It’s half term. The children are staying with their father this week and I am now with my parents. Although my mother isn’t actually here at the moment. I arrived yesterday and went straight to the hospital to see her. She has been waiting for months and months now for a second operation on her spine. The first operation rebuilt her spine to such a degree that it was only by close inspection that you could tell the difference between an X-ray of her back and a black and white photo of the Eiffel Tower. It wasn’t terribly successful. She’s been in a horrendous amount of pain for years now. Having to sit or lie down just about every 10th step that she takes. Really, really bad.
I know it must be really bad because not only is she the toughest cookie on the block (apart from my Grandmother) but last night as she was sat on her hospital bed in a ward full of women, she was actually excited rather than terrified about the prospect of an eight hour operation where the surgeon is going to go in via her back, take out all the pins, put new ones in and then flip her over and go in through the front and do the same sort of scaffolding job. Last time it took 8 hours. She is the only one he is operating on today.
So. Now. We are now just waiting to hear news that she’s out of theatre. She’s been in there six hours so far. I’m just sort of pacing.
My daughter has just provided a welcome distraction by phoning me from Brighton. She and a few friends have gone down there for the day and she called from outside Peter Andre’s house really excited. “We’ve actually found his house!! He’s not there because he’s at the Brit Awards, but we’ve just talked to his cousin for AGES and he was really lovely and then we met one of his neighbours who tried to call him to let him know we’re here, but he didn’t answer the phone but I gave him my address and he’s going to send us some signed photos…..”
Off now for a walk, or a sleep, or a chat with a sheep. Something, anything to distract me from images of the current state my mother must be in.