I stubbed my naked toe today. I say naked, I mean unprotected. It wore no shoe or slipper. Not even a mere flip-flop. Perhaps, that doesn’t sound so bad? But the problem is, it’s the exact same toe I’ve been continuously stubbing since December. It’s so battered and bruised, it looks like it’s seriously contemplating rejecting its own nail. I’m sure, back in those early days, it genuinely wanted to heal, but more recently, I can really feel its exasperation at me.
I whacked my leg today. Then, right afterwards, I forgot I whacked my leg. Sometimes I suspect my forgetfulness is some kind of self-preservation tool I’ve cleverly developed. Although, on this occasion, it could just be because I whacked my leg about 30 seconds before I stubbed my toe. I only remember I whacked my leg because when my kind husband was helping me out the bath this evening, he cried,“Oh my God! What happened to your leg?” as he noticed the massive blue bruise above my knee. Suddenly, I was reminded that I had whacked my leg, right before I stubbed my toe, but for the life of me, I couldn’t recall on what.
My generous husband was helping me out of the bath after having helped me up the stairs, after having helped me off the couch. He needed to help me because as we’d returned from an exciting trip to the garden centre, I’d enthusiastically bent over to reach my new plant which was sitting behind the passenger seat in the car. However, I didn’t actually get as far as the plant. Instead, a severe, radiating pain encompassed my lower back and I staggered, crooked, away from the car. So now I can’t lie myself down unaided. Neither, once I’m down, can I pop myself back up again. I am in limbo.
While my lovely husband was running my bath and bracing himself for the upcoming events of maneuvering me both into and then back out of the tub again, I hobbled through to my office. There, a small bowl of boiled sweets beckoned me and I respectfully popped one in my mouth. JUST. LIKE. THAT.
And then, JUST LIKE THAT my bloody sugarless sweet slid and lodged itself, quite firmly, in my throat. I choked. I heaved. I panicked. I considered seeing my life flash before my very eyes but then, I wrenched myself in some kind of self-supportive, instinctive Heimlich maneuver and I regurgitated the perilous bonbon back up into my mouth. Momentarily I contemplated spitting the damn thing out, but then my environmental conscience kicked in. #Dontwasteinhaste
Me and sleep, we’ve really fallen out. We really aren’t friends any more.
Were we ever friends? Yes, I think so. Some of the time anyway.
OK, we were never besties. We never really hung out. But we had our moments. We more than crossed paths.
I have been trying so hard, to reignite that friendship. In vain. Well, occasionally I am rewarded for my efforts. But then, in the morning, after a good, say, six hours, I get woken up by my sore back which is keen to inform me that I slept too much.
My husband and I are mere passersby. He works ’til late. Always. He comes home and dozes on the sofa right after dinner as we attempt to watch a show. Or have a chat. Or have a hug. I send him off to bed.
He’s the lightest sleeper I ever met. So I can’t join him. Tossing and turning. The slightest fidget/sigh/curse/kick-of-the-cover startles him. There are times he sits up. Bolt upright. Thinking something eventful is going on. I shush him. Stroke his face. Whisper all is well.
But then I tend to find myself, just a few minutes later shuggling him or shoving him or even poking him awake. To tell him to please, please, for the the love of God, stop snoring.
So most nights he goes to bed and I stay up. It’s our modus operandi. Our thing.
I finish watching our show and he catches up on the bus.
I read or prep stuff for students or clean the kitchen or play a game or think or read the news again or shop online or do the washing or plan our Christmas or somebody’s birthday party. I send rambling voice messages to my Scottish friend, check the weather at least five times, maybe six, reread emails, listen to music, drink chamomile tea, talk to the dog, feed the fish, talk to myself, consider a very hot bath – but no that would be too loud and would wake up the light sleeper. I plan holidays, do the laundry, review the past, imagine the future, and wonder when my brain will just for a moment, be quiet.
(In the early years I remember asking my husband, who was staring off into space, what he was thinking about.
Nothing, he answered.
Nothing?
At first, I thought he must be joking or just didn’t want to tell me. But it turns out, he can actually just sit there and not think about anything at all. 🤯)
Still, I have other friends. Tinnitus. Regular, reliable companion. Incontinence. Usually pops by in short bursts. And more recently whiplash.
