Accepting this is only Day 9 post-surgery I celebrate my brain’s almost return to normal function with this blog. Am hoping the body will follow soon after. Only two days ago my brain couldn’t focus on anything more than the odd visitor in between naps.
Yet, day by day life improves. This is my third day off the painkillers (general abdominal ache seems preferable to the unsettling side effects). I thought I knew about pain: when I first came-round I moaned and the kindly nurse chucked some morphine into my viens: my head went floaty and I forgot to complain. Yet the pain remained.
He-who-must-be-adored has been charming and a complete bastard in equal turns. On Day one, inbetween naps (approx every three minutes) he would ask: ‘Are you OK?’ and I would reply ‘No’. ‘Why not?’ ‘Because I am in pain.’ ‘Yes, but apart from the pain are you OK?’ ‘No.’ ‘Why?’ ‘Because of the pain!’ And so on and so on until he decided he had to get the dustbin-lids home. It is a good thing he’ll never know the pain of having an enlarged uterus yanked out of his middle. I could liken it to a combination of being run over by a truck, giving birth and having a c-section all in one day. But that wouldn’t nearly do it justice. Sweet hey?
He complained to Supersis of my grumpyness. She pointed out twas to be expected.
Now He-who-must-be-adored has temporarily given up saving London to be my nurse-maid and our homemaker. My ‘that’ll do’ approach to home-making has been taken over by a military coup aided and abetted by a large volume of bleach. He keeps me fed and watered with nutritious meals, shops, cooks, does the odd spot of gardening and DIY, does the school run and after-school drop-offs etc and has finally stopped asking the perpetual OK question. I worry that He doesn’t talk to me enough but then I remember He just doesn’t talk enough.
Anyway am off the drugs now and the wind has changed for a rising concern with my addiction to crapallite telly in general and gardening programmes in particular. The view from the sofa gets duller by the minute: and another five weeks to go. Am presently lying in bed typing on the lap-top thinking I have the other end of the sofa to look forward to when I return downstairs. Oh how narrow is my outlook now?
Never has the expression ‘needs to get out more’ been truer. No matter how painful walking is, no matter that I glide on invisible slo-mo ski’s, no matter that I wear surgical socks, no matter that OAPs can overtake me. I need to get out.
Yesterday best-mum-chum walked me to the nearest coffee-shop (only one block away) and my dearest Luvey-friend walked me home. Ah the bliss of being out. Today He-who-must-be-adored walked me to the next coffee shop (a whole two blocks), abandoned me to do groceries before collecting me, rather like the dry cleaning. Twas lovely to escape the sofa, even if I was by myself: and I did have glimpses of Colleen and spots-his-face’s wedding pix to console me (purely to fill the crapallite gap). In anycase I could hardly prop myself up on the sofa today as the room has been tidied, cleared and cleaned to within an inch of its life and I’d only make the place look untidy.
Pre-warned that I may suffer some depression at the loss of an essential part of my womanhood, I’ll admit I am fed-up with the pain and more so from restricted movements, and a restricted life. But fair compensation has come from the kindness of family and friends. To the rest: Pish posh. After almost a decade of “wimin’s problems” it’s no loss.
It’s a bloody liberation.
Wednesday, 18 June 2008
Wednesday, 2 January 2008
It's a new dawn
Up and enjoying the nearly new morning. Thank goodness for a little peace. Hope this isn’t the calm before the storm.
Christmas was fun and went smoothly and the dustbin lids made it to Santa’s nice list. Phew. He-who-must-be-adored and I agreed some years ago not to exchange pointless expensive gifts at xmas and the tradition has extended to not even bothering with small tokens. We share January birthdays anyway and we remind ourselves that it’s all about the lids... our joy comes from their faces during the wrapping-paper-ripping orgy. It can however be a little hard to bear, when camping at Supersis’, and watching them exchange delightful, special, trinkets, like designer jewellery. Bitter? Twisted? Moi?
