Carpe effing diem

I have finally come to terms with the fact that I am no longer who I was. For 75 years I did what I wanted when I wanted to. I ate what I wanted I slept when I wanted I walked and danced and hustled my way through a busy, working life.
And then in July of this year the decline started.
Now I battle with whats going to give up first my kidneys, my lungs, or my heart, yesterday I came out of hospital after another stint of drainage and infusions. I speak with my darling friends who worry and pray. Today the husband of my oldest friend talked to me about quality of life, he’s a top oncologist and physician.
He advised me about majoring on the kidneys, get dialysis and hopefully I can have four days out of seven with some normality in life.
I felt strangely optimistic, he said I looked well and my new lipstick colour suited me.
Watching the telly and suddenly a wave of fear washes over me.
I can’t breathe, will I make it through the night, and then I clear my head. I have to empty my head of any negative thoughts and remember I am a mother a wife, a grandmother an aunt. I have a cousin who cares, and enough extended family that say they need me.

Last week whilst slumped over my hospital tray sucking in fish pie – and sucking on an apple – I thought perhaps that death would be favourable. But I discovered today that the mother of my cousin Auntie Maisie got afflicted with the same package of ill health and was too frightened to address it. She died aged 75 with blisters and hopelessness.
So this afternoon I rearranged my thinking. I would eat what is good for the kidneys, I would take the drugs, I would make the hospital part of my life. I would stop blaming myself and stop whining. I would give in and surrender to the route that people like me find themselves in.
I’m jealous of people who walk normally. I miss Ashdown Forest. I miss dog walking, not that we have a dog any more, but I miss the idea of running through gorse and catching my breath, because catching my breathe now takes time. I sit on the edge of the settee, curl my tongue and scoop in air, count to four and let it out. I do it at least four times which gives me enough oxygen to walk into the kitchen.
Th old git cooks and brings we glasses of water. I have hired a cleaner and a gardener, who are now keeping our little cottage standing. The Actors Benevolent Fund give us money – a charity for ailing performers – they help us out with bills. Without them I dont know how we would cope. I’ve always been shit with money so we have no savings and no properties in Spain, the concept of living in the moment is now real.

I have finally come to terms with what I am – lay future is not the same. If I had a twin sister she would have the prospect of years and years of parliamentary playtime and Trump induced chaos, but I dont have. I pulled the short straw I am the twin sister with a reduced life expectancy. It hit me whilst watching Stricly’. I could no more dream of doing an Argentinian Tango than abseiling down the Devils Causeway.

I have resisted writing blogs, making phone calls, talking to my agents. I have stopped shopping and having coffee in The Deer Park café whilst the plants in the attic are missing me cos I cant get upstairs to water them. Tomorrow the supportive husband and I will methodically water them all.

And so this is an update, I dont know what I can pull off. How long I can manger coughing and spluttering, breathlessness and insomnia. But with the help of my nephew and brother my husband and dawter, with the help of a team of healers and helpers I will do my best.
I’m not ready to die just yet but sometimes I feel the finger tips of the grim reaper tapping me on the shoulder.

I now have to start living differently, asking for help, receiving help and slowing down. For 75 years I have been spontaneous and alive, now tickling the cat and watching life through the window is better than moping in the corner.

What a strange time eh?