Two sorts of progress

The back is healing gently, I can walk a bit further each day, bend a little nearer my knees, and I'm managing with far less pharmacology, which is fine. I'm really tired, and that is not helped by being bored and trying to do too much, but that's totally in my nature. i slept for 3 hours this afternoon and woke up to the sound of much-welcome rain... I really don't want to have to take naps, seems just such a waste of the daytime
So, yes, perhaps life will be tolerable, and I may eventually not feel too disabled by all this, but that's a bit distant at the moment. I hate feeling needy, really don't want to ask for help all the time, and I get so very lonely. Phone calls and lunch-with-HB and emails are OK, but I really miss having a second person breathing in my space..

So, for you, my lovely man, so far, so very far..

It's almost 7 months since I looked around and found you had gone, between one breath and one not-breath, so quietly. I have found it so hard, I've been angry to the point of shouting at you so many times. I find myself in floods of tears from a tiny reminder. I know this is normal, but hey! it's not my idea of useful.

How dare you leave me with all this stuff to do!  I haven't got time to do all your jobs as well as mine. And I'm sorry I wasn't more appreciative of the small stuff you did every day.

The shouting is a waste of time, of course, because you really aren't here. I have known so many people who left, but didn't really leave; a presence, however tiny, would be such a comfort..It seems that an afterlife is dependent on your ideas, not mine...

All I have is little piles and big boxes and stacks of unsorted Stuff, and handwriting. Everywhere, labels, notebooks with cryptic oddments and sad little lists and a whole big box of cards and notes and odd things you wrote to me over 30 years..

Enough. I'm feeling sorry for myself, and that won't do..

Sleep well

Just been in for much-needed surgery...

...at the local private hospital, doing urgent elective work for the NHS at the moment.. 
I have had a minimally-invasive microdiscectomy, laminectomy, and nerve decompression.. I hope, soon, to have a working leg...

This post is an edited version of a couple of emails, saving on good writing and low energy! I sent this one just before I went in


<<Should only be in overnight, but I will have 6 weeks of no lifting, twisting, or bending (haven’t quite worked out how putting on socks goes with this*). I plan to take orders but not send anything for the sewing-machine stuff for three weeks at least. Did my last batch of post last night (four tescobags full (new measurement, officially recognised by the EU))

The hospital is private and only doing surgery; own room, shower etc, so not too appalling or noisy for a night. And the surgeon has a great reputation, and is something of a pessimist. I have had enough of optimistic surgeons; the one who last had his knives into John was full of “Oh, he’ll be home in three days and walking just fine” which turned out to be a nightmarishly noisy and disturbed 8 days and never walked further than the bathroom again… I prefer pessimistic.. He also has a terrific reputation and I keep coming across people he has fixed..

The pre-op stuff, which last time with John was 3-1/2 hours trailing round endless chunks of hospital with a wheelchair and Paul to push same, was almost all done on the phone, while I sat in the garden and drank tea.. I do hope this turns into a regular idea, as it is just so much better.. I had to go in on Tuesday for bloods, Covid test, and height-and-weight stuff, but that was OK, took less than an hour, and it was so nice to get out and drive my big car - it will probably be 6 weeks before I do that again. 

I also think that this weekend’s (July 4th) beach, bar, and brawling idiocies will cause another big flare and more lockdown, so I think my impeccable timing has managed another good strike…

Off to charge up my Kindle, which is full of new books, and pack my bag…

And my garden is just lovely, and Paul will come and cut the grass; Abi will come and do housework, I knew there was a reason for having children <grin>

>>

And just after I came out, 

Well, that was interesting. I now have a complete understanding of why people pay for medical treatment.. Large clean single rooms; quiet; windows you can open, see out of, and with trees outside. Very passable and freshly-prepared food and Hot hot drinks (although, as my hearing is pretty good, I did work out that us NHS-paid bods got a much simpler and less-exciting menu.) Lots of nurses -  I needed lots of help in the night and didn’t wait more than a minute or so for it to arrive… No middle-of-the-night blood-pressure checks - unless they were worried, they said most people can last 6 hours.. (That’s so hard if you are struggling to sleep)

No parking charges, or mad scrambles to park. More than enough spaces...

