Post 443: What price is friendship?
When all’s said and done, there’s nothing quite like a friendly smile and someone who’s simply happy to help. What a wonderful thing that is—a helping hand given for nothing.
My Darling is staying in bed today.
Her leg is no happier than it was yesterday and, after another sleepless night, there’s little to do except rest and let nature take its course.
It’s heartbreaking really. One joyful dance at the wedding and, within minutes, everything changed. A week later there’s still very little improvement and it’s beginning to dawn on us that this recovery may take much longer than we’d hoped.
What price is fun?
I crunched my way through a few Kallø chickpea cakes for breakfast and picked up my memoir book several times before tiredness finally won and I surrendered to the television.
I’m still amazed by these little round cakes. They’re dusted with the most wonderful savoury flavouring and, once you’ve demolished the crunchy bit, you get to lick your fingers clean afterwards.
They might just be my snack of the year.
This appetite of mine is something else lately.
Today I’m waiting for the foot man to arrive. He only came once before but he’s already become part of my growing band of helpers. My toenails are increasingly awkward to reach and, being slightly ingrown on both sides, they’re better left in more capable hands than mine these days.
But where is he?
I send a quick WhatsApp message just in case I’ve remembered the wrong time.
A few moments later comes the reply.
“See you this afternoon at 1.30.”
Perfect.
That leaves plenty of time to see how my patient is doing upstairs, perhaps have a little fruit for lunch and, if I’m honest, dream about tonight’s leftovers.
Chinese again.
Sweet and sour.
Kung Po.
Noodles.
Honestly, what has happened to me? Is it really just these steroids that’s brought my appetite roaring back?
Whatever it is, my belly certainly knows about it.
My Darling is still asleep, so I quietly leave her be.
We had such a lovely evening with Big Sis yesterday that perhaps it simply took more out of her than either of us realised.
While the house stays peaceful I drift between my book and the television, resisting the temptation to tackle jobs around the house.
I know better.
The quickest way to spoil a good spell is to overdo things.
I really must speak to oncology next week about my back. For nearly three weeks now I’ve had a bruised feeling running up and down my spine.
The strange thing is I’m coping remarkably well.
One small slurp of morphine each day is all I’m needing at the moment, which feels almost unbelievable.
It’s more that I’ve quietly started avoiding heavier jobs. Shopping bags, moving chairs, lifting anything of weight—my back lets me know immediately if I’ve been too ambitious.
Usually my Darling would stop me.
This week, with the tables turned, I’m tempted to do too much.
She needs my help.
I want to help.
I will help.
Soon enough the foot man arrives and we settle into a relaxing routine while he works his magic and we chat about sport, holidays and, inevitably, England’s football match tonight.
The conversation wanders all over the place, as good conversations often do, and before long my feet feel a hundred times happier.
Another six weeks of comfort.
He hasn’t been gone five minutes when the doorbell rings again.
A parcel.
My new slippers have arrived.
As I bend to collect them I hear someone call from the front garden.
It’s my neighbour from across the road—the very same chap who kindly cut my overgrown lawn a few weeks ago.
“Shall I give your grass another trim?” he asks.
“Yes… yes please,” I reply.
He’s one of those genuinely cheerful people who seems to help anyone who needs it.
Over the last few years he’s seen me on some of my worst days, yet he’s never made a fuss about helping. A quiet word. A reassuring smile. An offer that’s simply there if I need it.
Those things matter.
Within minutes he’s mowing while we stand chatting by the open garage.
He knows the Volvo has gone and understands why that was difficult.
I tell him about little P-Nut growing nicely, the baby scan proudly displayed on the fridge, all the excitement after the wedding, and of course My Darling’s poorly calf.
As if on cue she appears between the two Minis in the garage and joins our conversation.
Soon we’re chatting about dancing injuries, baby scans and wondering whether little P-Nut will be a grandson or granddaughter.
Time slips by.
Eventually My Darling heads back inside to rest and my neighbour gets on with the rest of his day.
I close the garage door feeling quietly grateful.
How lucky am I?
Very.
It reminds me that when life becomes difficult it’s alright to admit it.
Professional carers, doctors, nurses and hospices all have their place.
But sometimes the person who makes the biggest difference lives just across the road.
Someone who asks nothing in return.
Someone who simply notices.
Thank you, Neighbour M.
You’re a star.
The Chinese takeaway boxes are now empty.
My belly is comfortably full.
But more importantly, so is my heart.
Sometimes friendship doesn’t cost a penny.
Yet it’s worth absolutely everything.
Take care…
…and good luck, England.
Night night.
