I woke at 4:30 this morning in absolute agony. The pain was intense — deep, sharp, pulsing waves that hit like contractions. Honestly, it reminded me of labour. Two minutes of hell, then a brief break, just long enough to dread the next one. I lay there unable to move, willing myself not to wake Paul — he’s already doing so much, and I didn’t want to add more to his plate at that hour.
Between 7:30 and 8:00, I managed to crawl into the bathroom and give myself what I’m calling a “bath” — a full wash-down, lying flat on the bathroom floor. A victory, until I accidentally shoved a glass bowl across the tiles and out the door… where it shattered into pieces.
Why was there a glass dish on a bathroom floor? Who knows. All I know is, within minutes, Paul appeared barefoot, stepped straight onto it, and yes — cut his foot. The day had barely begun and there we were: him bleeding, me useless on the floor, and glass in every corner of the house.
At some point, we moved on.
Between 8:00 and 9:00, I sat down and planned out my meds — what to take, when to take it, and how to avoid the freefall pain that comes when I forget. It helped. Later, I dragged myself back onto the floor to tidy up the room. I’m craving any sense of control I can find — folding a blanket, resetting a corner, making it feel like my space again.
And through it all, life continued in its chaotic, ridiculous way:
- I called the kids (again) to bring me underwear.My bedroom has now been set up downstairs and we are in the process of getting my clothes brought downstairs. My 10-year-old eventually replied, “Mum, I’m playing in your wheelchair.” Honestly, fair play to her.
- The wheelchair now has a tally of approximately 14 doorframe scratches (possibly 15), and we’ve only just begun.
- I ate the most beautiful breakfast — fresh eggs from my mum’s hens, her own parsley, homemade bread. I took a photo of it because it felt like such a moment. I just sat and stared at it, and thought: this is beautiful.
- I had some Greek yoghurt (because apparently protein is now my best friend).
- The pain eased slightly in the afternoon, enough for me to take some deep breaths and not feel like I was drowning in it.
- My sister rang. Later, another sister helped me arrange all the beautiful bouquets I’ve received — actually arrange them, instead of them just crowding every surface like a flower stall explosion.
It’s hard to explain this kind of day. I did nothing, and I did everything.
I washed myself. I bled (well, Paul did). I cried a bit. I laughed at the absurdity. I ate something beautiful. I felt loved. I scratched a few doors. And I survived another day.
