annanotbob2's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Feb 27th The best thing that happened today was a message from my Sister-in-Law explaining why she had been ignoring my calls, telling me which aspect of my behaviour she'd been (legitimately) finding difficult, explaining that she had been about to bring it up for discussion at our last meeting but hadn't felt able to as I'd started crying about something else. Me moaning about Bloke, when her husband is recently dead. (My brother.) And not supporting him (Bloke) in any way when he had a cancer scare. I could feel its inappropriateness even as I was banging on about it to her, but I couldn't stop myself. And I knew I'd pissed her off when she stopped returning my missed calls, despite Daughter and BigM both saying it was probably not about me - it was or she wouldn't have let it go on so long. When I got the message I called her and we had a good long chat and I think we are OK - it felt as though we were. I had a big think about Bloke and his cancer scare and my response to it - I blocked it out completely, forgot about it, even as it was happening. I remember someone asking me how he was and replying that he was fine, same as usual. They said, "But what about the cancer?" and I realised I had totally erased it from my consciousness. I'm not proud, in fact I'd rather not even mention it, but it seems like an important ingredient of these post-Sam times. I don't know if I have ever mentioned it on here, probably not. I can't do it. And that's just the way it is. I saw my counsellor today and told him about it. He asked me how I'd respond if Bloke said, "I have to go for the next check up and I'm scared and would like you to come with me." After a moment's thought I realised that if Bloke ever said something like that he'd be a different bloke and we'd be living a different life. He has never owned to having any emotions other than in retrospect - he has occasionally said he was really fucked up about something four years ago, or whatever, but at the time, when I could see things weren't OK and asked him, he always said he was fine, just a bit tired. So I'm done. It's been thirty years, with eight off in the middle, and I was a fool to try again as nothing's changed and I'm done. I'm done with writing about it tonight too, although this is very partial, but I'm done. Picked up my purse from the police station, which has been replaced on the same site as the old Victorian building with a modern glass fronted extravaganza, quite extraordinary.* I mentioned it to the woman who was dealing with the lost property paperwork, who said, "Oh, you came to the old one then?" in an inquiring (nosy) tone. I told her my son had had a phase of being a graff artist, and I'd had to come and be the Responsible Adult while he was being questioned, on more than one occasion, but that it was all twenty years ago and now he was a respectable member of society, with a professional career. We both sighed and laughed at the follies of youth. *I know that's a shit sentence but I can't sort it out and I hope it makes sense. This afternoon I had to take the plasters off the two sites where the skin lesions (or whatever they're called) had been sliced off and burned which I found incredibly hard. I don't know what I was expecting to see - The horror! The horror! - but it was just one scabby patch and one a bit pink/yellow - not looking great but within the descriptors in the leaflet they gave me. Apply Vaseline several times a day - but am I meant to cover that? One's halfway up my arm, the other by my knee - both places I like to keep covered in February but Vaseline is sticky and fluff sticks to it which can't be good. 12:03 a.m. - 28.02.20 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
||||||