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163: Hand On Your Heart

  Image courtesy of @tonightjosephine

Image courtesy of @tonightjosephine

I've been a bit wobbly this week, a bit off my game, thoughts going elsewhere, that sort of thing. I think I sorta knew why but it seemed silly, so I pushed it away and went with “just get to Friday”. 

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At the end of last year, somewhere between Christmas and New Year - actually it was exactly on my sisters birthday so the 29th December - I realised I hadn’t really dealt with what the year threw at me. Some medical whatnot happened, I snowballed with it alongside life, and then spent much of the rest of the year trying not to “dwell” and instead consistently distracting myself with things that I assumed were making me happier and, more importantly, better and normal - whatever normal is. In hindsight, that probably wasn’t the case. On 29th December, something made me realise I should probably start dealing. And that became my New Years resolution. 

I realised this week that as I tried to distract myself from not thinking about the thing at hand, actually that’s what I needed to indulge in. And as I got ready to go meet my new mummy friend for a day at the farm yesterday, I put my foundation on and pre mascara, had a big fat ugly cry: that sorta cry you don’t want anyone to see but you really desperately need to let out. And then I put my mascara on, went to the farm and pretended I was fine. (She wasn’t fooled though - said friend - but she was very good and very kind at just going with it and letting me be all “I’m fiiiine”.) 

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I can’t eloquently articulate how it makes me feel other than I feel extremely vulnerable, that suddenly this week all I’ve felt is that pit in my stomach I had so keenly this time last year, that I smell that ICU unit everywhere I go this week - my kitchen, the farm even - I remember the coldness of my feet and the tightness of those silly dvt socks they make you wear, the battle to pee (which was real, seriously, despite the many IV bags of fluid they were pumping into me), the Irish nurse that sat with me all night and told me about her wedding plans (I guess she’s married now)... 

It feels silly. It feels stupid, even. 

And if you saw me, I’d appear totally fine and just getting on. 

But deep down, I’m struggling this week with what happened this time last year, and what went on to follow - which was a tough year all round. 

I’m sure it’ll pass, and really, I am fine (how many time’s have I said “fine” in this piece?!) but I think I felt the need to acknowledge the “anniversary” so I could realise it really is okay to not be okay about shit that happens to you and sometimes, that shit will affect you way longer than you care to realise. 

I’m a dreamer: I daydream a lot. And even the memories of last year - the whole year - often flashback to me when I’m on auto pilot in my car or some such, and sometimes, it gets me right in the pit of my stomach and winds me. 

So, this year, to celebrate the fact I’m a year post surgery, and four check ups later with another booked for August, I tried to have the most normal day I could muster: I dropped my daughter at pre school, headed to the kitchen and baked some biscuits, came home and took the dog out, tidied the house, picked my daughter up from pre school, bathed and put her to bed, and just poured myself a glass of wine.

I'm still a bit pit-of-the-stomach vibes, I'm still a bit winded, but tomorrow is Friday and we'll be into the second year, and I'll be a that little bit closer to being less wobbly. 

And slow downed Kylie helps too. 

Be good and bake well,

Lady Bakewell-Park