The third instalment in an ongoing series which was born of me not wanting to keep dealing with people’s incredulous looks when I tell them what I do. Continue reading “How Do You Fit It All In? #3”
As we all know, I’ve been stumbling through life a bit pathetically over the past few months, after my internal organs started trying to kill me. They probably won’t succeed, because they haven’t succeeded any other time they’ve tried and because I’m getting treatment, but in the meantime I’m pretty much housebound, except for occasional trips to the supermarket at the end of the road on days when I have enough energy to walk there.
Yesterday was one of those days (yay!) and I went to buy some washing up sponges and some pears. Now that I can sometimes eat successfully, I am experimenting with different foods. So far most non-citrus fruits seem to be OK most of the time (double yay).
On my way there I bumped into a friend whom I haven’t seen since just before I got ill. We had a brief conversation, then he went on his way, I did my shopping and came home. On the way back I realised that his reaction has been a textbook example of the best way to act when someone you know is seriously ill. I know it’s a subject that’s understandably difficult for a lot of people – what should I say? when should I say it? is it OK to ask stuff? – so I thought I’d use him as an example and write a post about it.
My mother and I, sequestered away in a house in the Scottish hills, a roaring fire in front of us complementing the howling wind outside. A melted camembert sits on the floor between us, waiting to be devoured, and I have just uncorked a bottle of wine. The glug-glug-glug as it reaches the glasses, one of the most promising sounds in the world, makes us both smile.