Smokingboot

That was a mistake.

I keep doing this. I veer between I need to keep moving and I need to rest, between take the pill, then ignore, and respect this illness.
There's a way somewhere down the middle and I can't find it.

Three things I said I would do. One's today and I am an idiot for agreeing to it.
One's overdue already. I. Must. Get. On. With. It.
One's an offer I made and don't feel I can withdraw. But this feels like the easiest anyway.

My fatigue is not being helped by the cats parking themselves on my pillow this morning, two black shapes purring at me. When I got up to feed them, they didn't follow as usual, but sat there; I got the sudden impression they weren't that hungry (though always up for breakfast at a pinch!) but were just... I don't know, occasionally it seems they know summat's up and want to comfort me. It works. But it also wakes me up. And here I am, unprepared for today.

My dear, you learned about a scary diagnosis less than two weeks ago. You're gonna be reeling and recalibrating for a while, I suspect. This was a life-altering event. There was a distinct Before and a distinct Afterwards, and somewhere between the two, a river changed course.

Thank you for your wisdom and love, mallorys_camera, I will keep this with me.

I've had gifts and kindness, offers of time, thought, flowers, good luck charms and daleks. The gift I wear every day is this one:



Not to jinx anything but yes, OK, youbetcha. And thank you.

And if I can't do much yet, if I must sit still and wonder wth happened, if I tire for no reason and find my concentration whacked, I'll pay attention to the wisdom above. A river changed course. Some recalibration will be needed.

Sombre news about another's illness came yesterday. Their story isn't mine to tell, so best I keep quiet; I can only wish the best and be around if needed. What a harsh time this is!

It reminded me that considering what is going on, I'm in a gentle place full of support. Despite being bonkers, my mother hears the bad news, is devastated, then up she gets and scours the internet for ways to fight the adversary. Whatever her issues, she's a battler. The day before yesterday it was rubbish about Frank Suarez, yesterday it was actually useful info about oleocanthal/albuchere olive oil; there seems to be some evidence that this really does have anti-cancer effects, and I'll satisfy her by buying some. This is no hardship, I can drink olive oil til it comes out of my ears.

I had muddled eerie dreams last night, but there was an almost wakeful moment when I saw my father shaving his beard off, as if for a special occasion. That won't be for me, there's only one person whose presence I can imagine him shaving for. That's a nasty old fear, and I've no room to accomodate it right now. It can get back in the queue and wait its turn like all the others.

Scene: 3 am, a dark bedroom.

Me: Don't loom, it's rude.
Coat rack: Sorry. I'm broken at the top you know.
Me: Yes, but still, try not to look like someone in the room.
Coat rack: You think I look like someone in the room?
Me: Yes.
Coat rack: There is someone in the room. There's always someone in the room.
Me: Shh.
(pause)
Well fck.
(pause)
Might as well get up.

Couldn't sleep.

I have an appointment today for my new glasses. It's in the afternoon, and I will see if I can bring it forward because damn, let's just get stuff out of the way.

My mother is turning into a champion. A lot of her information is suspect ('No more glucose!') but I am delighted at her attitude, telling me that 'this is a war, and everything you put in your mouth is a shot against the enemy!' This is so much better than her initial phrase of 'I am devastated!' I had to bite my lip then. No,I wanted to scream,me six months down the line after a masectomy with this bloody thing all over my lymph nodes and my hair and teeth falling out and my body aged and my life expectancy cut by a decade due to chemo and radiation and the hell knows what, that would be devastation! But now she has lifted herself to the challenge, while all I want to do is sleep. In fairness, it seems a reasonable response to being woken in the night by a garrulous coat rack, but I was expecting more substantial support from my adrenal glands.

And I wonder, all this exhaustion I have been feeling and assumed it was Covid/the vaccine/whatever, was it in fact this thing, waiting to cause trouble?

All very unpleasant and uncomfortable, but despite that, I find ultrasounds magical.

