Well, that's the preparations made.

Schoolma'am is picking me up at the unearthly hour of 6.45 tomorrow morning for the drive to the hospital. Rejuvenated Housewife is picking me up afterwards, taking me home, and standing by in case I keel over. Master Baker has ordered Chatterbox and Apprentice Teenager into Hound walking duties. Wee Dimmock is standing by on shopping duty. Efficient Workmate is popping by on Wednesday to entertain me. Jim-Next-Door says he'll periodically pop by to 'check I haven't died yet'.

Yes, the support network is well and truly up and running.

It doesn't stop there. Twosticks, Ecowarrior and the Lady with the Lamp are hovering around too (Oread and Classixwitch are in Mongolia and Budapest respectively else I know they'd be there too). Representatives from many of the Trusts I work with have been concerned and sent cards (one saying 'All Men Are Bastards' after they asked if M was giving me lots of TLC and I put them right on that one). It's gone a long way to restoring my faith in human nature after recent events.

The most interesting offer I've received was from Cute Boss who said he'd have picked me up from the hospital if I hadn't made other arrangements. Swooning into his arms is a very attractive proposition and for a moment I almost cancelled my arrangement with RH. Hearing I'd made other arrangements he fell back on 'well, if you need anything just call'. I can think of LOTS of things though some of them would have to wait until the scars healed. Tempting. very tempting (oh bugger, he's married).

Accepting help is unusual for me. Fiercely independent, I loathe having to be taken care of by anybody and cannot bear being out of control of my own actions. The thought of being put under a general anaesthetic tomorrow quite frankly terrifies me. RH has got a raw deal. Last time I had a 'general' I threw up for hours (bad idea, I'd had a tonsillectomy and burst most of my stitches). But as she's got four kids she's used to such things - and with a friendship that's lasted 17 years, two major relationship bustups (one hers, one mine) and lots of late night drunken counselling sessions over the perfidy of the various men that have come into our lives since I think our relationship can survive it.

So the bag is packed and there's nowt else to do but sit and wait. The remainder of a bottle of wine sits by my favourite chair and I aim to finish it plus down a couple of pints of water by the time my fast begins at midnight. I feel the chances of me getting to sleep sober are pretty remote - and not a chance I'm willing to take.

I can't wait for it all to be over. 'Speak' to you in a day or so, folks!
2.7.07 21:43


Macfawkes and the Chamber of Doom

Schoolma'am picked me up at the unearthly hour of 6.45 for the journey to the hospital. Sitting on the ferry, tactfully avoiding taking a sip of water from her bottle as she knew she was fasting, she asked what they were going to do. I told her.

"Oh, that's no problem" she said, "I had one of those yonks ago." Sitting in the middle of a crowded ferry she unzipped her jeans to show me the scars. "I was sore for a couple of days and that was it."

That made me feel a bit better and I was fairly calm as she dropped me off to the hospital. I made my way to the ward where three fellow victims were already waiting. Two were curtained off and out of view. The third was lying curled on her bed with an expression like a rabbit caught in headlights.

"I've never had a general anaesthetic before" she said "What's it like?" Putting all thoughts of my previous experience of severe nausea, sobbing tearfulness and panic attacks out of my mind I lied through my teeth. I gave her some basic instructions on relaxing breathing techniques then went to my cubicle to ready myself for the op.

The staff nurse came in. "You're first" she said. Eek, I was barely in the door.

They brought a trolley up, put me on it, and closed the bars around it. "Is that to prevent me escaping?" I quipped. "It has been known" was the rather dry reply.

I was wheeled towards the Chamber of Doom. In the antechamber a group of theatre staff were bantering. One of them was new and hadn't been issed with the correct footwear so had 'borrowed' some from one of the surgeons who had then turned up for work and wanted them back. There was a pause while they found him another pair. I lay back while they were fitting me up with a drip and tried not to think of what other items they were short of. Things that might well come in handy while I was unconscious.

