154: Temptation

Know what I'm really missing at the moment? Doorstep white bread, with smoked back cured bacon, lashings of ketchup, and just a sprinkling of pepper. I really bloody miss that. And croissants. And pain aux chocolates. And crunchy nut cornflakes. And peanut butter on white doorstep bread. And muffins, chocolate chip preferably. And big Scottish oat porridge with honey, or if really treating myself, some white chocolate. 

Breakfast used to be my favourite. 

There is a lot of wheat based gluten fuelled foods I really bloody miss. And yes there are alternatives for most of the things I miss and yes they're pretty good BUT THEY AREN'T THE SAME. But most of all, although I do miss them, I'm very grateful to have been diagnosed coeliac because otherwise we would have never found this 'ere mass. So. Swings and roundabouts. Gluten free bacon sandwich anyone? 

Speaking of - mass, not bacon - I had my meeting with my surgeon. An efficient, slightly startling man, who made me feel like the four hour surgery would be a walk in the park. Which I guess for him, it is. It's like me baking a few thousand biscuits I guess. I mean, not really but you get my point: he does this everyday, this isn't alarming. We've scheduled it for April at my request. I had a few people question why I wanted to wait. To explain; Papa Mooncake is also not in the best of healths (I know, 2017 is a corker so far) and he's having to have surgery next week. We had a family meeting, we talked it out, and the majority (four to one - the one being my Dad) agreed his surgery was priority. My mass isn't going anywhere, it can wait. We can't both be out of action and have Mother Mooncake doing all the work. So. April it is. 

In the meantime, in the run up to the surgery, it's been advised - rather strongly by the surgeon and those around me - that I should try my darndest to be in the best of health going into the surgery. Why? They're taking out a lot more of my lung than I had anticipated; I had assumed it would be just the mass. Nah. I was wrong. It's a chunk. About half of my right lung. Because it's not just the lump that's the issue, it's the tissue surrounding it of which, is an unknown "matter" because we only biopsied the lump. Shit. 

I wouldn't say I'm feeling rotten but equally, I wouldn't say I'm feeling super. The last two months have been unknowingly gruelling - emotionally. When I took Mini B to the doctors on Monday, I casually asked why I might be feeling this way. She summed it up perfectly: "fight or flight: and if you're fighting a fire, you run,  but if you are experiencing a sustained fighting - like a health scare - at no point do you run, at no point do you let the adrenaline escape. So instead, you become used to the adrenaline; you live on it as normal. And now, now that you know next steps, you don't know what to do with this unspent adrenaline; which just makes you feel exhausted. Bar advising you to run up and down stairs countless times a day when you feel this way, I can only advise you talk about it, get away, re focus your mind."

Get away: tick. We have just got home from a quick dash to the South Downs where we spent Saturday by a fire, reading, colouring, watching the rugby, eating pizza. Sure, we could do all of that at home. But sometimes you need to not be putting another load of washing on, or squabbling about why you didn't do the dishes, or popping to Tesco. We actually STOPPED. There really isn't any manual on how your relationship with your spouse will fare when you go through the "in sickness" part of those wedding vow's (which ironically, we never said as we wrote our own vows). But needless to say, we had no idea. Having a baby is a pretty startling revelation that your relationship isn't full proof, but then add a cancer scare and it's a whole new battle of pea soup. We all deal with this stuff in a different way, and no different than me and my Lord B: I'm overly emotional and catastrophise, whilst he is pragmatic beyond words and just gets on. Getting away was so important. 

I could have stayed all week. 

Whilst away, we talked LBP: what do I do whilst we wait for April to come round? 

I can't eloquently put into the words the absolute contradiction my head muddles through. I hear people telling me "nothing is more important than your health - work will always be there." True.

And then I hear my own inner thoughts. 

I really miss working, properly. 

I ended 2016 with a whole bunch of new gift boxes to launch, hiding up my sleeve. They're still hiding. 

And the longer I don't work in the routine I had become accustomed to, the longer apathy - or more lethargy - has a chance to creep in. 

And then I get irritated and frustrated at the countless copycats that are creeping up on my out-of-action tail. It hurts. It's inevitable: only a fool wouldn't jump on a the chance to cash in on my lack of ability to work. 

And yet what good is it to come back to then disappear again for a few weeks whilst I'm recovering from what is pretty major surgery. 

And I can't currently work to my full ability. And I definitely can't in April. 

And the cycle begins again. 

In short: I don't know how to do this. 

I keep thinking - hoping - that come the summer, June time, this will all be the past. The first six months of 2017 will have disappeared in a haze of adrenaline lethargy that will leave me with six months remaining of 2017 to do something fucking fabulous, like living "normally". 

I write this blog because even as I do so, my eyes fill up. I can't help but think there are countless other people out there that have been through this who feel and get my frustration, pain, and utter exhaustion. I write so they know that for sure, it's normal - my new normal - and that no day is currently the same for me. Some days I feel bloody great and happy to be alive, other days I feel like crying into a pillow. After seeing my surgeon, although Lord B is comforted, I'm actual strangely still in a limbo land (see above spouse dealings with crisis): why is that tissue surrounding the mass so damaged and why do you have to remove so much of my lung? Do you still think that is the dreaded word no one wants to put on paper? 

SO where are we? 

In simple terms: I have March to try and sort Lady Bakewell-Park and my life out. Sort of.

In less simple terms: I don't fucking know. 

Hurry up, June. 

This tune, because it is seriously just perfection to me, at the moment. 

Be good and bake well,

Lady Bakewell-Park