I told Mum, simply because I didn't have enough energy to think about anything else when she rang, I was literally waiting for the taxi to take me to the hospital. She's gone through the roof of course, but she had already started on a new cycle of fretting about the return of monkey pox, and had adjusted all her tops so that she doesn't need to buy new clothes that might have been touched by infected people. Now, she has something real requiring her thoughts, and I have impressed upon her my need for sensible lifestyle information from her. It gives her something to do that isn't fretting, though I already know what I should be doing. Less, in fact probably no milk, no meat except for fish, salads and fresh vegetables rather than cooked meals. There's time and life and recurrence to think about. As the surgeon said yesterday, 'we're going to be monitoring you now for the next ten years.'

OK, here's to those years!

Meanwhile I find my brother suddenly very hard to contact. Given the circumstances, I think it's OK tagging him in to help with Mum. I speak to her every day, he speaks to her every few weeks and sometimes then only when she pleads with me to get him to talk to her. Even then he doesn't say much. I get that she's a mind-eater and that it is hard, but it is what it is. He may freak out a bit, but I'll make him laugh about his stents and family attitude, pull on every ridiculous memory and absurdity if I have to and he'll be fine. What he can't do is hide away. He has to take a little interest in Mum's needs. Come on, Bro, step up. You know I don't ask unless I must.

So now what? My husband is here, I will ask him to get spinach, kale, green apples, cucumber, lemon/lime, ginger & celery... time for those green juice breakfasts mum is always banging on about. Even if they do me no good, it will make her happy to know her advice is being taken, and it will keep her away from being maudlin. I should go get the ingredients myself, but yesterday wore me out a bit; more than a bit. I want to go to Callander, to check out the family stomping ground. I forget if R is working today; even if he isn't it's about 50 minutes in the car.

Yesterday was horrendous, but today will be all right. And tomorrow will be better.

Turns out the serious news pending was not about my ex.

Shadow on the X-ray, Dr can feel a 'lumpy bit.' He wanted to do a biopsy there and then. I sprang away from the bed, and told him in no uncertain terms that he is not cutting into me.
How dare you? My thoughts were raging, how dare you tell me this and within three minutes of me receiving this shock, think you can stick a needle into me,cut me like a piece of meat and I will just accept any sense of violation, any scar, any pain on your say-so when it suits you? Get your f*cking hands off me.

My head was whirling. They don't know if it's a cancer, the permanent scar will be investigative, 'but it may well lead to operating,' the doc reiterated, 'would you like to speak to the Breast clinic nurse?'

I asked him about false positives, which is the big issue with mammograms. 'They do happen,' he nodded, 'that's why we take the biopsy.'

I told them about my experience long ago, when I was with the ex of whom I just dreamed. He it was who noticed a lump, a big one - I suspect this is why my subconscious presented me with his image. At that time, I went to the doc, who wanted to biopsy the whole thing, just cut it out. Mum appeared with a special diet, talking to me about how studies had shown that women in Northern European countries suffered from more lumps than those in the Southern Med, possibly due to meat and dairy. I stopped both instantly, and I admit, when presented with the free gift of a Harry Oldfield session by a friend, took it. Harry said that while he couldn't take the place of a medical practitioner, as far as he could tell the lump was entirely benign Went to the surgeon about a month later, he couldn't find any lump to cut. I don't know if that was the diet, Harry, or me, and I don't care, as I am about to do the same thing over again. The doctor had shrugged. 'Maybe you had mastitis,' he said, this man who had been ready to harm my body for no reason. Maybe mastitis. Christ.

When I told my doctor today about this occurrence many years ago, he spoke a bit more gently.

'We have come a long way in diagnosis since then,' he said.
Yes, I thought, but your attitude is just as cavalier as the doctor decades back. You talk about these things like they're nothing, like you can lay me down like meat on a slab and cut a bit out of me not even giving me time to get over the shock;I also suffer severe trypanophobia,any thoughts on that, any understanding of the impact this will have on me? No, no, you just want me to be a good girl and do what you decide is good for me. This second examination was with a 'Mr'; they want the surgeon to be ready even before they've seen the results. That's a bit too keen for my comfort. I think what happens is that they assume a biopsy will be needed and that every woman who is told she has a 'lumpy bit' just does as she's told, lies down and gets a needle shoved into her without interfering thoughts from her dim little bonce. NO. He was astonished to hear that word, in this place where what he says goes, this clinic full of male surgeons and female nurses, at men waiting to cut into women and other women being there to comfort us when we are cut. Well no. Not today.