Exhausted, I find myself nodding, nodding, nodding off on the sofa. For a few precious moments of shuteye. A microsleep. A little nap. Suddenly, I throw my head back then inexplicably, just a moment later, lunge it forward, and in one monstrous headbang wake myself right back up.
On the bright side though, my husband and I are getting closer again. I am in constant need of a neck rub.
If you’re reading this, I really do commend you. And I thank you, thank you, thank you – from the bottom of my heart. Dear reader, I really don’t deserve you. I can no longer really call myself a blogger, merely an intermittent tester who bobs in and then bobs right back out again.
Last time we met, I promised you all sorts. Like writing, what was it, 90,000 words by the end of the year? I was full of great intentions and plans and hopes and dreams and all of that. So what happened???
To tell you, I need to take you back to last October. That last post – I didn’t actually write it!! Desperate to write and impatient with my eyes, I dictated it into a WhatsApp message and then I copied and pasted it into this blog! Then, as WhatsApp often mistook what I was saying, I got my poor, overworked husband to edit it by reading it, word for word back to me, while I closed my eyes and sipped tea and shouted out What?NO!!!!That’s not what I bloody said! And I instructed him on comma placement and removal and replacement again. Once it sounded perfect, I finally let him click the publish button and be done with it.
Then I excitedly raced to the doctor for the all clear. The all clear to read and write again and start my project. But the all clear was delayed and the reading and writing were delayed and even more patience was sought after and agitation rose because I’d promised my youngest a self-written Murder Mystery Birthday Party. Actually, I’d promised it the year before, for their sweet sixteenth. But then my eye disaster happened and plans were put on hold and birthdays failed to be celebrated. I was DETERMINED not to let that poor kid down again. Besides, I had umpteen characters bouncing about in my head, getting up to all kinds of elaborate mischief and I needed to tell their stories.
The all clear was delayed. Starting back to work was delayed. But finally, finally my Murder Mystery was written and took place in our living room. Hallelujah!
So the Murder Mystery was a success and added up to about 45,000 words – so although I was running late, I was still a good way towards my target. Pretty much halfway in fact. I took a quick breather, prepped presents for advent calendars and Christmas, got back into work, entertained guests as an exchange student arrived from Spain and various people traipsed in and out. And just then, just when I was ready to knock out the rest of my Betty book, everything started tasting foul and disgusting and my husband kept questioning my reasoning when I informed him everything, absolutely everything in our house had gone off, even the water. Then one of the guests who’d traipsed in and out revealed she’d caught Covid. Yes, from me. It was my very first bout, and somehow, despite looking for the signs for what? Three years? I’d managed to completely misinterpret them when they finally arrived. I didn’t feel too bad at first, but as time wore on I started to feel weak, lethargic and very tired. I’d just assumed, after a few days’ rest, I’d feel quite fine again, but unfortunately, my immune system decided to go into overdrive and one of the results has been exhaustion. It’s definitely improving now, I can really feel it, but I still get far too tired out, far too quickly for my liking. As we’ve already discovered, I’m ambitious and impatient.
Life marches on. Despite our precariousness. Workmen have been trotting in and out of our house for months doing various assigned renovations. The results have been spectacular and uplifting. Despite tiredness and a lot of dozing on the sofa bed in my office, waking intermittently with the dog staring into my face. Why mummy? Why are you napping yet again? I have thoroughly enjoyed watching the transformations with my currently almost perfectly functioning eyes.
Maybe, as an initial point I should tell you where I am at? A LOT has happened.
Well, you already know from my last post, that I had both my eyes operated on on the same day. Yes? Yes!!! I still shudder at the thought of it! But anyway, the past few weeks I was actually banned from reading and WRITING from the doctor at the hospital, because he saw a little something, which could have potentially ended up becoming a bigger something, so my life was again curtailed and I sat about twiddling my thumbs for a few weeks. Well, I ate crisps and watched Netflix. I also cleaned a little bit. And played with the dog.