Christmas day was a quiet affair this year with only 11 of us sharing lunch. And apart from the small issue with the spuds, it all went swimmingly. Good clean competitive fun for all ages from 5 to 70 came with the Nintendo wii (that the elves finally managed to pull out of their hats). But there’s only so many times you can be thrashed by a 5 year old and still keep a bit of good cheer about yourself.
Boxing Day was the usual big fun family affair and the wonder at just how many more children can keep appearing year after year before we finally start hiring a venue. Watched with wry amusement as the twentysomethings judged the ‘youngers’ talent show. I have more than two decades worth of video tape of the ‘olders’ boxing day talents which I’m considering posting on You Tube. But only in the interests of the full-on-embarrassment-factor of course.
Then He-who-must-be-adored was back saving London. Being the holidays an’ all it was, unsurprisingly, short-staffed so He’s put in a lot of hours. The lids and me enjoyed almost growing roots without having someone telling us we needed to get up, dressed and out for some good ole fresh air. It’s the holidays after all.
So, New Year’s Eve was eagerly anticipated as it starts nearly a whole week off for He. Once he managed to escape work that is. We were all dressed and packed waiting for his return so we could de-camp (again) to the Designer house. We arrived to hear three toddlers being bathed, so the evening boded well. But alas. Twas not to be.
Within moments of our arrival, our host with the most, the Sergeant Major was struck down by the dreaded tummy flu. Tried not to take it personally. He-who-must-be-adored asked if we could leave there and then, but I thought it a bit rude, and anyway we’d given over our drive-way to the neighbours, so if we did go home we’d have to park three miles away, would probably get a ticket to boot, and besides we had no ready food at home. Instead we took to taking over in the kitchen so the designer could sort her baby whilst her hubby was otherwise engaged. Thank heavens for second bathrooms.
He-who-must-be-adored tied a tea towel over his face and was seen squirting disinfectant in all manner of places, despite the fact that the Major was quarantined upstairs. I'm not sure what he was trying to achieve when squirting his eyes. On top of that He kept asking would it be rude to leave before midnight? Mrs Forensic asked whether anyone would notice if she put the clocks forward a couple of hours, as she, and Mr Smutty, plus bairns were all suffering with flu. It was going to be a long night. With all this good cheer around I decided to give up being sensible and headed straight for the bubbly stuff. It was fab night from then on in for me.
By the time the copious amounts of food had been served and cleared everyone else finally started to relax as well. A few giggles were even managed as the Dunkirk spirit took over and we saw out the old and welcomed in the New Year.
Half way through the night I swapped wearing my little-un around my face and neck and snuck in with my god-daughter, where we were only slightly disturbed by a cat in a purring frenzy.
So, a subdued day yesterday as the effects of the little-uns sleeping in a strange environment took its toll. Decided the best thing for overtired lids was to get them all to bed before 10pm last night - a first for these holidays.
With all the dread and horror of a scary movie I was awoken at 4am by the most frightful gut-wrenching sound. It took a few minutes for my ears to attune properly before it became clear: He-who-must-be-adored was up wrenching his guts in a ghastly manner. The vile vomit bug had snuck in during the night and assaulted my loved one. We should put a black cross on the door and warn all-comers to keep well away. This house is not safe.
It took me a further full two minutes to decide that in fact our bedroom suite was not safe and I made a speedy exit to the little-un’s bed. But after an hour of her wriggling around I decided I may as well get up and do something useful while I can. You never know when the terrible thing might attack.
In addition to our own three lids we’ve got the Designer’s teenager staying as well. We’ve got a girly outing to the much-anticipated Spice girls concert tonight. (I know it’s sad but we are v v v v v excited). I do not want to be ill. I do not want to have to look after ill kids at the 02 arena.
I have cleaned the kitchen and sprayed disinfectant. I have sorted laundry. I have tidied toys. I have blogged. And yet, still, dawn has not arrived.
Happy New Year.
Christmas was fun and went smoothly and the dustbin lids made it to Santa’s nice list. Phew. He-who-must-be-adored and I agreed some years ago not to exchange pointless expensive gifts at xmas and the tradition has extended to not even bothering with small tokens. We share January birthdays anyway and we remind ourselves that it’s all about the lids... our joy comes from their faces during the wrapping-paper-ripping orgy. It can however be a little hard to bear, when camping at Supersis’, and watching them exchange delightful, special, trinkets, like designer jewellery. Bitter? Twisted? Moi?
