Well, what a day that’s been. The house looks no cleaner and no tidier at all……. just a drip in the ocean is what’s been achieved really… and still needs the application of a well aimed bulldozer, but at least I’ve made a start thanks to you.
Lunch at church was good – apart from being informed that it was actually really inconvenient of me to ask if, instead of having either a cheese jacket potato or a tuna jacket potato, I could be so daring as to have both cheese and tuna on my jacket potato. “That sounds really disgusting. I can do it, but you’ll have to pay extra!” Still, at least they were willing to serve me this time. Last time I went I was told, in true Christian fashion, that I could not have a tuna jacket potato as it would necessitate them opening a tin of tuna. Hmmm… I suppose the only alternative would have been for them to go out and catch one! But the food is good there, and the contemplative/creative worship area a real calming and prayerful experience on a day when that was just what the doctor ordered.
Dad has been duly delivered to the hospital and they have drawn arrows over his legs, so hopefully the operation will go ahead tomorrow as planned. Poor love – he’s first on the list tomorrow so they’re waking him at 5.30 a.m. … and no breakfast!!! Mind you, he probably will be awake already. Due to the risk of MRSA, they are not willing for him to have his special mattress from the hospice. (much to my disgruntlement, after they’d told us yesterday to bring it in. It’s not that easy, you know, bringing in a hulking great single mattress full of silicon gel!) I left him watching his own personal TV, accompanied by a tiny teddy from the hospice, and singing along to the CD I lent him. They reckon he should be out on Saturday, though possibly to a nursing home if he’ll agree. Their plans met a bit of a stumbling block as the Staff Nurse explained they’d be teaching him to walk on crutches and I pointed out that with cancer in both his upper arms, it was unlikely he’d be able to bear his own weight on his arms. Something tells me they hadn’t quite thought of that one. Hard, though, to stand there in front of him and declare yourself unwilling/unable to care for him when in truth you know you’d move heaven and earth to care for him if they did send him home. Still, I’ve got a quiet night tonight, dreams permitting.
Right, is it alright with you if I have my cup of coffee now? Too late, I’m off to bed. I think a mug of hot chocolate with squirty cream (and a dash of the stuff I rarely drink) could be in order. What do you reckon?