During those strange days I came upon an opportunity: to be nominated by a local party to join a political committee as an expert. You would be quite right in thinking that I’m not an expert in anything. Well, to be fair, I could probably give you some fairly top notch cooking advice and I could prattle on about various Netflix shows (full disclosure: this post is NOT sponsored by Netflix, no money has changed hands – not from them to me anyway, I have paid my Netflix bill, I promise). But apparently I am an expert on being me. That means, I’m an expert on being an immigrant. It never occurred to me before that that was a thing.
I do like politics and I am very opinionated on, well, pretty much everything so I thought I’d seize the opportunity. But there was one major problem. I needed to send in a CV. The last time I used a CV, I lived in Scotland so that meant preparing a CV in German while I couldn’t read or write. Oh deary me.
Lovely husband to the rescue. The man is nearly a saint, I tell you. I dictated and he typed and we debated a little bit about it and then we carried on. Then we sent it off.
Having thought over my own qualifications and experience I thought, I probably don’t fit the bill and, to be honest I didn’t expect to hear back. But I did! The party actually nominated me. And I was invited to a meeting.
In the meantime I’d been playing with the dog and watching Netflix (still no payments, the buggers). Then I went to the eye doctor, paid a fortune for an examination that was deemed necessary and I was told, I could, in principle, have my life back. I should have been overjoyed, but I felt really queasy that day and I kept wondering what ‘in principle’ meant. My eye doctor is a man of little words, so I can’t help but think that those words were important.
And then I decided to leave the house by myself.
This might sound strange to you, but I could hardly see for well over a year. And in that year I’d fallen down stairs and smashed glass and walked over it in my socks and talked to an empty dog basket thinking it was the actual dog.
Those weren’t the reasons I stopped leaving the house though. I’d stopped leaving the house because if the light caught my eye squintly then people, vehicles, even whole buildings several storeys high just completely disappeared from my view and were replaced by blackness.
So as I said, two weeks ago, for the first time in over a year I left the house, all by myself!
I thought I would have been triumphant.
I thought I would have felt free. Like I was floating or something.
But what I actually felt was quite anxious. Even though I could see. Which shocked me quite a bit. I admit.
But I’m stubborn. So I strode on. I walked 2km to the butcher’s and I bought some mince. Then I attempted a different way back, took quite a few wrong turns, but eventually I made it home.
I was still shocked at how low my confidence was.
The day before my youngest had taken me to a school festival. We’d gone on the bus together. I’d been fine, until my child left me alone at a table and another parent had popped over for a ‘chat’. I couldn’t chat. I couldn’t think of anything at all to say. And I felt nervous.
If you know me, you know the thing I do is chat. I always have something to say. Later on, when sat with a group of teenagers, I was just myself again.
The two events shook me a little, I have to admit. I know I found the past year tough, but I had pretty much expected to grab life with both hands once I got it back.
Wind forward to yesterday. I went to the meeting and to accurately describe me you’d have to say I was a nervous wreck! I’d realized, the week before, that I have only had a conversation in German a few times in the past year! So I’d practiced speaking German all weekend with my husband. And by Sunday evening I was getting back into it somewhat. But at the meeting, I just lost all my confidence completely. I am sure it was definitely made worse by the fact that I had believed that the post meant just three or four meetings a year, listening to some ideas and giving my viewpoint. But as I sat there, a politician explained the post was time intensive, and daunting, that I’d have to trust myself to speak to seasoned politicians in the debate chamber, potentially in front of the public!
I couldn’t remember words, my pronunciation was completely off. Bumbling and stumbling around, I felt like a deer in headlights. And I kept thinking, they are looking for a confident, competent expert! They asked me if I had any questions and my mind was completely blank. So I just idiotically asked them if they could imagine working with me (had it been an interview – it would have been a ridiculous question anyway). But of course I was nominated, so they would have to work with me!
Those poor women, they must have gone home and poured themselves a stiff vodka and thought how on earth is that ‘expert’ going to help us?
So I wandered around the town and here’s the strange thing: instead of crumpling up and feeling like a complete failure, I started to feel oddly proud of myself. I thought: your social skills have gone right downhill. Right down, all the way to the bottom. But it’s not surprising. You’ve had very little social contact in the past year, you’ve hardly spoken German, and actually right before that you were hibernating because of Covid. Which means you’ve had very little contact with the outside world for three and a half years! It’s no wonder you’ve lost your confidence and you feel nervous. But look, despite that, you went and you tried!!! You were a disaster, but you tried! So what you need to do now is build up your confidence. So I went from shop to shop, and I tried to strike up conversation wherever I could. Germans aren’t big on small talk, so the attempt had to come from me.
