Like bashful ladies the leaves waved in the wind. I sat at the kitchen table and watched. The clouds heavy and Sid out and about. We have a visiting Jack Russel so Sid goes off, now I know he always returns but
it’s stressful though.
I went to Lidls’ and bought flat peaches and flat nectarines, by the time I got home the sun had come out. I sat in the garden looking at my newly planted dahlias and fuchsias, daisies and peonies all flowering in their pots, I’ve taken to sweeping away the eucalyptus leaves daily, with a big broom and hoeing the dry earth to get rid of all the weeds. I’m getting my old energy back.
Today the heart nurse called, I should have gone to the hospital after my echocardiogram on Saturday but I misread the email and waited in for a phone call instead. Now, despite my best effort’s, my potassium is TOOOOOO low. This prompted a huge gasp from the cardiac doctors.
Having laid off high potassium foods I made meatballs in tomato sauce and shoved it down like I was desperate – which of course I am – getting the bloomin’ levels right is a flamin’ nightmare. I am learning that things take time, I have little patience,learning that this dis-ease is a process. It’s hard for me cos I’m not that kinda gal I want results now and I want the results to remain the same, but hey ho at 76 I’m having to rewrite my own rule book.
It has enabled me to make friends with the garden. I’ve now made peace with the irritation of returning weeds, and I am watering diligently; the runner beans and asparagus plant, the new hydrangeas and all me new pots.
I have Radio 3 playing in the background, my new drug, at 11.00 off goes the telly box and on comes jazz and all sorts. I recently heard Swedish music from 1964. I called up Bjorn, I’ve known him as long as the old git we worked together in Malmó in 1976, and he’s sending me a copy so I don’t have to pay £47 for it.
The music soothes and excites equally, whilst I pack my bag for the dry cleaners. In goes a Granny Smith, a slice of pumpernickel bread and a bag of drugs. I charge this lap top and my phone, pack my headphones and a CD player then set the alarm for 7.30. Slowly, slowly I’m getting used to my new routine. Life begins at noon after I’ve been bled dry, then I sweep and sit on the swing set and swing.
It’s taken me nearly a year to live without work. Without travelling, without telly, without radio, without a routine. Not retired exactly but the fucked up kidneys have taken the pressure off, I cannot do what I did I can only do some of it. Medical procedures are my new outings.
The doctor called today about my new operation next week.
An artery and a vein will be connected and a fistula inserted. I kissed my little brown arm today it’ll never look the same. After six weeks when the fistula is healed I have the line removed from my chest and the plastic pipe taken out of my neck. I will be able to swim and bathe, use the jacuzzi and steam room. I will be able to sit in the sauna and sweat. I will have some semblance of my old life back.
I read bout Wincey Willis the weather girl, dying of dementia at 76. We worked together on TVam. When I got sacked for breast feeding my baby on air, Wincey organised a whip round and drove down to the cottage with an envelope fat with pound notes. £300 a fortune 38 years ago. She couldn’t understand how I wasn’t seething with anger, I’d learnt then that one finger pointing at somebody leaves three pointing back at yourself. They weren’t worth my ire, although I did sue and win. Wincey was lovely. I have a cartoon in my bathroom of all off us from TVam. Anne Diamond, Nick Owen, Me with a postbag on my head, and darling Wincey, her hair like a lavatory brush. We never kept in touch, I don’t have many acquaintances from them days and anyway most of them are dead now. Me, on the other hand, I’m hanging in.
Funny old thing this life, whilst the warmongers play games with peoples lives dropping bombs and abrasive threats, the rest of us continue to shop at Lidl, water our roses and contemplate climate change.
The old git and I went to a midsummer drinks do down the hill with our neighbours. Lemonade for me booze for them. A quiz in the middle.
Bbq’d sausages and fat juicy hamburgers. The neighbours are all way younger than us. I sat with my Northern ‘oosbind holding his hand and sinking back into the garden sofa. Just the way it should be. The hosts watched us leave making sure we didn’t trip over the dog. Getting old has its advantages, if you’re lucky enough to have folks around that will hold you up and give you crudités should you need them.
Sid has just come home smelling of the fresh air and sniffing me. he’s just sa0t down on the combydzgflbhjkjsp9n8jydkmo’00000000000000m ;,key board. Sorry
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