Post 46: A More Restful Day.
The best medicine is good rest.
Last night, my left arm—just below the shoulder where the shingles jab went in—was a proper nightmare. I woke early and, stupidly, didn’t reach for any paracetamol to ease the pain. There was no hope of getting back to sleep.
No jab has ever caused me this much discomfort. It feels like a prizefighter has landed a punch and left me with the mother of all bruises.
So, I sneaked downstairs quietly to get the pain sorted and to feed the hungry cat.
Mr Vicious greeted me with a few meows and an Olympic-level roly-poly on the kitchen floor—more dog than cat, really.
———
I thought to myself: if My Darling stays put in bed and gets a real, proper lie-in, she might just recover a bit of her strength—and maybe even her humour.
Not that she doesn’t laugh and joke about; she absolutely does. But there’s been a deep-rooted fear underlining every day this week.
I’m sleeping okay, I suppose. I sneak the occasional nana nap or just stay in bed the odd day.
But My Darling is always whizzing around with a dozen things on her mind, doing her best not to crack under the strain.
So today, while she sleeps soundly, I’m content.
The TV’s volume is down, and I’m doing a bit of mobile phone admin—replying to questions about my wellbeing and checking where everyone’s disappeared to for the bank holiday.
After such a dry and sunny spring, the skies have finally turned. Not ideal for the weekend’s outdoor events that depend on good weather.
Typical British luck.
Still, it hasn’t stopped the fun at Santa Pod Raceway, where a friend jumped into a two-seater drag car and sped down the track at just under 165 mph.
Now that’s worth shouting about.
As for the rally down the road—where things are more sedate—I imagine the grey skies and drizzle are giving the organisers a headache.
Back at home, warm and dry, I waited for My Darling to appear.
And when she finally did, she looked and sounded like she’d had a fabulous sleep.
After the week we’ve had, this was exactly what was needed.
Post-breakfast, I suggested a walk—something she jumped at.
For the first time, I wore the long-style walker’s waterproof pack-a-mac our eldest bought me for Christmas.
It’s one of those lightweight but well-made blue numbers, and during our two-mile walk, I was cosy and sheltered from the strong, warm winds blowing in from the southwest.
I held her hand as we chatted and wandered along the trails, through the trees, past new housing estates that seem to pop up like weeds in every available space.
Our conversations were lighter than they’ve been in recent weeks—deciding on the menu for Sunday dinner with our youngest and his fiancée, or just commenting on the changes in the hedgerows as the wind gently pushed us along.
I was tired when we got home. My legs felt heavy, but my heart was ticking along nicely—no drama, which is always a bonus.
I suppose I’m testing myself a little, pushing old boundaries and finding new strengths in this unfamiliar version of my body—trying to rebuild confidence and self-esteem.
Never would I have imagined I’d be in this position.
It’s the hardest part: these new inadequacies—unwanted, persistent, with an unknown expiry date.
When you’re young, any rehab usually means weeks—or even days.
But when you’re travelling the cancer pathways, there’s no real “end” to treatment. The body’s response is slow, the toll cumulative.
But hey—I walked two miles today.
That’s worth celebrating—with a herbal tea and a couple of slices of marmalade cake. Yummy.
———
Later, as we recuperated on the sofa (without Mr V, for once), we joined a video call with family in Ireland and America.
We exchanged gossip and more serious news in a friendly back-and-forth.
Weather and health dominated, as usual—but it’s always good to see familiar faces from afar.
This whole day has been incredibly calming for both of us.
To see My Darling edging back toward her old self makes me so happy.
Tonight, I’ll sleep better on my right arm hopefully—and I wish sweet dreams for My Darling, for me, for Mr V… and for all my fellow travellers out there.
Some days are good.
Some days are not.
But I wake up each morning with a fighting spirit.
