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Shortcuts, strategies and sob stuff

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After a bad night of post operative discomfort, I  switched the alarm off at 6 a.m, but foolishly stayed put, promising myself another few divine duvet minutes.

I woke two and a half hours later, in a panic, of course. Panic turned to inward groan when I remembered that it was a no-help day. You're on your own, girl. Time for my things-you-learn-after-2 years-as-a-carer to kick in.

One very valuable realisation, which came in a light bulb moment about 6 months ago, was that if a chap goes without a shave for a day, or two, it has little or no serious adverse affect on him or any one else. Today is one of those stubble days, my love.

The usual routine of spoonfeeding Wriggly Bum his high fibre Weetabix and sliced banana breakfast is healthy and satisfying,but extremely time consuming, since he masticates for longer than any one else on this planet, and I am almost tapping my feet waiting for the obligatory double swallow after every mouthful.

Which brings me to realisation number two. The occasional substitution of a toasted teacake, which he can manage with his “good” hand (although it is no longer very good –another story) leaves me and my over worked washing machine with very buttery bedding to deal with, but otherwise does no harm. On the contrary, WB thinks that it is Christmas, and it frees me up to throw a few clothes on, albeit yesterday's, as I remember, with panic returning, that I am expecting a delivery.

My post op abdominal pain makes me think that I'm about to have another sort of delivery. I must take the pain killers. But before or after I've done WB's already overdue meds? So often difficult to prioritise.

I make coffee for us both, take Wriggly's into him, and put mine on the side of the sink, to be forgotten and go cold, as is the norm, whilst I set about transforming the kitchen from a bomb site into a picture worthy of a glossy magazine, in the hope of kidding anyone who calls that a domestic goddess lives here.

Another fleeting panic as I remember that I have not switched on the baby alarm, (which in the interests of WB's dignity we call the walkie talkie) so that I cannot hear if he is choking on his coffee, or is calling me.

I rush into the bedroom. Thankfully he has not choked on his coffee, but instead he is wearing it. As I am changing his T shirt, he tells me that he is going to get up and go and fetch a paper.

Every,every time, a great lump comes to my throat. I turn away, so that he cannot see my tears, and I manage to speak, suggesting to him that he waits until the rainhas stopped.

Occasionally, I run out of “diverters” and do the bad, bad thing of reminding him that he cannot walk. I hate it. I hate me. I hate these moments.

Back in the kitchen, I turn on the TV. It seems they are going to show another documentary about rogue care homes.

I probably ought to watch it, but I could not bear to. It would be like looking into the future. The dreadful, awful, unbearable thought of a future when I could not care for my soul mate, the love of my life, and I would be parted from him before death us do part.

Throw the cold coffee away. Make another. Snap out of it girl.

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