Oh my god, this morning has completely killed me. What was I doing? I hear you cry? I wish I could say that I’d done a load of housework, shopping, had met friends for coffee, and still managed to get back for lunch but nope, all I’ve done this morning is get out of bed before 10 (which in itself is a real challenge!) go out in the car with P for a meeting, come home and help him sort the Christmas presents so they don’t get lost when we eventually get our moving date. (Nope, still waiting for that!) Now my body is telling me that I’ve overdone it as it now feels like I have a corkscrew slowly screwing its way through my pelvis and pulling the joints apart. Now I have to chuck some more painkillers down my neck and rest until the pain is at least bearable enough to be able to try and do something else.
The frustration is overwhelming; I’m sat here on the settee with my ankle boots still on being snappy and short with P as he’s attempting to help me change into my more comfy clothes. Bless him, he’s so sweet and whilst I do know that he helps me with everything and that I’d be stuck without him and blah, blah, blah but at this moment, all that’s going through my mind is why can’t he get my bloody boots off!
Imagine the scenario:
P – on his knees on the floor in front of me…
Me – sat on the kitchen chair….
P – helping me change into a pyjama top….
Me – nagging him not to forget my boots…..
P – struggling to get the zip on said boots to work as it’s caught on my jeans…
Me – sighing with frustration at his apparent lack of ability to master women’s footwear…
P – still struggling….
Me – totally seething now and about to erupt…..
P : recognising the signs, decides to leave the boots for now and helps me to the settee instead. (Wise move!)
Having reached the settee without killing each other, I just lay back and let the painkillers do their job. After a while, I feel a bit better so that’s when the guilt floods over me, this poor man who is only trying to help me, really doesn’t deserve this bloody treatment so I do what I always do when this happens – I start blubbing and am full of remorse and guilt and the apologies come thick and fast.
God, I am so fed up with this and as much as I hate this situation, I also can’t imagine what it must be like for the person on the other side. They get it so much worse than me sometimes I’m sure, watching their loved one suffering and not being able to do anything to help or mend them. It must be so hard and I really do feel for P sometimes, he does so much for me and all he gets from me (or so it seems to me sometimes) is a load of grumpy, arsey complaints. But I do know that I am so, so lucky and I really do appreciate all that he does for me. He really has stood by me, shoulder to shoulder throughout this difficult time and he’s the reason that I’ve managed to stay sane.
(Well, sane-ish anyway!)
Mind you, let’s not go over the top now, he’s bloody marvellous but he’s not going to be christened ‘Saint‘ P anytime soon and do you know why?
Because I’ve still got these bloody boots on……………!