It comes as no surprise that here, now on a beautiful Sunday morning the lyrics of Time fill my head.
The result, I think, of a mental wrestling match being fought in those periods when my brain collapses in a heap and thoughts line up and wait their turn rather than race about, when they tire of shouting at me to let me know how important they are, when they take a moment to breathe before the next bout of pushing and shoving each other out of the way.
It seems my cognitive processes have become so post-modern, every though considers itself more important than the other, all feel the need to be heard, all demand to be listened to and each is convinced of his, her, its, own overriding superiority. Unfortunately it leaves me drained, exhausted, confused and, at this moment, annoyed. I need to make sense of those parts of last week that I remember. I need to write this now.
I've not felt that before. The blog has been a means of condemning events to history. I haven't read this blog. I write it. I move on. Today it feels different. Yesterday, at this time plans were being made. Plans to visit family, friends. Plans to go out for a meal. All sorts of plans. Then Saturday happened. I can't get my head around that, yet.
I've already mentioned Tuesday but after that came Wednesday, Thursday and Friday and although I can recall the days and events I cannot accurately tie them chronologically without help.
I know that on Tuesday one of our friends, our long suffering and always on call
Our nurse definitely came on Tuesday afternoon as I have totally no memory of her visit at all. I do, however, have a cuddly pasty. Wednesday began with the delight of seeing this pasty on my listening seat, it's just where I sit when alone with nothing more than vibrating diaphragms for company.
How good a friend do you have to be to think that the most appropriate gift imaginable at his time, in these circumstances is a cuddly pasty? A very good one is the answer. How can you even look at it without it bringing a smile and an inrun of pleasant thoughts? It is noticeable that pleasant thoughts, whilst still by far a huge majority, are no longer the only ones.
On Wednesday my brother turned up. He'd been shopping, too. A bag full of edible goodness. Most importantly for me, a roll of Hogg's Pudd'n. It was, and remains my second favourite delicacy after a pasty but I probably couldn't manage a pasty yet. The Hogg's Pudd'n was finished last night. So great was the burden of the bag he brought that cooking duties were unnecessary for a couple of meals which I may not have realised was such a big deal as it was.
The doctor came. Wednesday. Largely after advice from our cuddly pasty bearing nurse my protector arranged a house call. The belly, which I felt was trying to leave me was, in fact, trying to do just that. I don't know his name but he was a lovely chap, he understood my flakiness and I was generously assured that he didn't mind coming to see me but I have an incisional hernia. Not really a big deal except that in this case the incision is rather long. Gently the explanations filtered through with the result that I live with it, best option, have surgery but after Chemo or if it gets hard, painful, pops out to say hello or deteriorates otherwise then we'll deal with it at that point. All quite dispassionate, logical and he wouldn't stay for coffee.
The rest of the week appears in my mind under the heading "frenzied."
There are photos cascading from ceiling to floor in two places. I know I put them there, with help, but I don't remember when. All I remember is that I absolutely had to do it then. Whenever then was. I recall a friend helping to order them when he and his wife visited. He stayed to ensure that my carer was at ease when she and his wife went shopping.
Like everything in my carers daily toil, the shopping was for me. A mile or so of crepe bandage to add support to the errant belly and knife blades for the craft knife with which I'd cut yards and yards of mountboard in the preceding hours.
The ideas come. They don't develop, although I'm sure I've had embryos of them they arrive complete. In detail, in dimension, in Amazon boxes awaiting installation.
Once present they have to be fulfilled. They demand completion. Nothing else matters. I get going for minutes. Fall in a heap. Repeat. Repeat. Till complete. This is odd. I am not known for my desire to get things done and the concept of doing it now is a new one. But it had to be done now. This is not the best modus operandi, especially when you can't do it on your own and people are on telly playing bat and ball with nets.
The intensity of these driven moments results in a degree of tiredness that soon becomes exhaustion but I'm powerless to ignore the need to do it. Fortunately for our walls and the aesthetics of our home I have currently run ashore on the mundane coast where the only vestige of creativity has long since rotted away.
It cannot be good that the absence of a creative dribble gives way to a more practical deluge. I speak of mortice locks. I need to fit one to the front door in place of the deadlock. I know how to do it. I have the tools. I have done it loads of times. I have spent hours looking at the dimensions of mortice locks online wondering how many mm in 2 1/2". I know the answer. But it doesn't come when thinking of mortice locks. I have had to resort to android calculator. I know 2 1/2" is 70mm, near enough but when I need it it's not there. I even had to consciously think through the process. I've undertaken the process umpteen times, with Jennings bits and flat bits, not to mention my trusty 1/2" firmer chisel. But I've spent ages turning this over I my head and it just won't go until when it has gone and it's all clear as a bell anyway. It takes till those times, too to remember that the act of winding a brace or driving a flat bit into an old wooden door frame is not going to happen. Not today.
The irrationality of my thoughts is, thankfully, seen as such in the calmer, exhausted, glazed over moments. The problem comes when it isn't but I'm glad to say I neither know how to order from Amazon nor do I have a clue where the credit card is.
Above all reflections of the week glistens those who give most. Those who cement this time in reality and leave you wondering why people think to even bother to go out of their way, sometimes a very long way out of their way, those who graciously visit. They provide the mountain top from which vantage point a perspective can be trusted.
Looking back over the last week, I'm confused, tired, useless but so chuffed at having spent time with friends from round the corner who we see frequently, those who have to go out of their way and whom you see rarely. Those you've known all your life, those from school, college and all places since.
I'm not known for ever having been a people person but I'm so grateful that our friends invariably are.
Obviously, it's not me, it's my carer they come to see, I just happen to be here, churning over the minutiae of mortice locks until the next steroid lets loose the chemical leash currently holding the dogs of imagination in check.
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