You see I'm no longer angry. I was. I ranted and I raged, until yesterday I found myself sitting on the floor in the middle of an aisle in Tesco's holding Tena lady pads in one hand and pants in the other, snotting my eyes out.
Tonight I see the deterioration in my husband before my very eyes. A call to the OOH GP. It could be disease progression, or he may have had a stroke. Either way there's nothing they can do.
Terminal is the word that floats in my peripheral vision while I check meds and make appointments, then punches me in the gut and winds me at the genuine regret in the GP's voice. "There's nothing we can do."
And now I have no idea what to write, because I, like so many others, have no idea what's to come next. Will it be a takeaway breakfast from the local pub on Sunday or a gut wrenching descent into the inevitable?
The emotional roller-coaster is unbearable. And so I lash out, project my agony on to others, the "professionals" around us. And they absorb my rage and pain, and forgive, and return to me with compassion and connection. On this journey I have experienced many acts of casual cruelty, all of which have been eclipsed by the very best of human nature.
"I'm so very sorry, sometimes the answers we have to give are hard for you to hear, and so very hard for us to give. There's nothing we can do." An anonymous on call GP.
God bless you all, all that have climbed into my grief and pain, spoken the truth and not shyed away. You have done more than you will ever know.
God bless the GP who ordered the blood tests because he knew that would just make me feel better, the mechanic who did the rush job because he knew how we need the car right now, the bus driver who so gently made sure we knew where and when to catch the bus back because he could see our shock. So many small acts of compassion and kindness......
God bless you all that are on this journey on the road less travelled. We truly are not alone.
