Duvet Day

26th May 2011 Thursday

A lost day under the duvet. Rain splattering on the windows. Wind tugging at the casements. A bowl of porridge and banana for breakfast in bed. Am I really ill? Or am I just running away from my life. I could have been in Salisbury with a dear friend having a lovely lunch and catch up. I could have been shopping in the market. Getting the rooms ready for my husband’s family coming to stay next week. Or I could have surrendered to my headache - indulged the gift of these hours, treated myself to this luxury of bed in the afternoon.

Mostly though I just doze with my laptop and the phone and hot lemon juice on the side. And grapple with guilt feeling a failure at surrender.

The door bell rings. I debate whether to open it or not in my old leggings and yoga t-shirt, unwashed hair and no mascara. I’m glad I do. It’s a neighbour and client of my husband’s with a bottle of Cava and a card for him. I’m too embarrassed to invite her in. I leave them on the kitchen counter along with the post which I know contains more cards and letters from clients - all sad and shocked that my husband is leaving. And all expressing their appreciation and love for him.

When he comes home from his ceramics class he falls into bed, exhausted, and we don’t go to our evening meeting. I watch him sleeping, notice the dark circles under his eyes, lay my hand on his forehead and imagine what is happening a few inches below my palm, beyond his soft skin, through the bone of his skull, inside that shadow dell which we saw on the x-ray in the doctor's office all those months ago. My heart crumbles for him.

I wonder if his increasing extreme tiredness is a symptom of his disease. Or a natural reaction to the axe blow loss of his life as he has known it up to now.

But I don't find any answers under the duvet today.