Post 439: Goals, fans and appetite fads.
I can’t always watch the terror that is the footie, so I used my time wisely instead.
It’s Wednesday and I’ve got to keep my Darling resting her torn right calf muscle. If I can do a good job of keeping her in bed and get my own jobs done today, she’ll benefit later and hopefully get back on the dance floor sooner than later. At the moment it’s not looking good, but the swelling is going down.
I go downstairs and feed Mr Vicious, who isn’t making much of a fuss about food lately. He’s been picking at it, leaving the rest for the winds to decide who gets what. He’s just not very hungry. Perhaps he’s pining for his Mammy, who is noticeably absent due to her dancing injury.
I’m not too worried about the Kitekat. He’s getting older, and slowing down a little, it’s only natural. I’ll leave him to get his appetite back when the weather cools.
As for me, I’m struggling to keep food out of my mouth—starting with breakfast.
Yoghurt on muesli with a black banana for bulk is today’s sensation, and it’s only because by midday I’ve got to be down at the infusion centre for another 400ml of iron, continuing my transition into a superhero.
As I eat my breakfast I know there’s half a watermelon, now cut up and cooling in the fridge. Not the tastiest snack perhaps, but it’s there for snacks if my Darling needs one.
“Darling… it’s for later if you want it.”
It’s strange not having her downstairs, gathering up all the bits we usually take to make the infusion trip go with a swing and stop me getting uncomfortable in those big lounge chairs beside the beds.
So I tiptoe upstairs and, now she’s awake, I ask her what I should take.
It’s like my arms have fallen off.
I know perfectly well what to take. I know what needs doing. I’m not a total retard but sometimes I take for granted all she does for me, everyday.
Since yesterday’s motorcycle manoeuvres, and my Darling putting up with my nursing duties, I’ve had no time to think about another vehicle I no longer own. I’m not going to start saying nice things about either of them just yet - I’m not over them, and it could take forever to say farewell to my Volvo.
I still can’t get my head around only having four bikes and two cars now.
But in the grand scheme of things, the plan to simplify life and draw-in my resources is the key to giving my Darling future security while my own world becomes a little smaller. Those once huge plans for bikes and cars are changing rapidly before my eyes.
The infusion today was easy-peasy and I was back home within two hours, well before work at 3pm.
That meant I could grab a little lunch and get to work without rushing around.
My Darling was downstairs and the packet of beetroot and balsamic vinegar crisps was empty, so I’d clearly had my fill. I checked on Her Ladyship and all was well.
Unbeknown to me she had quietly made herself some overnight fruit and yoghurt and managed to eat it.
Right… I need to be more observant.
I’m a little embarrassed, but work calls, so I head upstairs again, leaving the stairlift chair for my Darling whenever she needs it.
I’m a whole lot better than I expected to be these last few days, ever since the steroids changed both my pain levels and, in many ways, my life.
Yes, I’m weaning off them now, which makes me realise that when my Gabapentin reaches 1200mg three times a day, I’ll pretty much be at the limit.
That says it all, I’ve exhausted these great little pills.
I’m wearing my options thin, and the hospice doctors will eventually have to find new drugs to help me through whatever pains come next. They say they have options and I believe them.
But I’m not dwelling on that. It’s simply part of active surveillance alongside having no active treatment.
My blood results haven’t attracted any comment from my oncologist ahead of next week’s appointment, which is brilliant - I hope.
Hopefully there’s nothing to stop me enjoying another three months free from treatment, giving us the chance to start talking about little trips away again.
Talking of which…
The voucher our eldest bought us for Christmas—a dinner at a fabulous four-star hotel—turned out to be easy to arrange for next month.
We couldn’t book a room there outside the voucher itself, but a hotel just up the road had availability, so that’s now our bed and breakfast for the night sorted out too.
Yippee!
Only five weeks away.
Getting all dressed up and enjoying some wonderful food together will be fantastic. Something to be genuinely grateful for.
Who knows? I may even have fish rather than meat these days.
Work beckoned, along with the staff who’ve been right behind me throughout all of this.
Even one of the senior managers—someone I know well but rarely see these days—popped in for a chat today. He’s one of the big cheeses now and has quietly helped make many of the adjustments that allow me to keep working.
It was lovely to catch up.
The work seems endless, but I’m in a comfortable chair at a comfortable desk, with a senior colleague beside me opening doors and quietly keeping an eye on me.
The football tonight was England versus DR Congo—or “Dr Congo”, according to my lovely wife and her wonderful innocence when it comes to abbreviated country names.
The Democratic Republic of Congo—formerly Zaire—where the famous “Rumble in the Jungle” took place back in 1974.
But that’s another story entirely.
I got home to a cooked dinner and my Darling looking as proud as Punch that I was eating what she’d made—a chicken curry.
How could I possibly tell her off for standing over a hot oven, hopping around the kitchen on one leg, just to cook for me?
Well…
It was lovely.
We had just settled down together in front of the television with our curry when the worst possible thing happened.
Our hearts sank straight through our dinner plates.
DR Congo scored.
The commentators immediately began writing England’s obituary and explaining how it had all gone wrong.
I was exhausted and could happily have slept through the evening, but not with that game on.
In truth, I wasn’t enjoying it at all.
After washing up, I didn’t go back to the television.
Last week’s order of three pedestal fans had been cancelled by Amazon, but today they suddenly arrived anyway - a week late mind you.
We can argue later about who’s paying for what but for now, they were the perfect distraction.
I buried my head in assembling them in the conservatory - out of the way - instead of enduring another 45 minutes of football.
Spoiler alert: if you haven’t seen the result, look away now!
While concentrating on building the fans, I heard two enormous screams of,
“YES! YES! YES!” over the quiet garden noises I was getting used to.
I had a feeling I knew what had happened.
Sure enough, when I carried one of the fans into the television room, England had turned it around.
The game was over.
England had won.
The whole country could relax.
My appetite still knew no bounds.
After a yoghurt and an ice cream I somehow found room for crisps and fruit & pills.
My Darling stopped at the ice cream.
The last of the beetroot crisps disappeared too.
So much for my figure.
As I trudged off to bed, my Darling called after me.
“I can’t wait for Friday.”
I looked back, puzzled.
“I’ll bet your weight’s back up where it should be.”
She smiled broadly as I realised exactly what she meant.
I’m eating well again.
Good night.
Take care.
