I have nobody to blame but myself for everyone wishing me a Happy 50th this week. I am neither 50, nor is it my birthday. It was, however, my 50th consecutive cycle of chemotherapy.
I felt that milestone merited a little celebration. The mister bought me balloons to mark the occasion, heavy hints having been dropped – I do love a balloon.
Not content with collecting my latest cycle from my brilliant chemo team, I popped up a photo of my balloons on my social media pages.
Due to the amount of folk wishing me many happy returns, we could use this as an experiment regards how many people read text attached to a photograph.
I am left wondering if I might need to book in for some ‘work’. For my face.
A nip tuck? Maybe some fillers? Actually, cancel the fillers, eating cake has the same desired results, it works just as well at keeping my face plump.
The week from hell
If there was ever a week to tip me into looking like am in my fifties, this would definitely be it.
In addition to the work being done at the house, we are having some essential repairs carried out at the caff.
Naturally, the minute we look at one thing, an additional new problem appears, and it’s ended up nearly all being demolished to be replaced.
It’s impossible to tidy the house. I keep moving things around, putting them in different rooms but the house remains a disaster zone.
I optimistically light scented candle in a sea of rubble, stour and misplaced belongings, no longer identifiable, convinced this will fix things.
I’ve spent this week stressing over a hospital appointment, so anxiety has crept in. Making decisions is exhausting. My lack of concentration is both obvious and abundant.
I have reached a stage where I worry am going to miss something important. Yoga! I’ll try some yoga, although am not sure tightening my shoulders and holding for eight hours will help. Or the resultant headache that makes the people I love sound like shrieking banshees.
Not the busy Olympics
This isn’t the busy Olympics, and I don’t mean to imply my life is more hectic than anyone else’s, it’s just maybe not my week to shine or to step up.
To manage or succeed. To have the rationality to deal with problems without hiding in a corner sobbing.
Or desperately wishing to hide under my duvet, waiting on my Mum to come find me and tell me everything is going to be alright.
Seriously, it’s like one day you’re a carefree bairn and then BAM, the very next day you’re crying at the carwash because the the lyrics to Landslide finally make sense.
Even copers need a break
Can someone please point me in the direction of the ‘needs a break’ queue?
Being a ‘coper’ is my usual state, but I just can’t seem to shake off the feeling of enough is enough now. I’m a little broken.
I’ve ‘kept on swimming’ for long enough, even singing the Disney tune in my head as a mantra, but now, even I acknowledge, I desperately need a break.
If it wasn’t for the amazing people around me helping push down the imposter syndrome and reminding me of the reasons I do what I do, I might just chuck it all.
Talk about multi-tasking
I literally cannot even go to an oncology appointment without having to also do a delivery, collect some supplies and swing past the florist for wedding cake blooms.
But there are very valid motives to keep doing it.
The hospital appointment wasn’t the worst. It also wasn’t the easiest. And, as usual, I ended up sobbing once back in my car in the car park.
Fortunately, the mister knew exactly how to soothe a worried soul and treated me to a Greggs sausage, bean and cheese bake. I. Am. Spoilt.
Hey train wreck, this isn’t your station
Pastry consumed, composure regained and acceptance that the show must go on.
As the boss, I’m front and centre with the production so, hey train wreck – this isn’t your station…… Not this week anyway.
Once I kick-start eating healthier, sort out my sleep routine, do some exercise, beat depression, stop procrastinating, learn how to run the business, get mentally strong enough to answer phone calls, then it’s game on.