I know my head is not right. I know I need time to straighten out and think.

But no, not today. Maybe not any day.

Not only is my mood terrible, I'm angry at myself for allowing my mood to get so terrible. I keep crying over that damned mammogram, because it hurt so much and because...
because I'm a big baby who wore her bra all night because she wanted something comforting around her chest. I couldn't even look down at myself. I just tried to dream my way into some perfect fantasy bamboo cotton which would soothe away bruises and pains. No, there are no actual bruises, or at least I don't think so, I still can't look at myself. I want a bath but even I can't sit there in the bubbles with my bra on. I'm just losing my mind.

And because my discipline is through the floor I have ignored my plans for a fish and salad lunch and instead eaten every Mars bar ice cream in the house. Can't work, can't write this, can't find a necessary pillow case, can't find the sale details, can't walk, can't breathe, why won't this work, call me back, don't call me back, don't give me trouble, oh wait, do give me trouble because today I am ready for your sorry a-, where's the, can't get the, why won't the Oh God!

Or as Aunty would say, 'Holy Banana!'

Cancelled the eye appointment intended to finish off the other eye appointment which I had to terminate through nausea, unable to bear another person handling my body this week, certainly not poking around my eyeballs. There I was, thinking the shamanic doodads would be such a shot of good feeling I would be able to bear the rest. We live and learn.

Softening myself out of this place, a nice photo from my wedding of good friends around me, remember excellent chums, sensitive, sensible, supportive. Remember, leave the shrieking heights of my head and come down into softness. It's not as though I need to be constructive today, even if that was within my power. Consider passivity that's entertaining. Consider TV.

The British Miracle Meat
https://www.channel4.com/programmes/gregg-wallace-the-british-miracle-meat
This is genius. It's a reworking of Jonathan Swift's 'A Modest Proposal' which I had the pleasure of studying way back in the day, and it's extremely successful, cue controversy. I am delighted they give him credit at the end. Proper satire, magnificent.

Good Omens 2;
Well we're pootling along aren't we? Let's say it's a quasi-adorable series of sketches featuring two great actors playing two beloved characters down through the ages. The way to enjoy it is not to bemoan the filler but accept that the filler is the point.

The Witcher season 3; Hmm or rather https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3ucZAkQmdN0
And speaking of filler, Henry, you may be bailing at the right time. After Arethusa this all gets a bit desperate, with a couple of painfully evident plot holes.

North and South
Marvellous. I love a good brooding hero, and this guy spends most of his time with such a wonderful scowl I would behave badly just to provoke it. Whenever you think he can reach peak glower, he sets the bar higher. There's much in his behaviour which we would now consider seriously creepy, but I admit, he has a warm if seldom seen smile and Sinead Cusack plays an absolute blinder as his mother. Here's a clip for those who love romance but will never get round to watching the whole thing https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3ucZAkQmdN0

The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
What, me, sit here eating ice cream and watching period dramas all afternoon? Oh yes. It's the best cure for soreboob I know. This production's astonishing for two reasons; the main protagonists have real skins like real people with pores,freckles etc. They're no less attractive for their lack of luminous billiard ball complexions. I am the first to admit that Tara Fitzgerald's hairstyle doesn't flatter and Toby Stephens' eyebrows knit so closely together I suspect him of lycanthropy, but these are nothing compared to the demon child Arthur Huntingdon. This little dude scares the bejasus out of me and it never gets better.

But here's what does get better. Two discoveries; one being that R is coming back tonight rather than tomorrow, and the rediscovery of a pillow case saving an entire duvet set from consignment to the bin. My body still hurts but it's improving all the time.

Shouldn't have had all that ice cream though.

A troublesome symptom, a little issue that is probably nothing but
can indicate a serious problem of a kind that needs catching early. Told the doctor, first available date for an appointment?

22nd June.

Best hope it's b*gger all then.