Pussyfooting

We’re pussyfooting around each other. The Fox is once more terrified he will hurt me if he gives me a hug. I meanwhile am trying my best to remember not to lift my arm too high, push myself in my wheelchair or lift anything. As a result I’m going around like a bird with a broken wing, to remind myself to take care. The Fox has banned me from doing the ironing, even though I’ve only got a few, lightweight items to iron. I can’t tell you how I’m looking forward to tomorrow when I can behave like normal once more.

I’ve come to the conclusion I’m not a very good patient, even after all these years of practice. Oh, I’m good at putting on a cheerful face, waiting around (sort of) but I’m not good at doing nothing much or being mollycoddled. I hate the latter, which frustrates the Fox who just wants to show how much he cares about me. Like so many carers I’m sure he just wishes he could wave a magic wand & take it all away, or even take on the pain himself to relieve me. But it can’t be done, & anyhow it would just leave me in his position.

Normal life seems an almost forgotten thing. The one thing I am convinced of is that we need a break. If I do need further treatment, I am determined to have at least a few days away, just in Britain. It may the last chance for another while.