As I watch Tanya pick up her surgical stockings and say, Sexy! I burst into tears.
The tears came from Nowhere, and they disappeared back into Nowhere within a minute or two.
Yesterday I spoke to my Mumsy.
Exactly one month! she proclaimed.
Yes, thanks! I laughed, in a non-laughing way, signalling that perhaps she should not talk about it.
I am not scared. I have never been scared. Nope, I’m just ever-so slightly petrified, in a stopthinkingaboutitanditwillgoaway way. But it’s getting to the stage where I can’t stop thinking about it.
Once upon a time, a very long time ago, there was a girl and she decided she wanted to give her husband the best gift of all, the gift of No Dialysis! No Fluid Restrictions! No Diet Restrictions! PIZZA! HOLIDAYS! She decided to give him a juicy kidney, with love. But she forgot that the future has a habit of very quickly becoming the present, and the present soon becomes the past.
I coped with the Future. I will cope with the Past. It’s this Present situation which is becoming a trifle sticky. I can feel that little knot in my chest, made up of worrisomeness and anxiety and fear and hope. It’s bursting to get out. And I’m going to have to let it out more in the coming days … I can’t rely on sad tellybox watching and use that as a cover for my blubbing. I’m also going to have to admit to someone – anyone – that I am petrified. But not my Mumsy. And not my Blokey. At the moment this semi-secret corner of the Internet is my one saving grace, and it’s likely that it will be a place I come more often in the next few weeks.
So much for this being a blog where I did nothing but grumble about haemoD …
Please don’t misunderstand me. I am so excited for the future (although cautiously so). But if there was a magic pill which made the Present whizz by so that it promptly became the Past I would take it. I would guzzle it down, not stopping to savour the bittersweet taste of it. It probably doesn’t help that I’m hopelessly unemployable at the moment; at least with work I would have the opportunity to forget about the transplant for a few hours a day. Dollhouse, Buffy and Big Brother are brilliant for wasting hours upon hours, but they don’t quite drown out that new little niggle in my head, and my throat, and my chest …
I’m trying to ascertain which aspects of the transplant are freaking me out and which of them I’m more comfortable with. I feel a more indepth look at my woes and tribulations will have to wait; Blokey will soon be home from haemoD and he’s had a shit day (what could I do but send text *huggles*) so he’ll be needing love and attention and my ear. I will probably get irked when he talks over Armstrong’s witty banter on Pointless and he will probably get doubly-irked when I prod him and say, Oi! You’re talking over Armstrong’s witty banter on Pointless!