This is the first day of returning to relative normality from an altered state. I curled up and refused to blog during those few poisoned days, but I have to get back on it as I apparently have some bladdicts who don’t like it if I don’t keep them informed as to what’s going on.
Well, if you really want to know, I have been quite feeble. Dyspraxic even. I emptied the dishwasher and dropped the cups. Bash wanted me to sign a form and I scrawled a wobbly line. My legs have been collapsing from under me every time I get up. Yesterday Fred came home and I was in bed. He felt my hand and realised I was burning up. We got on the case straight away, with remedy, codeine and curry. It worked.
Newsflash: Mad Lucy is going for her op today. Those PIP implants will come out and new ones will go in. Nerve-racking in no small way. Only realised this earlier today, so went into a bit of a tizz. Went round bearing gifts. She was out down the town. Typical, shopping in the face of trauma. She turned up. I offered Arnica (she had some already and has already taken some), Rescue Remedy Pastilles to suck after the event, and my Warrior. I felt quite emotional handing him over tied up to his lace. He is going off without me on a new adventure. Mad Lucy beamed with delight and assured me she won’t lose him, she will tie him on somewhere. I also took the FAKE flowers, as they are the only ones to have survived the long haul, and I know that Mattie won’t mind: she will be pleased Mad Lucy has them.
While I was there, my phone went and I realised I had forgotten all about a College Mums’ Baroosh cocktail lunch. Ooh, I don’t know, this social whirl. Zoomed down there on my bike and met up with old friends. They had not seen me properly for more than a year so we had a lot to catch up on. Before my crab and avocado salad I had two large Mojitos, (mmm, must try these at home, although I do recall trying them out on Barney’s boat once and all ending up sploshing about in the water with no clothes on), so it all became a bit of a daze but do recall us coming to the conclusion that if the trial drug causes the rare dreaded necrosis of the jaw, (basically a hole in your jaw that does not heal), I can always use it (the hole) for a constant infusion of Mojito. Which would be one proactive way to deal with your troubles.
One of the mums at the lunch has a husband who is a surgeon and she sure knows lots of interesting things. For example, if you ever see the letters P.I.T.A. on the front of your notes, you might assume it means something very technical but, no: it is a warning to other doctors that you are a Pain In The Ass. I could tell you some of the other things she told us if I could remember them, but then I’d have to kill you, or she’d have to kill me or nuffin or sumfin. Anyway, we had a jolly old laugh.
My friends insisted on paying for lunch, even though I said that made me more of a cancer patient. Wobbled up the hill on the bike with their huge bunch of flowers catching in the wheel. I had tried to contact my flute pupils but unfortunately the cocktail lunch meant I had left them stranded at the door being yapped at and thinking I had died of chemo poisoning. Texted to let them know I was alive. They have forgiven me.
People and animals are surprisingly accepting of changed states. Katze, Kitze and Fattipus of course love the fact that I am more supine these days, taking advantage accordingly. Yesterday I told the dogs it was time for their walk so we all trundled upstairs to find socks and boots. I crawled under the duvet just to warm up really and was still there three hours later. The dogs just put their heads on their paws. My pupils have played duets this week sitting with me on the kitchen bench with the music propped up on the pepper pot. If they notice a change, they don’t seem to mind.
Driving back from the ponies yesterday my mouth felt painful and odd. I stuck my tongue out at myself in the mirror and nearly lost control of my wheel. The tongue looked as if it had been slathered with a mildewed tahini paste. It looked like an inner Triffid was extending a feeler out of my throat. Good Lord, detox quick. One of my pupils says her father-in-law (a three-time cancer survivor) used to come back from chemo and stand in the shower for hours at a time, drinking and weeing. You’ve got to wash it off you and out of you. Went shopping for more miso, vegetables, rice noodles. My friend Jon who is painting the windows brought some enormous spinach leaves over from his garden. Nellen dropped by with fresh turmeric root and parsley. I have two pineapples to juice. God, it’s a bit tiring though all this. I feel like I could just give up and have a nice bowl of Crunchy Nut Cornflakes. And then a Crunchie. And some of them big Buttons.
Barney turned up, quite shaken, as a lorry had cut in on him from the inside lane on the M11 and had bashed the front of his car in without even realising it. Braking had no effect on the wet road. I took him cups of Earl Grey with goat’s milk (he did look a tad disappointed) out in the courtyard as he replaced the radiator and bonnet with new bits that he got for sixty quid from a scrap yard. Looking at the poor crushed open front, I was reminded of the poem that Uncle Bob in Canada’s friend, Stu Harvey wrote for me. The ill person is compared to a bashed up car and the dubious treatment of the illness to a broken hoist at the garage.
‘Well,’ said Barn, ‘all she needs really is a bit of tweaking and couple of new headlamps.’
You’re telling me she does!
These are the old headlamps.
These are the new headlamps. Phew. Much better. Let’s hope Mad Lucy’s new ones are half as good.
Thinking about the radioactive bone scan tomorrow and the trial in general, I have remembered that it won’t be my first experience of being a guinea-pig. My sister and I were about four and six when my brother Pete decided to see if his rope pulley for transporting things into and out of the treehouse would extend to human cargo. We still remember climbing with trepidation into the crate, the jolting of the stiff ropes, the sudden swing of our box as it slipped off its platform to hang in the air. We remember the shout as my brother realised that together we must have weighed more than whatever he was using as a counterweight (himself probably), the snapping of twigs, the rush of the ground towards us. We thought it was funny and were shaken but not dead.