Probably the best local surgeon (by all accounts one of the best in the country) working there under the NHS with his entire team. He came in before and after surgery and again this morning, with no  trailing retinue of snotty students. He had lots of time to discuss treatment, future possible problems, etc. (I don’t mind teaching, but some of the students are beyond a joke unpleasant and/or condescending. Actually, I approve of teaching hospitals, as did John, but they make for rushed consultations most of the time)

No shortages of PPE, kit, equipment, ancilliary staff. Big clean nonscruffy towels in a nice wet-room bathroom (sadly, I didn’t get as much use out of that as I would have liked)

As compared with 5 nights in a store room (literally) at the Norfolk & Norwich (nurses coming and going all night to find stuff and a bed at a very funny angle), on a ward where the only Disabled-access bathroom was reserved for men. I appreciate that this was an “extra” bed and I needed it, but really!

(I did spend the last two nights at the N&N in a “private” room with ensuite shower etc. but that was because they did actually decide to treat me instead of umming and ahing. The private facilities at the N&N have been taken over by the NHS full-time)

There again, my spine is a permanent mess, I have lost 3cm in height (possibly more, that was before the surgery) and 90% of two discs, and I’m going to have to rejig my business yet again.. 

>>

I’m home, cat is keeping me company, I’m showered and fed and amazingly sore and so glad to be back in my nice peaceful space... I just need to stop myself going nuts with boredom and doing-too-much-too-soon (always a danger with me) and keep on taking the drugs...

*Turns out that socks, and picking-things-up-from-the-floor, and putting on shoes, is all down to yet more extremely ugly but functional gadgets, issued with instructions BEFORE the op by a charming and helpful and not-condescending Physiotherapist... She started in standard old-lady-speak, and transitioned extremely smoothly to you-know-what-you-are-talking-about technical terms.. I wish more medical bods would do this <sigh>. Then I got a check-up and are-you-managing-well-enough before I came home.

I have a spondylolisthesis at L5/S1, have not yet discovered the grade or whether anterior or posterior.. More stuff to ask!

The Widow...

...has made Jam. And Damson curd.
Need some fancy labels.
John picked the damsons, right at the end of his active life, from our lovely damson tree. The freezer is still pretty full
I had forgotten just how messy jam is!

The Remedies of Dr Bach

I have used these for some years, recently more off than on. John would take them if offered, and my good friend Lizzie would dowse a suitable one and then I would go to the tin and dispense... Good for emotional stuff, stuckness, loss of confidence, you know, all that hippy woo, or would be, except that they work. The one you have come across is Rescue Remedy, they even sell three formulations of that in Tescos

And the tin was a bit of a mess, and impossible to dowse over, so I made a clean-up, and a re-stock, and a new/old box.

I don't quite remember where this box came from - I buy up what I politely call Dead Men's Boxes from time to time, usually hugely jumbled, messy heaps of spares, old screws, bits of paper and trash with a smattering of treasures included, from retired or dead sewing-machine mechanics. If I'm lucky, I get to meet them and they are usually happy to see me go away with a car-full and a bit lower on cash. If not, I meet widows or sons with slightly baffled expressions (why would this lady want these?) and these lots tend to be messier and cheaper.

So this lovely box is made from the base of a small (German?) sewing machine, with a slightly random lid attached with brass hinges. The lid is missing a bit from one corner and is a totally different wood, but that's OK. Inside, it had horrid plywood dividers, which I removed and burned. And this delightful label...

...which gets to stay. I polished and sanded and waxed just enough to make it shiny and not so much that the patina (and the tea-cup mark) were lost, and made a tray from very thin ply enclosed in fabric, so two layers - there was only just room, so the ply is very thin...

Here. with the top layer removed. I also have and use Bailey's remedies now, and I have a few of these. They seem to work together pretty well, and I can dowse the whole box happily...

My old Bach list is now thumb-tacked inside the lid, and I am happy with this altogether...
I buy these from Yorkshire Flower Essences and I have always been impressed with their service and care

So, all tidy. Something for me. Don't do nearly enough for me these days..

Two days off, apart from the phone, I think. Naps, eat nice things, slow down...

Angry Part the Second

Still simmering, but putting that energy to good use in a good many ways. Burned a lot of rubbish. Shifted and sifted a lot of crap, and nothing sits on the stairs. Next, the big pile of belts, manuals, case parts. It's all so damned slow.

Found that I can dowse, and teach the skill, not that I doubted this for a moment.

