Poäng

There are just two weeks of treatment to go. Everyday, Monday to Friday, Major makes the pilgrimage to the radiotherapy department at Maidstone Hospital. The route is beautiful; country lanes weave in and out of gorgeous Kent villages and all along the way 16thC Wealden houses, 17thC cottages and 18thC rectories punctuate undulations of strawberry fields and orchards. Yes, its really lovely enough to inspire yukky prose like that. Major has made the journey alone for most of the time and gets cross whenever I offer to drive him.

Other than that his days are spent snoozing and syringing. The sun is out and the tide is right to go for a walk on the beach this afternoon but, though he suggested the idea this morning, there is no way he has the energy to go. He's wrapped in a blanket asleep in the sicky Poäng chair. (An Ikea thing that came to us by accident. It really doesn't GO here but, annoyingly, it's the most comfortable piece of furniture we have so its allowed to stay until Major is better.)

I've got used to keeping my trap shut about food. I prepare my own meals without any consultation about their content or when they shall be eaten. The experience of opening the fridge to find only my bits in there is odd; its a bit lonely but at the same time the total control is great... I decide to take advantage of it and be GOOD while Major is feeding rather than eating: a good-wifely, sympathetic effort. (I confess to hoping for dramatic results as a by-product of good-wifeliness any day or I shall despondently fall off the fridge-control/sympathy rails into the ever-open arms of One Stop chocolate-comfort.) Today I wore a pair of his tatty jeans to chop and bring in logs for the fire; they fit me (very comfortably which could be by-production already working...) but are now two sizes too big for him.

He still shows me enormous care; cups of tea are brought which I haven't asked for but for which he magically knows I am thirsty; with a loving kiss to my brow he turns out the light in the spare room at 4.15am when he sees that I have passed out without doing so; he does MY washing up if I don't get there first, stops off and buys me vegetables at the farm shop on his way home from hospital, makes sure there is fuel for me in the car.... But... in conversation his contribution is uncharacteristically scratchy; I receive impatient, irritable replies to the most innocuous of questions and he's become completely allergic to my "where did I put my keys/purse/shoes/music?" leaving-the-house routine.

I've waited a long time to see how he'd be on the wagon and (since one can of PEG-drunk Guinness a day hardly counts) now I'm rather keen for him to come off it.