeat mindset is fine to a point, but I mustn’t hurt myself. So I won’t.
Stepping off a chair and falling on my back, or rolling over pulling weeds out on the patio, are things of the distant past. I’ve learned my lesson. I’ve passed the sensible Mr U exam with flying colours.
I was especially pleased to pick up a call on my mobile from Millbrook with a date for the mattress to be exchanged. It’ll be Monday this coming week—fantastic.
This could mean the search for a private bed, at my own cost, won’t be necessary. I do hope so.
I’ll be testing the “new” one when it arrives to make sure it’s not another worn-out second-hand one—but surely they wouldn’t do that…
While I was in the kitchen dealing with the call, my darling was patiently waiting for me in the lounge so she could start the programme she’d queued up on the TV. In the end, she pulled me out of the kitchen with the announcement that MAFSAU was ready—so get in here.
As it happened, the boiling point reached the day before erupted into a proper explosion of stupidity. Normal rules for public communication were abandoned for bully-girl behaviour unlike anything I’ve seen. It took a great deal of help from the other married couples to cool things down.
While I watched my absolute guilty pleasure, an email pinged into my inbox.
It was from the Father I had written to, on behalf of my family, about arranging the burial of my mum’s ashes in her mother’s grave—very close to Mum’s birthplace, and where she wanted to be in the end.
The message was kind and helpful, and has set the clergy staff off to find the grave. I replied with an attached photo of the headstone in better days, taken twenty years ago. With a house in the background, I’m sure there’ll be no problem locating it and moving this request forward.
I’m not going to live forever, and that has, understandably, hurried this plan along. I hope we can get this sorted, as Mum’s ashes are in my bedroom (the spare room), so it’s a constant reminder to fulfil her wishes.
Cross your fingers.
MAFSAU finished, and it’s likely the arguments will spill into another day—so I’ll be glued to the TV again tomorrow with my darling. I don’t know who’s more invested now… it might be me. Who’d have thought?
Lunch and dinner came and went without issue, and I finally managed to move my lazy butt into the kitchen to clean the dishes. About time too.
While dinner was being made, I found time to ring the insurance company holding my residual pension pot. It’s only earning 1.48%, which is poor by anyone’s standards, so I felt this call could only go one way: withdrawing the whole pot and finding a better place for the money.
As it turned out, there was a strange delay on the line, like a satellite delay (from Norfolk) and it became so hard to communicate that we dropped the call—to reconnect immediately, with us now, being able to talk over each other (only joking).
The expert I spoke to could explain the rules and processes, but couldn’t advise on tax or give recommendations. The call lasted over an hour, mostly because he had to check some fundamental details with his boss—and as he was nearing the end of his shift he was hoping to give me all the facts correctly.
In the end, he mentioned an end-of-life withdrawal scheme, which involves filling in a form that will remove the entire tax burden—but only if my doctor signs the emailed form that I should receive tomorrow.
The requirement is that you must be within a year of death to qualify.
Since I already have an SR1 form, I’m hopeful this will be straightforward, since that has the same requirement.
We’ll find out soon enough.
That was about it—and with a burst of energy, possibly from the chocolate I’d eaten earlier (ha ha), the day wound down nicely.
So another day ended well, with some useful progress made.
I’ve asked for an admin request online about my doctor filling in my form, so we shall see what the surgery thinks of my request.
Take care—and sleep well.
