Last Monday ( 16th) was my birthday – I was 57. Historically on birthdays I tend to be the host and this was no exception. Family were arriving at 6 but I would have all day to sort everything out. Wrong. At 8.15am my daughter was telling me Cerys was unwell and so could I have her, of course I could – I would never say no and my daughter doesn’t take advantage. So my beautiful little ginger bombshell arrived at 9 and kept us busy all morning. Then the carpet man phoned and he was fitting our carpet a day early and oh I’d been asked to pick the twins up. So all in all a very busy day and I don’t cope too well with busy busy. People who are fortunate enough to have never experienced chronic ill health do not understand the spoon theory. This is basically saying we have a limited number of spoons to last us a day , so we have to pace ourself or our spoons will run out before the day is out. Sounds a bit feeble but it’s true. My spoons run out very quickly and there is no coming back until the next day, or maybe the day after. So by the time everyone arrived, I was tired but happy to see everyone and celebrate a birthday that very nearly didn’t happen. They left about 9 and I felt slightly relieved although I love them all to bits. My sister had been on the Prosecco and mumbled something about leaving her car outside. I soon realised she had left the car opposite my neighbours drive which is not good as the neighbour in question does not take kindly to this despite the fact there is plenty of room for her to get out. I end up having to phone my sister who was not amused and had to come back up with twins ‘ in a bloody hurricane’ as she pointed out, to give me keys so I could move the flaming car thereby saving me possible confrontation with the neighbour. By now It was now 10 o clock, I was exhausted and grumpy and snapped at my husband like a bad tempered croc. I eventually sat down at 10.10 with glass of wine, my rather drunk sister had posted something on Facebook along the lines of ‘didn’t realise she had a jumbo bloody jet in her drive’ which started a tirade of questions and comments about ‘the incident ‘. There was no incident, always a drama with my sister. Praying my neighbour was not on Facebook to see the discussion, I went to bed. Spoons had run out about mid afternoon, so so tired. Hubby carried on drinking and eating the left over party food, which I knew he would regret………I awoke at 4am to the sound of him projectile vomiting which continued pretty much all day. Bug or alcohol, not sure but he was really ill. From a selfish viewpoint I prayed I didn’t catch it and avoided him more than usual.
The rest of the week was equally busy and I struggled. I tried to figure out what happened to the days I could sit and watch Pointless or the news, life had become very very busy and I’m not really up to it. The mind is willing but the body is just not able. So much so I treated myself to having a proper gardener come and sort my shrubs out. I have always done everything around the house and garden and I do wonder how I coped. Since my colostomy aged 26 I’ve had about 30 ops and always bounce back but not this time and since my botched op the garden has taken a back seat. I was looking forward to gardener Steve sorting stuff out. In fairness he turned up as planned as explained to me how to look after all my various plants, everything had a big haircut and it looks much better. He came back the following day to finish off and did a great job.
So any fistula followers you may wonder what is the point of this post….. well not a lot other than trying to explain the impact of chronic illness on our day to day life. Despite having a stoma for ever I never considered myself ill before because I wasn’t. Now I never really feel well and every day is a struggle of some sort. My husband is not patient and wants his wife back 👊 well yes I would very much like to come back to the person I was and I’m doing my best but chronic illness isn’t like that. He can’t appreciate that life has changed and I’m not as capable as I was but I am the same person. There’s not much support for me let alone my husband so we muddle through. Good days and bad days. Ups and downs blah de blah ❤️ Good friends get me through plus my daughter, grandaughter and the twins of course. I’m eternally grateful to the people who believe in me when I don’t really believe in myself some days, and continue to hope that il get used to this and start living again.
The phone rings , I answer and it’s the care home. My mother hasn’t been great this week – she had a brain haemorrhage 5 years ago and when my op went wrong she had to go into a home as I couldn’t cope ( hello massive guilt trip). The carer told me the doctor had been called as they thought she had a urine infection ( standard). I asked what symptoms she had and they said ‘ oh she’s on and off sleepy, very confused, lashing out and stripping off ‘. I remind them she’s had a brain haemorrhage and the symptoms sound like a small bleed so I was glad they had called the doctor but the carer was adamant it was a urine infection. She closed the phonecall by saying ‘ oh your mother is in a wheelchair now ramming the patio door’ but I wasn’t to worry, she would sort it………