I should be on my way to New York today. But I’m here, sitting at the island in our kitchen, looking out at the emerald green fields to the front of the barn.
A nearby farm house is cradled in a dip as if to keep snug from the elements. Outside the wind buffets the double glazing and shakes at the bird feeders on the trees until they slide off and scatter peanuts over the ground. The cat, his fur ruffled, darts across the garden like a thing possessed and pleads with urgent mews to come in. He cosies up alongside the dog that is at my feet. We all hide away.
I haven’t been well for weeks. I thought it was the after effects of my recent surgery. Then I supposed it was my age. Eventually I went to the doctors. An enlarged uterus was diagnosed. What now. More blood tests, an ultrasound showed nothing serious although I have to see a gynaecologist and have more investigations. Sometimes I get so sick of always having something wrong with me.
It got worse. After spending most of the weekend in bed, I woke on Monday morning with crippling stomach pains. Hubby had to rush me to A & E where we spent most of the day. Inflamed ovaries. As well as my Behcets disease, I’m now a menopausal old bag. No, that’s a little melodramatic - I’m not quite past it yet - I’m still producing hormones, they are imbalanced. It’s the peri-menopause. Great. It might go on for years.
We’re delighted to hear I will be allowed home with pain killers, as long as I rest. But we’re supposed to be going to New York on Thursday. It’s been planned for months. We had to cancel twice last year with my jaw problems.
'I’m afraid I can’t support a trip to New York.’ The doctor frowns and in a few short words shatters our day.
All I wanted was to go up the Empire State Building and re-live the moment in 'Sleepless in Seattle.' To see the Phantom of the Opera on Broadway and the Statue of Liberty from the Staten Island ferry. And meet my cyber-friend Frances who I’ve been acquainted with for several years.
The hubby is brave and philosophical. We can't take the risk if something goes wrong while we're out there. And the insurance would be invalidated if the doctor won't support us going. The boys are stoic and cheerful. In the scheme of life it’s not important. It's just a trip. There will be other trips. But we all know I’m not really robust enough for city breaks. Better in the future stick to sunshine, pool, and writer’s holidays. When I come through the disappointment, I will bounce back as I always do, and tell myself there are people far worse off than me. And there are.
Something crashes outside. A garden chair has flipped back in the wind. Callum’s goalposts are strewn upside down in the neighbour’s garden. All I can think about is in the bedroom the clothes are all still draped over the clothes horse, ready to pack in the suitcases. Sometime today I shall have to put them all back in our wardrobes.
I’ll get over it. I always do. In the meantime, I’ll write - push on with the novel for the RNA New Writer’s Scheme. I won’t be having a few days break from it after all.
So until another day
Bye for now
Rumpus Original Fiction: Day of the Dead
13 minutes ago