Broken veins and sleep poetry

It was a busy week. Between train journeys and work stuff, I also organised our trip to London for a royal garden party as part of my BEM award, plus I set the ball in motion for another charity gig this year.

All fun and good times, plus a long weekend off to look forward to. Off on Friday and tomorrow. What could possibly go wrong??

My veins. That’s what could go wrong. And they did. On Friday we went to Belfast for me to have a scan. These scans are MRI and involve dye being put into a vein. My veins have been poked and prodded for 2 years. They weren’t happy at the start but have become progressively worse. Gone digging...... and digging...... and digging some more. Not even a doctor with an ultrasound machine could get a needle into a vein. In the end they had to give up. Not their fault but hugely frustrating for me. Not to mention sore. I’m like a pin cushion although I’ve had worse bruises at other times. The rest of the scan was done so I’m hoping it’s enough for them to see what they need (and that it’s more improvement!) Unfortunately there’s a chance I’ll get called back and someone from Infusion Services will have to get involved. 

I’m persuading myself it doesn’t matter. That I’d know if things had got worse. I’m trying to have faith in my body’s ability to keep healing. 

There’s little doubt it caused me a wee dip though. It wasn’t a nice experience. Although the doctor and nurses were brilliant, I’m embarrassed to say there were tears and I left in a foul mood and totally fed up.

We went to walk in my friend’s beautiful garden on the way home and the next day we went for a quick beach walk in Castlerock. I went to bed early on both Friday night and Saturday night. 

Last night I woke up with a start as hubby was coming into bed. “I wrote a poem!” I exclaimed. “I wrote a poem in my sleep! Quick, get me a pen and a bit of paper. I have to write it down before I forget.” This is what I wrote;

Granda used to wear his old boots every day

He’d wear them for sowing

He’d wear them for hoeing

He’d wear them planting

He’d wear them for picking

But one day they just stood on the step

Gathering dirt in the wind and the wet

“Why does Granda not wear his old boots anymore?” asked Tom

He knew in his heart that something was wrong

Granny wiped a tear from her eye

“He doesn’t need his old boots anymore.

Where he has gone, granda can fly.”

I originally called it ‘Why Does Granda not Wear his old Boots Anymore’, but hubby suggested that was a bit wordy so I’ve gone with just ‘Granda’s Boots’. I told my sister and also a friend about it. How tragic is that?, I asked. Not only am I writing poetry in my sleep, but it’s horribly melancholy poetry. Where has that come from?? I cried when I read it to hubby, but then we laughed as we competed against each other in a limerick battle! Thank goodness for my husband. He’s the one who dries my tears, even when they make no sense. 

Today we didn’t sea bathe as it was too windy and choppy. We went down and got sea air though and it was just what I needed.

Then we came home and binged on rubbish films....... Cocktail followed by Footloose. I treated hubby to a bit of a flash moblet (it can’t be a full flash mob if there’s only one of you!) but I mistimed it slightly...... Picture the scene...... I thought it was close to the big end dance scene so I subtly got up to let the dog out. I waited, stretching my aching muscles and hiding my true plans...... unfortunately it was bit further away from the scene than I remembered. Hubby glanced at me every so often, before telling me he knew exactly what I was planning and that I was way too early! Doh!! 

Another day off tomorrow. I’ll have a wee sing and a dance when I get up. I’ll sing loudly in the shower. Then I think I’ll go to the sea with hubby again. Breathe in the air. Remind myself I’m still doing ok. Xxx