Post 38: Its a Lovely Day, Nearly
Things That Matter:
• It’s the weekend soon.
• Positivity.
Facing facts is right and necessary.
Positivity can’t change the facts — but it does shape how we live with them.
The truth is, staying positive can be exhausting… unless others carry some of it with you.
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I’ve been a bit preoccupied with the serious stuff this week. That’s part of life, I know — for everyone. But I’m fed up with how deeply it drains my soul.
Earlier this week I got an email from Leddra Chapman — the incredible singer-songwriter my Darling and I adore. We’re proud super-fans or “Leddys”.
I’d been saving the email for the right moment — and this morning, while still in bed and not yet drawn into the of daily grind, I decided this was that moment.
It was a special link to a video of part of her last concert. She had picked out one track in particular — the one I’d requested. Some time ago, her fans were invited to ask for a song they wanted on the setlist. I chose An Easier Way to Fall, a delicate, beautiful piece that makes me emotional every time I hear it.
Even more incredible, the song was dedicated to My Darling and me.
We weren’t even at the gig — we couldn’t be, due to my treatment — but Leddra knew that. Her generosity in sending the video, lifted me in a way I can’t quite describe.
That’s what I call a perfect start to the day.
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Could it get better?
Ring, ring…
Just minutes later, I got a phone call to confirm a face-to-face appointment for the second opinion I’ve been chasing. It’s booked for next Wednesday afternoon.
That means both oncologist meetings fall on the same day — one after the other. The only issue — they are in different counties.
Whatever happens, I’ll come out knowing more. And maybe this time I can hop on and ride all the way to the terminal. (Terminal sounds grim, doesn’t it; Final destination might be better?)
Clearly the fog in my head has lifted — I can feel it in the silliness coming out of my blog-pen.
What a Difference a Day Makes (Dinah Washington, 1959. Long before I was a glint in my daddy’s eye. But how true those lyrics feel right now.)
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I’m now sitting in the conservatory in a straw hat (thankfully, no photos exist) as the sun beats down on my struggling garden. The flamingo willow’s doing okay, though — a bright spot among the drooping greenery. (See photo.)
Mr Vicious is snoring contentedly at my feet, and for now, all is well.
Big Sis is due soon, so I’d better make myself presentable — though there’s nothing to prepare for her, she arrives with a picnic. Just time to freshen up. I’ll leave the silly cat to his feline dreams, lying belly-up in the heat.
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My Darling returned from her lunch out with friends, all smiles and hugs for Big Sis and me. I took to the shade beneath the flamingo; Sis preferred full sun — makes sense, as she rarely gets the chance working in a big store.
We talked about family ailments and remedies, but mostly, we just were — relaxing in the sunshine.
It’s funny how, when you’re younger, and the “oldens” talk about appointments and health issues and who’s died lately, you think I’ll never be like that.
Well… here I am.
I’ve officially joined the oldens.
These days it’s nothing but appointments, symptoms, and the bits that are slowly falling off me.
Oh god.
Moving on quickly…
In the bag of treats today: four granola bars — posh ones from a superstore bakery near you. I’d call them cranberry flapjacks. Not too sweet, very filling. I’ve had two already. They’re great!
As Big Sis left — a bit earlier than usual to dodge the Friday rush — we sent her home with a few bits: an unused garden kneeler-seat (quite handy, really) and a framed photo from the early ’80s. A studio shot of her and her then fiancé (latter Husband), little Bro, and me — found while sorting through Mum’s things after she passed.
Hope you like them, Sis.
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And then…
Here we are.
A&E again.
It’s nearly midnight. ECG and bloods are done.
Now, we wait.
The afternoon however had been lovely — dinner with My Darling, later on, Mr Vicious took over my lap while we caught up with catch-up TV.
Then I saw a post on Facebook: Leddra’s Essex gig — streamed for just £10.
No travel, no strain. Just the show, straight to our screen.
Of course, I jumped at it. Val was on board instantly.
After a couple of minutes and a few card details, we had our “ticket.”
But just before 6pm, the first blot on the landscape appeared: AFib — yet again.
I ignored the palpitations at first, took an extra white pill, hoping that would calm things down. I told myself, Let’s get through the show. Then we’ll see.
Fifteen minutes before showtime, I got the login link.
We watched the support act. They were ok.
But when Leddra took the stage — it was magic.
Still, the AFib hadn’t gone. I finally told My Darling what I’d been hiding. She said nothing.
I told her: “Let’s finish the show. Then, if the twins are still arguing, I’ll call for help.”
They were.
So at 10pm, we finished the gig and braced for a 111 call.
By 11pm, we were at triage.
Another ECG. More bloods.
When the doctor arrived, he was a rare find — someone who actually explained what’s happening to me. He had oncology experience and wasn’t afraid to talk straight.
He asked questions:
“Did you have a care plan post-AMU?” — No.
“Has anyone talked about prognosis?” — Not since the ‘five years’ prediction from 2.5 years ago.
“Has anyone mentioned calcium levels in your blood?” — No. Why?
He didn’t say much more about that.
But the conversation, overall, was more helpful than any expert chat I’ve had since the PE three weeks ago. He was kind, clear, and left me with a new list of questions for the oncologist and cardiologist.
One thing is clear: I’m not fit.
Probably not fit for chemo.
But with my PSA soaring, time is not on my side.
And just like that — out of the blue — my heart flips back to sinus rhythm.
What a relief.
I was about to be admitted. Now I might be home before daybreak. If I behave.
Everyone’s relieved. Especially My Darling.
Her alarm just went off — time to wake for work. Except she’s already here, in A&E, with me.
How she copes with all this, I’ll never understand.
Her colleagues have been kind — tissues, kind words, real empathy.
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We get home to daylight and a very confused cat at six am.
———
My Darling helped me tonight.
Everything’s better with her by my side.
We’re surviving.
But we need sleep.
Good night, fellow travellers.
