This is it. Bye for now

Hurricane Debbie. That’s what they should call me today. I’ve just sat down to take a breather between hoovering, dusting, cleaning bathrooms.

I’ll never get it all done before I go in hospital tomorrow. Why do us women nest like this? I’m the same at Christmas, before I go on holiday, if I go on a writing course, and now before I go in for my surgery.

There are a million things to do but I am compelled to make sure the house is clean, the washing is up to date, the boys all have shirts, school uniform, Chef whites lined up for the next few days.

I know they’ll be fine. It’s not as if they’re babies. They’re all quite self sufficient (they’ve had to be with my health.) And my hubby is a gem at times like these. Even with his mountain of work, he’ll cope wonderfully as he always does.

'You don’t need to do all this, we can do it,’ he chastises me.

I know they can. But making sure everything is in order is my way of having a little control. It makes me feel better; gives me peace of mind, knowing that while I’m away, they will all be okay. And lets be honest, being busy distracts me.

The pre-op on Thursday made it all feel real. Pulling up on the car park of the Priory, Birmingham my stomach collapsed inwardly, my legs turned to Bambi and my heart banged against my chest, attempting to escape.

I can’t escape. It has to be done. I know it will all go well. I have the best surgeon in the country for this complex surgery.

Because of my health complications the Anaesthetist wanted to see me at the pre-op to check a few things. He’ll come to see me tomorrow too beforehand. It helps that he is completely gorgeous. His bright green eyes are intense but kind, his presence is reassuring. He anticipates my surgery lasting at least seven hours and I have to be catheterised (which I've never had before) but the good news is I won't be on a ventilator - they need me to be alert, to keep my airwaves clear and get me mobile as soon as possible afterwards. Being on a ventilator was one of my fears so that’s good.

So, the plan is, I go into hospital tomorrow (Wednesday) at 1pm and in view of the length of surgery, should go down first (about 3.30pm) to theatre. All being well, I should be finished by about 10-11 pm and straight into intensive care. It depends how I get on the first day whether I'll stay in intensive care another night or go to my own room. Do you want to place your bets now as to how long you think I’ll be in there? You bet. I’m hoping to be home for Sunday or Monday.

Don’t worry. I'm a good patient so I won’t rush things. I’ve had enough operations to know it’s best to do as I'm told. And at least at the other side of all of this, I will be able to be proactive at helping myself recover. For the last year and a half I’ve been helpless and at times, terribly depressed, overwhelmed by pain and the misery of my whole predicament.

At last, this is what I’ve been waiting for.

I have never been more frightened about any operation than this. I wish Woozle was still with us. I miss her. But I know she’s with me in spirit and wishing me a speedy recover. I will get that cup of tea and huge slice of cake at De Grays very soon.

One day. One precious day. One drop of time.

I’ll see you when I see you.

Until then

Bye for now

xx

Season of mists and mellow thoughtfulness

Seven days home and already my tan is washing away in the inclement weather. Loads of washing almost complete, the ironing beckons. Quiet Mousie has settled back into school. Idle Jack once again looks handsome in his chef whites.

I sit at the island in the kitchen and look out. Outside, the world looks an oppressive grey and the hills sit in suspended animation on the horizon with rain-filled clouds sagging over them, waiting to burst. Autumn has applied its brush strokes to the surrounding countryside. Leaves have turned to browns and ochre as green chlorophyll is leached from the trees. Hedgerows bulge with brambles and hawthorns. Elderberry and apple trees bow under the weight of fruit. The swallows have gone but finches, buntings and sparrows flock across the country lanes. Fields lay bare; the harvest gathered and already turned over by ploughs leaves pheasants and partridges exposed. Next door’s straw is stacked against our fencing for winter use. In our courtyard, freshly delivered logs sit neatly stacked, ready for the first fire of the season.

Antigua is a distant dream and as my list of things to do grow in my Filofax, I begin the countdown to surgery.


13th October has a large red circle around the date. And I’ll confess to being ever so slightly in a panic. About everything; the domestic arrangements and whether I’ll get it all done in time, the children, the animals, the housework (I haven’t nested like this since I was last pregnant.) Most of all it’s the thought of six hours of surgery and waking up in intensive care, and the long recovery. This is the biggest thing I’ve had over my thirty years with Behcets disease.

It’s hard. I’m frightened. My chest has taken on the feel of a cage. A bird flutters constantly within it. My insomnia has returned. However with the electric blanket now on the bed, my duvet cocoons me and getting up in the night doesn’t have quite the same appeal in autumn and winter. So I stay huddled beneath, staring up at the vaulted ceiling, watching the oversized illuminated digital clock project itself up onto the bedroom ceiling, the rhythmic flashing on and off, on and off, as the second’s ticks away and morning draws closer.

On Monday 5th October my replacement jaw joints will wing their way across the Atlantic and wait for me in a lab in Birmingham. 7th October is pre-op day. I’ve treated myself to new slippers, pyjamas and a ‘cardigown,’ an ideal jacket rather than full length dressing gown, made of soft fleece fabric. Nan would have called it a bed jacket. I had a facial last week; a vain attempt to prepare my skin in addition to the copious amounts of bio oil I slap on my face. My hair has been a dilemma. I contemplated having it all cut off so it wouldn’t be so noticeable when they shave each side, but then figured that it’s probably best to leave it long - that was idea of growing it in the first place – it would be better to help cover the swelling. And after surgery, I can always have lots of layers cut into it to disguise the scars.

I miss writing. In between the fuzz of chaos, I think about writing and my projects. For now, I must be content simply with thinking about them. Usually at this time of year I would be picking elderberry’s to make wine, plucking rosehips to dry in the airing cupboard ready for Christmas garlands and pot pourri, thumbing through the charity catalogues for my Christmas cards.

There’s no time for any of it. I need to prioritise. And remain positive.



In two weeks time it will be over. By Christmas, my consultant tells me I might be able to have a little food. Hopefully, soon I will be able to eat a banana, hug and kiss people again, talk and yawn without it feeling as if my jaws are dislocating, turn over on my side in bed, brush my teeth properly and visit the dentist. In a year’s time, life should be much improved. After the eighteen months I’ve had, it will be good to have my life back.

So until another day

Bye for now
x