With each conversation my confidence grew a little and I noticed I felt a little better. Despite my isolation lately, I am actually a very social person. So I’ve really missed it.
Then, as I was walking up the precinct, a woman caught my eye and she started to approach me! She asked me if I had a moment and if I could answer a few questions. Of course, I jumped at the chance, given my state of mind.
Suddenly a microphone and a TV camera were shoved in my face and I was asked a series of bizarre questions.
I answered, calmly, in a very together manner, and in my best possible German!
Afterwards, I joked with my son that maybe I should just get myself on the telly!!
I have thought about it! And I’m going to give the committee a whirl. As I’m replacing someone, I only have to actually take part for a few months anyway. After that, there’s a new legislative term. They last five years! So if I can’t get past my nerves, I’ll know it’s not for me and I can step back.
Because I have my sight back (yippee), I can also now start teaching again. And I can get back into writing too. So, I’ve set myself a writing challenge. 90,000 words by the end of December. I know, I’m crazy write right? But I have all these words going through my head all of the time. They need to come out!!
I’m not including stuff I write for work, of course, just the creative stuff I’m working on. Finishing my novel (my main character has had to wait for more than a year for her ending and she keeps popping up in my head and telling me her ideas), a murder mystery dinner I’m writing, this blog (yay!!) and other creative bits and bobs that pop up along the way.
My youngest (who uses the pronoun they) came up with the idea that I could reuse the turtle they created for me a few years ago for my NaNoWriMo challenge. I want to know what you think!
You wake up one day, about 18 months ago, with a smudge on your eye and your eye doctor tells you, you have a fast evolving cataract.
That cataract evolves and encompasses your whole eye, and even somehow manages to infect your other eye and your smudge grows, not just in size, but from one smudge into two and you rub and rub, but no matter how much you try to clear the blurriness from your eyes, your eyes become a fog and you really are the “Gorilla in the Mist.” Except you’re not actually a gorilla, and the mist is of your own body’s making.
Things start to disappear. Letters. Road signs. Your dog. Steps. Whole buildings.
So you go to your cataract operation in all faith. Repeatedly having been told that the procedure is so routine, it’s a doddle. As simple as removing a bogey from your nose in the morning. So you merrily allow a doctor to stab a needle into your face and tap, tap, tap on your cataract, until it breaks. Hoover it up and replace your damaged lens with a shiny new one.
He piratises you with an appropriate eye patch and shouts, ‘Next!’ while you shuffle out of the building.
Imagine you return to your eye doctor and discover, actually you still can’t see steps, or number plates, or loved ones’ faces or buses or almost anything at all because your simple eye operation has gone absolutely sideways.
So, you go to a different hospital, try to save your sight, get a gas bubble purposely inserted into your eye and realise everyone is in a slight panic about what to do with your other foggy eye.
Months go by and your first eye attempts to heal, but can’t quite get there, and you discover, the charlatan first doctor replaced your old dodgy lens with a new completely wrongly calculated lens (not by a single dioptre, or a mere couple of dioptres but by 8.5 dioptres).
So, you go to your new, competent, awesome doctor, with your very dodgy lens and your somewhat damaged retina and your other by now white eye, and he takes you in his capable hands. Tells you to be brave and doesn’t give you a shot in your eye or even a chill pill to help you along your journey. Instead, he decides, on what seems an impulse, to operate on both wayward eyes simultaneously through your clenched teeth and fists and buttocks.
He doesn’t tap, but he cuts and pulls and he pokes. And you feel more than slightly nauseous.
Imagine, the next day when he tells you, bandage removed, with a light pair of glasses you’ll be back to 100% vision in your now ‘good’ eye and 80 in your ‘bad’ one.
Imagine the elation, the joy, the tears, the ranting thanks, the unclenching of buttocks as you float back to your room.
Then imagine: you re-enter your room, go into the bathroom and glance up towards the mirror where you are greeted by the face that you haven’t actually properly seen for 18 months.