Christmas day was a quiet affair this year with only 11 of us sharing lunch. And apart from the small issue with the spuds, it all went swimmingly. Good clean competitive fun for all ages from 5 to 70 came with the Nintendo wii (that the elves finally managed to pull out of their hats). But there’s only so many times you can be thrashed by a 5 year old and still keep a bit of good cheer about yourself.
Boxing Day was the usual big fun family affair and the wonder at just how many more children can keep appearing year after year before we finally start hiring a venue. Watched with wry amusement as the twentysomethings judged the ‘youngers’ talent show. I have more than two decades worth of video tape of the ‘olders’ boxing day talents which I’m considering posting on You Tube. But only in the interests of the full-on-embarrassment-factor of course.
Then He-who-must-be-adored was back saving London. Being the holidays an’ all it was, unsurprisingly, short-staffed so He’s put in a lot of hours. The lids and me enjoyed almost growing roots without having someone telling us we needed to get up, dressed and out for some good ole fresh air. It’s the holidays after all.
So, New Year’s Eve was eagerly anticipated as it starts nearly a whole week off for He. Once he managed to escape work that is. We were all dressed and packed waiting for his return so we could de-camp (again) to the Designer house. We arrived to hear three toddlers being bathed, so the evening boded well. But alas. Twas not to be.
Within moments of our arrival, our host with the most, the Sergeant Major was struck down by the dreaded tummy flu. Tried not to take it personally. He-who-must-be-adored asked if we could leave there and then, but I thought it a bit rude, and anyway we’d given over our drive-way to the neighbours, so if we did go home we’d have to park three miles away, would probably get a ticket to boot, and besides we had no ready food at home. Instead we took to taking over in the kitchen so the designer could sort her baby whilst her hubby was otherwise engaged. Thank heavens for second bathrooms.
He-who-must-be-adored tied a tea towel over his face and was seen squirting disinfectant in all manner of places, despite the fact that the Major was quarantined upstairs. I'm not sure what he was trying to achieve when squirting his eyes. On top of that He kept asking would it be rude to leave before midnight? Mrs Forensic asked whether anyone would notice if she put the clocks forward a couple of hours, as she, and Mr Smutty, plus bairns were all suffering with flu. It was going to be a long night. With all this good cheer around I decided to give up being sensible and headed straight for the bubbly stuff. It was fab night from then on in for me.
By the time the copious amounts of food had been served and cleared everyone else finally started to relax as well. A few giggles were even managed as the Dunkirk spirit took over and we saw out the old and welcomed in the New Year.
Half way through the night I swapped wearing my little-un around my face and neck and snuck in with my god-daughter, where we were only slightly disturbed by a cat in a purring frenzy.
So, a subdued day yesterday as the effects of the little-uns sleeping in a strange environment took its toll. Decided the best thing for overtired lids was to get them all to bed before 10pm last night - a first for these holidays.
With all the dread and horror of a scary movie I was awoken at 4am by the most frightful gut-wrenching sound. It took a few minutes for my ears to attune properly before it became clear: He-who-must-be-adored was up wrenching his guts in a ghastly manner. The vile vomit bug had snuck in during the night and assaulted my loved one. We should put a black cross on the door and warn all-comers to keep well away. This house is not safe.
It took me a further full two minutes to decide that in fact our bedroom suite was not safe and I made a speedy exit to the little-un’s bed. But after an hour of her wriggling around I decided I may as well get up and do something useful while I can. You never know when the terrible thing might attack.
In addition to our own three lids we’ve got the Designer’s teenager staying as well. We’ve got a girly outing to the much-anticipated Spice girls concert tonight. (I know it’s sad but we are v v v v v excited). I do not want to be ill. I do not want to have to look after ill kids at the 02 arena.
I have cleaned the kitchen and sprayed disinfectant. I have sorted laundry. I have tidied toys. I have blogged. And yet, still, dawn has not arrived.
Happy New Year.
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