With a rush of cold fluid into the back of my hand and an oxygen mask over my face I was out of it a second or so later.

I woke up in the recovery room. No nausea, little pain, no feelings of helplessness and only a mild tearfulness. The nursing staff asked if I was OK to which I replied that I'd had a bum week. A couple of sentences gave them the basic details. Caring professionalism turned into an 'all men are bastards' rant.

I felt cleansed. My anxieties had grown over the past few days and I'd refused to let them out. The anaesthetic had removed any barriers to that and a trickle of tears had made all the difference to my outlook. I came to properly on the ward feeling almost euphoric.

The surgeon came round to visit a while later with feedback. Fibroids. Not a tumour (though they are doing a biopsy as a precaution). They'll probably require surgery at some point but I'll deal with that when it comes and get through it.

Looks like I'm off the hook. For the moment!
4.7.07 19:28


three for...

I was driving away from the car park at John Smeeton International Airport when a flash of black and white flitted across my vision.

I inwardly groaned. Yet another magpie! Haven't I had enough crap to deal with lately?

But then I spotted a second one. "That's better," I thought, "Two for joy. About bloody time."

Round the corner I saw number three. "Three for a girl."

I am 47 and well past such things. I hope.
15.7.07 16:32


strange...

Over the last week or so things have been rather strange on the M front.

We haven't spoken but texts have regularly been flying through the ether. In fact on that front nothing has changed. There's been the usual 'how are yous?', the nightly (apart from the nights when he's obviously otherwise occupied) 'sleep well, xx', the progress calls. But the racier parts of the conversation haven't changed either.

Its always been him that initiates these. Since the breakup. anyway! I just play along and take great pleasure in winding him up. After being unceremoniously dumped like that it's good to know that he finds me desirable and that the slightest hint of something 'naughty' can have such a response. But I can't help but find this somewhat inappropriate. I'm single. He isn't.

We parted company because he's convinced he's met someone he's fallen in love with. If he's in love with her then why is he acting like this? He's always been a womaniser and says that he's trying to 'turn over a new leaf'. It doesn't look like that to me. There's no going back and the physical side of our relationship is well and truly over but he's still being unfaithful to her in thought. If he's like that at the start of a relationship when the rose tinted glasses are usually well and truly on then what is he going to be like a year or so down the line?

I'm well out of this one.
15.7.07 16:41


a new name...

Tents set up at the Pagan Camp, we congregated around the bonfire. A horn of mead was passed round and libations were given to the spirits of place that were welcoming us back into their domain for the third year. Our obligations done, we settled down with a few beers.

I caught up on the latest with Oread who has literally been in Outer Mongolia for a few weeks. She was looking disgustingly fit having trekked her way across the Gobi with no more harm than a lost toenail due to friction against her running shoes. Yes, she ran across it. With a full pack. They do say genius is only a slight journey away from madness. Oread is one of the brightest people I have ever met, her intelligence being matched with a slight (!) insanity when it comes to taking exercise. I get tired at the very thought of what she, quite literally, takes in her stride.

I then gave her my news. There was a sharp intake of breath. Oread knew what M was like, knew that he'd always been eyeing people (including herself) up while we were together. Like me, she'd known this one wasn't forever. But like me she thought that the manner in which he announced his departure left something (OK, a lot, to be desired).

"You know" she said, "all the rest of your exes have titles. Why hasn''t he got one yet?"

I had to agree. There was a certain point at which Andy became "Shitefeatures", John I became "Ratbag", Dave became "Ratface", John II became "The Smelly One" (well, actually John II became "TSO" before we parted. It was a large contributory factor in our breakup. ). That point was always the one at which I acknowledged formally that the relationship was over.

After much deliberation we decided on a label that was suitably derisory and dismissive. So I can now announce that "M" will henceforth be known as "PLD".

That is: "Perfidious Little Dwarf". I think its quite appropriate!

 
23.7.07 22:45