Just imagine the shrieks, the “oh my fucking gods”, the shock, the despair as you discover wrinkle after wrinkle, grey hair after grey hair. Including a wiry fucker growing out of the centre of your face.
We’ve been renovating our house, a bit here, a bit there, as you do. My husband is one of those lucky people who can follow a YouTube video and turn his hand to almost anything. I can slap some paint on the wall and kind of smother it in with a brush. And finally, I can now hammer out an only slightly squint drawstring bag on the sewing machine. As long as I watch and rewatch and pause and play and then rewatch again the said instructional video. But that’s about it. I’m not particularly handy. Handy then that I have a husband who is. And really, a drawstring bag, although pretty as a gift bag if you use nice material, is not a very useful tool for renovating.
I’m more the ideas person. I tell my husband my idea and then I boss him around until it comes to fruition. He’s an engineer so he loves taking an idea and making it into something concrete. He might tell you the story somewhat differently. He might, just possibly tell you that I badger him with an idea and he then scratches his head, I badger him some more, he has nightmares about it and then finally comes up with a way to shut me up fulfill my dreams.
So, we’ve been renovating and during those renovations my husband has dabbled, amongst other things, with the electrics. He’s moved lighting. Installed sockets. He’s even installed electric motors to run shutters, all by himself. He’s a very competent engineer and as I said very handy. I have loads of faith in him; that he knows what he’s doing. OK; I did question him a couple of times. Maybe a littlemore than a couple of times. OK; I did ask him if the house could burn down and if it was even safe to live here any more. So finally, he took me all around our property and tried to ease my concerns and showed me that it’s all safe and sound. What I really got from the whole experience was that he’s a very efficient and capable engineer and I’m just a bossy ideas person and all of my wishes had been fulfilled and everything looks great, so it didn’t matter if I had no clue what he was going on about. The lights go on and off. The shutters go up and down. All is good in our world.
Then he read somewhere that he’s not even allowed to install a light. Only a fully qualified electrician is. A competent engineer he may be but an electrician is something he definitely is not.
Germany is a country of very orderly rules. There are so many rules nobody really seems to know what the rules really are. We have been trying to find out rules with regard to what we are allowed to plant at the side of the garden. There are rules about it. But no bugger can tell us what they are. Not the workers at the garden centre. Not the staff at the ‘appropriate’ council offices. Not even the legal hotline people knew what the hell the rules were when we called them.
Germany is also a country of training. If you don’t have any training, it just means you’re useless. I don’t have any training. I don’t think I’m useless and the German strangers who ask me about my training tend to stumble on my answer when I tell them. Then there are a few quiet moments while they try to think what to say next. Luckily I’m British, so I’m particularly nuanced in the art of small talk, so I quickly change the subject.
Once I was at a coffee morning with the group I normally exercise with. We don’t talk much when we exercise. Just grunt and sweat. So we thought we’d sit together for a coffee after class. One ‘friendly’ woman was eager to tell me that she had lived in England for a short time. She really was quite excited about it and was insistent in telling me all about her experiences. She told my friend and I (we’re genuine friends, we didn’t just start talking at the coffee morning) how awesomely friendly the Brits are. How chatty (to be honest, I think she’d been infected, just saying) and then she fucked it up completely. She really did. She informed us that as a race we’re completely incompetent. She said none of us has any training and we can’t do shit.
I hadn’t even told her about my handy, competent, German engineer husband who illegally moved lights and installed sockets. Neither had I mentioned that even with a YouTube video, I really couldn’t do diddly squat. Neither had I been forced into the admission, that, actually, I had absolutely no bloody training at all.
Instead, a little agitated I inferred that the Germans may be somewhat overqualified and I asked if it was really necessary to have training to fill a supermarket shelf? Ouch. To be fair, she started it and she really kept going on, what with examples and the like. Even my friend, who’s German had looked uncomfortable for me, before I snapped.
This week I read a news article that two electric car chargers have been stolen locally. Now, those electric car chargers use high powered electricity, not your usual, run of the mill household electricity. Even my very handy husband hadn’t attempted to install our charger. I exclaimed my surprise as I read out the tale to my husband and he exclaimed, “Well, it must have been professionals who did it!”
I know, I know, nothing for ages and then I bombard you with one article after another!!
Most of my readers are from the US and I’d like to understand. Because, quite frankly, I just don’t.
