For, with just nineteen days to go, I am finding breathing
increasingly difficult. The stress is manifesting itself in odd ways –
affecting my eyesight and my memory. Did I mention it’s affecting my memory?
And I’m also finding it hard to remember stuff. I actually get lost
mid-sentence, forgetting what it was I’d started out saying. I know that
happens to all of us at a certain age – I’m now boasting an extra year on my
clock thanks to a birthday last week - but it’s happening a great deal. Odd words
disappear from my vocabulary leaving black voids, destined not to be filled. I’ve twice woken
up in my own bed unsure of where I am, and the sensation has taken longer than
it should have done to clear.
I know that I’m rather an eleventh hour person - I didn’t earn the soubriquet “Last-minute Lizzie” for nothing. Being painfully aware of this, I was trying my best not to make it so for what will be the most important day of my life. However, events have conspired against me: One or two conspiracies I could handle, but there seems to have been a deluge. The venue change (as mentioned in the previous entry) was certainly a curveball, and each declined invitation is stinging a little less now. (Though I wish people had been polite enough to bother RSVP-ing before the July deadline. I know it has been unavoidable for some, but the majority have no excuse. If you take away anything from this blog, always give a prompt (and preferably kind) reply to an invitation for something big, even if you are not able to go!!)
No, what has really skewed me is my parents being unwell. I did mention the “seriously ill” relative before, but was not at liberty to go into detail. I’m not going to go into much now. Dad was diagnosed with bowel cancer on Saturday 2nd July, following an MRI scan to find out why he had the symptoms he had. He’d had them for a while actually, but being who he is, didn’t flag it up. (Take-Home Message No 2 (appropriately): Anything suspicious in the bathroom department, don’t ignore it!!) It was decided to remove the rather large tumour on 2nd August. The operation was successfully executed, and thus, my father was not. All the cancer is gone – no further treatment is needed. However, he now has a stoma, and the resulting bags have been causing him distress. This is exacerbated by the mild to middling Alzheimer’s that he’s had for a few years. During his seven-day hospital stay, he was so agitated that it was decided not to leave him alone for a minute. My amazing sisters and mum took it in turns to sit with him 24 hours a day. My aunties and brother also stepped in. We arrived on the last night, and managed to avoid the duty.
If I am honest, I have not had the greatest relationship with my dad throughout my life, and though I have been worried about him, I’ve been much more concerned about my sisters’ health, and that of my mother. Along with other ailments, she has disc degeneration in her back, that causes excruciating pain. The NHS allow two steroid injections (one per year) to deal with this. Mamma had her second in June, and it wore off during dad’s hospital stay, leaving her balled up in anger and agony. She’s always been a very active person, always doing something and enjoying the freedom of mobility. Suddenly, she’s trapped, and my sisters have to spread themselves even more thinly, caring for both parents individually. All live in the same house in Kent, about 200 miles from here. We were over for a week recently – something that we do anyway every year, rebooking a favourite Air Bnb, and having a small summer break by the seaside while seeing faaaamily. This time, it was half holiday, half being there for whichever members needed it. The full horror of everyone’s predicament was revealed one evening, where neither parent could be left unattended for any amount of time. I sat with Mamma, rubbing her back and trying to cheer her up. I want to help more, but I can’t do much until after the wedding and honeymoon.
As if I needed further mental derailment, the poor things each have to have operations within the next nineteen days: Mamma is having that pesky pain-causing nerve removed; Dad is having his ureter stents whipped out. Her op is this week; his is bloody two days before the wedding.
I must make it clear that Dad wasn’t coming to our ceremony anyway. He’d always said that, should any of his daughters get married, he would not want to do all the traditional father-of-the-bride stuff, especially not making a speech. Now, his deteriorating brain is bringing out the traits in his behaviour that originally led me to flee to the West of England, some thirty years ago. When informed of our impending nuptials, he made the unsupportive comment that I would have expected of the Dad of my teenage self, and said similar each time he was reminded. On Christmas Day last year, we were standing alone in his front room and I was talking passionately to him about Jonny. That conversation is still fresh in my mind:“He's a good bloke,” said dad.
“That’s why I’m marrying him,” I replied. His face fell.
“Oh you’re not, are you?”
I nodded and watched the look of fear creep over him. With tear-filled
eyes he asked:
“You don’t expect me to…”
“No dad, it’s OK. You don’t have
to be there.”
A big, emotional hug ensued. His relief was palpable.
So we already knew that five out of the six members of my nuclear family would be in attendance on the day. But given the current situation, it may be reduced to at least four as post-operative father cannot be left. It’s not just that the care offered in Thanet is not quite the care he needs, but also that his character, magnified by the Alzheimer’s, makes it unfeasible for any strangers to enter His House, nor for him to stay anywhere else. Along with caring for both parents while trying to rebuild career/keep career going, now my sisters are saddled with trying to sort this out. The timing couldn’t be rottener. The younger twin, S, is going to be my bridesmaid, though she prefers the term “Bride’s Mate”! Last week she tearfully told me of the surprises that she had been trying to arrange for our day that are now impossible to complete, due to work stress and all the above. It was sweet that she was even going to try. Mamma is similarly frustrated re the dress. Having made wedding dresses for several clients over the years (and having been bloody amazing at it), it had been her wish to make those of her daughters. I’m the first of us to need her services… only it looks like the shop is closed.
