Post 87: Camping and Christmas?
Looking forward and not looking back is the best medicine – if you can bear to?
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My sister’s eyes well up when I get too honest about how things really are in my medical world. I suppose I should be more careful with my words when I’m on a roll — honesty comes naturally to me, but it’s a heavier thing for those who love me to carry.
My prognosis isn’t great, but I live day to day, and that helps. What’s harder to ignore are the practical things, like money and the future.
Three years ago, I bought myself an early retirement present — a classic Volvo. The plan was to take My Darling and head off on unhurried road trips, where speed came second to scenery. A more graceful way to travel. But then, just weeks later, a blood test changed our lives. PSA 90. That was just the beginning.
Apparently, I’m unlikely to see retirement. But what do they know, really?
So now I think about drawing down my pension early — not for survival, but for life. Some glamping, a few B&Bs, memories made close to home. With the pain and the need to be near my NHS team, the idea of travelling far has lost its appeal. And then, as if out of nowhere, My Darling’s friend Sally offered her mobile home. She’d even drive it and set it up for us near the sea. Just the thought of it gave us both a lift. What a gem she is.
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Big Sis brought her lunch round and we sat in the cool kitchen, chatting about this and that. I love how she unwinds with us, away from the noise of everyday life.
And she reminded me of something I hadn’t thought about in decades…
It was the 70s. Bonfire season. We lived in a place where torch-lit processions and fireworks were a way of life in the autumn. That year, the village held its own celebration — kids with giant candles, makeshift costumes, bangers flying everywhere. Health and Safety hadn’t been invented yet.
Mum, ever the creative type with her sewing machine and surplus red crepe paper, decided I’d go as Santa Claus. In October. With cotton wool trimmings. I had no say in it — I rarely did when Mum had a bright idea.
We assembled outside the pub, marched off through the village. Halfway round, they lit the torches. My candle glowed like a beacon. For a moment, it was all good fun.
Until suddenly, it wasn’t.
I was on fire.
Santa. Was. On. Fire.
Big Sis and Dad hauled me out of the procession and stripped me down on the spot. Dad, ever the first aider, checked me over. Somehow — miraculously — I wasn’t burned. Just stood there in my pants and wellies, bewildered but alive. Cotton wool and flame, not the best combo -especially in October.
I’ll never forget those days thanks to Big Sis. Or how quickly Dad could react. Or how fast crepe fabric can vanish.
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Weekend’s coming. If the torso pain gives me a break, My Darling and I might escape for a bit. A stroll. A drive. Something that feels like a day lived.
I’m well enough.
Still on the bus.
Looking forward to the next chemo, and to every little good thing between now and then.