So last night I watched, in depth, the opinions of various people on the news telling me that Trump, despite now having been arrested and charged with 34 felony counts relating to business fraud, will probably still receive the next presidential nomination for the Republican Party. Additionally, I learned that he could even be elected President of the United States of America and serve as President from a prison cell, rather than the Oval Office.
Sometimes I have quite vivid dreams and I wake up in the morning and believe they really happened. As the minutes go by, I think, hang on, that doesn’t quite make sense… And I realize it was just a dream (a real relief sometimes, I can tell you) and then I continue about my day.
But this time it wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t even a nightmare. I checked. I looked at the news and it says Donald Trump has been charged and the Republicans are standing by him.
I listened to Alvin Bragg’s speech in full and I thought the charges were horrendous. Now I understand the importance of being considered innocent until proven guilty, BUT if I were vying for the highest office in the land, let’s be honest: highest office in the world, shouldn’t I need to prove my integrity?
I understand that some of the Republicans will stand by him. There are a few weird Trump puppets out there. But from what the pundits were saying, it seems to me like the whole party is supporting him.
I feel like I have to give myself a good shake to try and deduce the conundrum. A party that represents roughly half of the electorate, so not a novelty party, but a party that has historically been elected more times than the Democrats, apparently wants to choose a candidate who stands for corruption?
While I agree that the current indictment feels rather less than the pending charges of him: taking Top Secret documents home with him and then obstructing the arising investigation, or pressurizing officials to change elections results or inciting the Capitol riots, just the doubt thrown over him should make the party wince and turn their backs in shame.
That’s without including the aforementioned pending charges. Those pending charges make it 100% clear to me that he’s not fit to be a president, even of his own shell company.
To top all of that, we know that at least some of the charges are true. We heard his rhetoric. We read his tweets.
So I want to ask my friends in America: Is it really true that this monster man can really go on to lead the Republican Party in the 2024 election? And if it’s true do you really believe he could actually win? Can he really run the country from a prison cell? And if he can, are we all just doomed? Because, it seems to me, that for a very long time America has been King of the World and Fighter of Justice. What happens now if Batman is replaced by the Joker? Does mass corruption become our new ideology?
It’s Lexi’s birthday today so I promised her a day of treats and an extra long walk. She made me keep my promise on the treats. She’s walked between various ‘sweetie’ storage areas and whipped her tail excitedly. When that didn’t suffice, she let out little yelps which would rather too quickly for my liking, turn into loud barks. I’ve tried telling her I didn’t mean that many sweeties when I said she’d be treated today. But she seems determined to make the most of my promise. Don’t worry, they are proper dog treats. We keep having to change the word because if she hears it in general conversation she becomes so energized, it’s just insane.
I’m still enthralled with the fact that I can be the one now to take her on a walk. All by myself. I am still staying on my side of the road, in case my dodgy eyesight means that I misjudge the traffic. But the opportunities near my house aren’t too bad because we live on the edge of the green belt, right at the river.
I fulfilled my promise of the extra long walk. I included a walk along the river bank which is quite narrow and at one point, Lexi got herself tangled up with a very large branch! I was reminded of the days when Lawrence used to drag branches everywhere. Along beach fronts. Through forests. He even brought a massive one home with him on the school bus! His sister pretended not to know him…
It strikes me that Lexi does actually understand quite a lot. At some point when the river bank seemed particularly precarious I said to her , “Let’s go home.” She about turned and yanked me the couple of kilometres back. She only weighs about 7kg and for her size she’s incredibly strong!! She paused just three times: once for a quick pee, as you do; once to take a glance at some gaggling geese and once to sniff something particularly potent. That was in stark contrast to the way there, which was filled with excited meanders here and there and back again. Sticking her nose in molehills, distributing her scent and generally just acting like a wild puppy, having a delightful birthday. Although she’s no puppy. Today she’s 10 years old.
Happy Birthday Lexi!! Thank you for bringing us all so much fun and laughter. Thank you for noticing when I feel down and snuggling up to my foot. Thank you for cocking your little head to the side and listening when I am rambling on. And thank you for gurgling little noises of contentment last night when I gave you that head and neck massage!