That’s not to say she isn’t still part of the whole dress situation. We sat together in her room and went through the few patterns I have, to come up with a simple design that I should be able to stitch myself. To spend that time with my mum on something so important in my life was lovely, and I too am devastated that this isn’t the way we wanted it to be. Last week, I journeyed to a fab fabric shop in Cheltenham, and face-timed her once more, not caring that we were broadcasting our deliberations to all the other customers. I now have what I need to knock up a simple frock, and it’s one of my three Big Jobs to complete this week. The other two being the first tier of the cake, and the first draft of the script. It’s stuff I do for a profession, and I wanted to do it for myself.
UPDATE at 8.30am: Beeping still going. Beep beep beep beep beep beep like needles burrowing into my head. I noticed signs of life at the house so I went over to them with my cards. The door was eventually answered by an elderly lady with cereal around her chops, bless her. I felt very mean for disturbing them, and worse when she didn’t appear to understand me when I told her of the problem. I expect they no longer use their car. I wonder if it’s something to do with the car battery flattening? It turns out that she is 91, her hubby 94, and they both have Covid at the moment. Luckily, I didn’t approach with aggression, though I am ready to break in to the garage and stop the alarm myself with some sort of heavy implement... Her face softened when I explained I was her neighbour and showed sympathy, patting her on the hand and giving her my contact details. So I expect I’m going to have to put up with the beeping for a bit longer, maybe another night of it. I can’t keep going over there and harassing them, though I might be able to pop round once more with a bunch of flowers and a second calm request. ARGH
I went to a party on Saturday, to help two of my gorgeous friends celebrate both their 70th birthdays and their 50th wedding anniversary. I knew beforehand how all conversations would begin, and sure enough “So, how’s the wedding planning going then? Not long now!” nearly had me screaming AAAARGH directly into the kind enquirer’s eyeballs. In a rare moment of lucidity, I enlisted the organisational skills of a close pal, who came round yesterday to pick up my pieces. Three hours and half a box of birthday chocolate later and she succeeded where I have repeatedly failed over the months, producing a spreadsheet with actions rather than vague ideas. I feel like a fool. Why I have I not managed to do this? It’s like I’ve been trying to plan a stage show all by myself, directing it, producing it, performing it, without enlisting help or delegating jobs. Now the time has come to do all that and more, and the clock isn’t half ticking.
A complete fool, in fact. There are 160 guests, most of whom are unaware of the venue change! I have to sort that out. For so many attendees, “bring a plate of food to share” doesn’t cut it. I’m going to have to be more prescriptive, and maybe enlist a Buffet Co-ordinator to deal with it. Somewhere along the line, I seem to have forgotten that this was all supposed to be a DIY wedding, and that yes, we MUST rely on people’s kindness. Suddenly, I feel bad and guilty about asking for help, which is why I haven’t, and we are speeding towards Day Zero with little of the planning in place.
I also find myself realising there are people I wish I had invited. We know so many folk, we’d have invited all of them if we could have! But I think I have missed some obvious ones. There’s always a hierarchy to invitations, and I went with Family First. Until they responded, I couldn’t ask anyone else, and they had to be prodded before I found out that I had wasted my time. I have had a little negativity from other quarters too, so I have been countering it: those people who show enthusiasm about our marriage, they are who we invite. We want people around us who want to celebrate. Hence a couple of last-minute guests. Note to self: Stop asking! We are almost at capacity…
If you followed my previous blog, Lizzie Rebooted, you will know that I take the antidepressant sertraline to keep my serotonin levels in check. I started in 2015, following cancer survival, splitting with my partner and a house move. It works very efficiently to keep me going, muffling my brain when things are bad. Unfortunately, that isn’t just for the lows. I wander through life as if my head were wrapped in a duvet, often unable to feel or express emotion, even when I want to. If you see me sad crying, it must be something pretty nasty to have got past the sertraline bouncers. In June 2018, I decided that I was fed up with this, and successfully weaned myself down to no tablets. It’s better to do it gradually - you shouldn’t suddenly start or stop taking them. The side effects are nasty either way. Even going gently, coming down means night sweats, dizziness and a feeling that your brain is moving more slowly than your eyeballs. I was back on them the following winter, as early life with Jonny proved too much! And as soon as I heard of the first Covid lockdown, I was on the phone to the doc, getting him to double my dose in anticipation. That’s what I’ve taken since then – 100mg every day. But I when I marry Jonny, I WANT to feel. So as of three days ago, I started taking half a tablet. I have no idea how advisable this is. All I know is that I don’t want to experience the joy of my wedding day with more than just a veil over my head.
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| The most recent arrival. I love them all. |
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| Two unique centrepieces |
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Left over from Brighten Up Dursley, will be returned after the wedding |
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| The beginnings of a bridal bouquet? |
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| What we've been sent, plus what I have made |
Finally, I have been really touched by the response to our handmade flower appeal. One lady even returned with two centrepieces she made for us. “I can’t crochet or knit,” she said, but she can still work with wool, and was so excited to reveal her creations. I was delighted, and I blubbed. What a wonderful thing to do, for a total stranger! I expect everyone thought we’d be inundated as we don’t have anywhere near enough yet. We’ve certainly had some very lovely offerings, but we need more. They don’t have to be crocheted, or knitted, or even sewn. Just brightly-coloured handmade flowers. Also touching has been my friend’s offer to host a hen party for me. I hadn’t planned to have one – I don’t really drink, I cringe at anything involving strippers, and the wearing L-plates and mucking about with phalluses ship has long sailed. But the mere fact that she would do that, just for me, is overwhelming.
ADDENDUM: Beeping stopped in the
region of 11am. Thank goodness. Thank goodness. Anything I still can’t cope
with is therefore my own problem.
