Post 71: Grasmere Gifts
With only a couple of things on the agenda today, I gave myself permission to stay in bed all morning.
As it turns out, I completely missed a hot and sunny one — lying there in the cool of the bedroom, utterly unaware of the world outside.
The afternoon call from the faraway hospital was supposed to bring confirmation that my bloods are still looking good. It’s been a while since they were taken, so I presumed that no news was good news. While we waited, My Darling sat opposite me at the little round white kitchen table, anxiously watching the clock — not for my call, but for her waxing appointment.
Her beauty parlour is in a village only fifteen minutes away, but the nearby primary school finishes around the same time as she leaves, and then it’s chaos: cars everywhere, kids dashing across the road, and ten full minutes of idling engines while all the healthy little ones sit in back seats inhaling exhaust fumes. Grim. Poor kids.
The call didn’t come.
My Darling dashed off, and I woke the old Volvo from its slumber to take me to a health check HR meeting at work. I figured that if chemo’s starting up again this week, I might as well make the most of this brief window of opportunity and give them an in-person update while I still feel strong.
The Volvo — Olive the Amazon — is as old as me and also facing her own battle with (metal) cancer (a.k.a. rust). But I’ve always thought the patina of age on a vehicle is a natural progression. In my eyes, Olive’s looking fine. Battery charged, she started up with no complaints, and the short mile-and-a-half journey to work was thankfully uneventful.
The meeting was the same — except for me dominating the conversation (as usual). With the update done and still no hospital call, I got home just in time to find a parcel waiting.
I knew what it was as soon as I spotted the wrapper — the distinctive packaging from the Grasmere Gingerbread Shop in Cumbria. But I had no idea who it was from until I opened it. I half-thought it might be from our eldest, a belated Father’s Day treat. But inside was a lovely gift note from our dear friends in Wigton — wonderful people we see regularly, who’ve cheered me on with unfailing kindness during this whole journey.
The box held two slabs of fudge, a bag of gingerbread crumble, and, of course, the world’s best traditional Lakeland gingerbread. What a treat. Another bright spot in a week full of small wins. I’m being spoiled — and I absolutely love it.
Thank you, D&J. xx
When My Darling got back from the parlour, she was all smiles — and looking very pleased with her pampered and polished toes. Her feet were freshly done, though I can only imagine what her poor beautician went through — her feet are notoriously ticklish, and she tends to kick out like a startled horse. I would’ve loved to have been a fly on the wall for that battle!
Another uneventful day — and that’s the best kind of news.
No AFib episodes longer than a couple of minutes, and with just two days to go before chemo restarts, I’m feeling quietly ecstatic. The new pills seem to be doing their job. Both of us are feeling more at ease, more hopeful. It feels like the wheels are finally turning again.
Nothing to report is perfect.
Tomorrow brings my appointment with the new oncologist. Hopefully she’ll confirm the chemo restart — rubber stamp it, so we can get this show back on the road. She might even share insights from the Whole Body MRI scan, the one done at the faraway hospital. That’ll be interesting.
I’m hopeful. I’m excited.
I feel healthy.
I’m ready.
We’re ready.
Tomorrow is a big day.
Maybe I’ll even sleep better after some good news from it.
And of course — the Aussie visitors are due too. That’ll be a welcome distraction and a lovely catch-up. Maybe we can all go out for a slow, classic cruise in Olive, basking in the evening sunshine. Sounds like a plan to me.