The crazy dog braved the stairs again. I say braved because she’s small and doesn’t like stairs. She also doesn’t like ‘dry tomatoes’, you know the ones that haven’t first been rinsed before they’re given to her (don’t wash and dry them – she won’t eat them, they must still be wet), similarly, or should I say, contrastingly, she can’t stand wet cucumbers, they must be dry cucumbers, or she’ll turn her nose up and refuse point blank to eat them. Even if she’s hungry. I heard my husband telling her the other day, cucumbers are 90-odd percent water! He’d accidentally wet the cucumber instead of the tomato and the dog was peeved.
This morning, the crazy dog braved the stairs again. Then I heard her tiny paws pitter-patter over the landing excitedly, after all she’d achieved her feat. Then she knocked on the door. Really. I think she’s not developed far enough to actually scratch the door with her claws, so the scratch stops at a polite tap, or knock. Normally two or three ‘knocks’, truth be told. Then she pauses, and waits to see if you have been paying attention.
I had been paying attention for about five minutes because before all of that the dog had barked. I’d looked at my watch, it was only 4.52am and I was like, what the fuck? What the fuck was the dog doing in the entrance hall? Headlights had flashed by and awoken her from her blissful sleep and her day had started. And ours. I said, quite calmly considering, to my husband, “Why did you leave the dog sleeping in the front hall?” I may have had a slight waily note in my tone, I can hear it now, as I remember back. I felt him blink repeatedly. Me and my better half are pretty in sync, so stuff like that happens, even in the dark and without glasses on. Then as he answered, I could feel a huge apology on the edge of his tongue, “Was it..? Was it me who came to bed last?” His voice was all uncertain. Oh bugger, nope it was me. I hate the bloody menopause. My brain is like holey cheese. I can’t remember anything any more.
By that time the brave dog had reached the door. Pretty much simultaneously, both hubby and myself noticed our bladders awakening. And as I was the blame bearer, I strode off to the very excited-to-see-me dog, picked her up and carried her back downstairs. I was relegated, naturally, to the downstairs loo. The dog drank a ton of water, having been locked out from her bowl all night, and then of course needed to pee. I opened the door to a horde of birds chattering, which further excited the dog. By the time she re-entered the house, she was in full bounce around mode. Not only had she been a very brave dog and again mastered the stairs, step after scary step, but she’d been greeted by a celebratory choir while doing her first business of the day.
I’m recovering well. But I can’t look at the screen for too long as my eye starts to hurt and then my head starts to hurt. Hence I haven’t got back to you re my eye surgery. I can see, but something is still not right. It might be that they inserted the wrong lens the first time round. It may be something else. I have to wait until my eye is fully recovered to know for sure, which takes six to 12 months. Then it’ll be decided where we go from here. So, still a way to go. They won’t start on the left eye until the right eye is finished and it’s clear I have the same fault on the left eye so there’s a good chance things will go wrong during the cataract surgery then too. But, as long as I wear really strong glasses, I can see stuff again. I can see my beautiful husband, and my beautiful kids and my crazy bouncy dog. I can’t chop onions yet. But I’m heading in the right direction.
I want to thank you for your for your kind responses to my last post. Several readers wrote and asked me about the surgery. Here’s what I understand: I have a mechanical fault in my eye. It was discovered after cataract surgery I had last year. After the surgery I couldn’t see any better and then things started to get worse, so various doctors did lots of tests. The mechanical fault had caused my retina to tear during the cataract surgery. The tear is now a hole in my retina. My surgeon’s plan is to do keyhole surgery in my eye. They’ll remove the fault and the liquid from my eye and fill my eye with gas bubbles. The removal of the fault stops the pulling of the tear and hopefully stops it tearing even more. The gas bubbles apply pressure so the hole may try and heal itself. I will have to stay in hospital for a couple of days so they can monitor the level of pressure in my eye. After about two weeks, the natural liquids should refill the eye and the gas should dissipate. Hopefully the hole will heal, but I need to be prepared that it can be a lengthy process.
After all of that, then they can start working on the other cataract in my left eye. They now know in advance that that eye has the same mechanical fault. Therefore the same thing could happen again.
But I’m keeping all of my fingers and toes crossed that it won’t!!
Again, thank you for your kind words after my last post. They were much appreciated.
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