Losing The Battle

16th May 2012 Wednesday

7am - it’s possibly a mistake to try and make a wild mushroom risotto while at the same time getting dressed, washing my hair and dealing with pussy cat vomit and making sure the asparagus doesn’t overcook......up and down the stairs wooden spoon in one hand, hairdryer in the other....trying to get lunch cooked at breakfast time, before my friend comes at 11am.

9am at the hospital for my husbands preliminary endoscopy appointment. These questions trip him up - 

‘Do you wear dentures?’

‘Have you got any metal plates in you?’

‘Did you have barium last time?’

Back home I carry on galloping round the kitchen while my husband goes upstairs and lies on the bed. When he doesn’t come down I go and see him. He looks tired and miserable.

It’s a beautiful day why don’t you go down to the allotment and do some weeding? I say.

He says he feels bleugh...doesn’t want to..... but he might later.

My patience deserts me. I’m so sure I know what would make him feel better. I want to scream and throw saucepans against the wall. I wash up very spashily instead. And I say he can’t eat a flapjack because they are for lunch. Then I know I’m being ridiculous. He leaves for the allotment 5 minutes before my friend arrives - and I dont’t know who is more miserable  - him or me.

My friend is kind and symathic...we walk to the allotment and find my husband weeding the parsnips - he’s smiley and cheerful - offers her lots of rhubarb which she loves. After lunch  - including unctious risotto and coconutty flapjacks he gives her the tour of his ceramics which she also loves.

Tonight I’m left wondering what battle I think I’m fighting....all I know is that it’s losing one - trying to be right  - swimming up the river against the current....instead of listening with my heart.