Working on the Wise Woman, because, by all the gods and fishes, she is just so powerful..

And claiming my life, my space, my time, my sanctuary, my work...

Onwards and onwards, I think, with steam coming from my ears...

Angry

Because I have lost so much that didn't need to be lost. Because surgeons follow stupid sets of rules about what needs to be done and how, instead of asking the patients what they want and what they can deal with and live with, so they waste a life that didn't need to be wasted.  And because we had four years of a nasty oozing wound for no good reason. And a year of chemo, for no good reason, and obfuscation and mealy-mouthed euphemistic "palliative" "care", and referalls that didn't and long, long waits in waiting rooms with no amusement value whatsoever...

Because I have lost something infinitely precious to me, the qigong; because my stupid teacher wanted a class full of ladies who want to fuck him rather than a room full of good students who look after each other and appreciate the heritage, and because then I got self-conscious and lost the will to practice.. And because his teacher could not forgive something not my fault, and just made meanness and more meanness that I didn't deserve.
A waste of time and energy and this magical infinitely powerful stuff which was so good for me.

Because my house is a mess and full of crap that I don't like or want, but which seems too good to get rid of.

Because I can't find any damned thing when I put it down, and I spend so much time each day looking for lost things, a waste of my energy and time and frustration

Because the idiotic bad back is causing me so many knock-on problems - the drugs are not good for me, they put weight on me and are addictive (and I have had to chase the prescriptions so many times), the pain is disabling, the lack of mobility is disabling, the lack of flexibility and strength is disabling, the uncertainty is causing me despair..

And because the world is so obsessed with one medical thing, that I can't even discuss any of my problems with a doctor. Surely they aren't all out of the office?

Because I need to be competent and keep my business going and I run away from big orders and witter about...

And because the todo list gets longer and longer and I really can't prioritise.

And I'm angry, because pretty much all of this could be solved (not the idiot surgeon, that's too late) if only I just got on with everything..

So, time to catch my breath, kick the collective ass a little, tidy up, throw stuff away, finish all those stupid jobs, get the stocktaking properly under weigh, and stop crying.. Time to stop feeling sorry for myself...
After all, no-one else wants the job...

Compost

The plan was to build John a Man Cave shed at the bottom of the garden, and that he would put his lathe and big drill and everything in there and potter. And, perhaps, get a bit of peace and quiet. We had costed up the shed and thought about all the important stuff, like a Thinking Armchair.
Then, in May, when it looked like he might only have a few days to live, we made the decision, more on his side than mine, that this was the end of his working time, and he was, whatever else happened, retired for good

And he came home. Now, part of the plan was to move the compost bins further up the garden, putting them behind the two arches that split off the vegetable garden, and making new bins from nice pallet wood. One was part-made. I finished it, and looked at it in it's new place, and put it firmly back at the bottom of the garden where the old one had been.

And there it has stayed
.
And, until yesterday, it leaned nicely to the left, which was annoying, and not up to John's fairly rigorous standards for woodwork (I did make the sides myself, but he had cut and painted all the wood)
So, I've been shifting and sifting - see the new veg bed above. The compost is lovely, apart from the huge amount of twigs...
You can't get the staff these days (I paid someone to shift the right bin to the left last year. This year, no such available staff)
You cannot beat home-made compost for growing good crops, and mine has every scrap of kitchen waste, grass cutting, and tops of nettles (no roots!), soft weeds, all manner of stuff.. I found a rat skull in the bottom of the new bin...
When we came here the garden suffered badly from having had the topsoil disturbed and the clay subsoil exposed. After two years, no more digging (I use a fork only, and do not walk on the beds)

By last night, the new bin was empty enough to tip the whole thing over, roll it onto it's head, and let it dry out a bit

This morning, in a fit of enthusiasm, I levelled the ground (and dug out 4 more barrowloads of good compost), laid four leftover pavers into the base, applied the spirit level, and tamped down (by jumping up and down), then rolled the bin back into place... Look! No lean!

Now I just have to shift all the Stuff from right to left again, and the Stuff at the bottom of the right-hand bin may be usable almost at once. The secret to all of this system of compostery is patience. Shift only once a year, fill the right bin, empty the left...
I hope John is / would be approving, apart from the little voice I could hear going "Don't lift the stones" at the back of my head.  Didn't lift, rolled...

I hope you are proud of me, my lovely man. I am trying to keep standards high.