Alternative title (aka Spoiler alert): It’s not a stomach ulcer … Well … I don’t think it’s a stomach ulcer! I mean, Doctor Google says “heck yeah” whereas my GP says “we need to stick a camera somewhere unpleasant” … Maybe Doctor Google is playing devil’s advocate, maybe my GP just likes to scare my guts into behaving (or likes to stick cameras in – or rather up – people’s jacksies), who knows! All I know is that gut ache is rubbish and I don’t like this diet plan it’s imposed on me (for goodness sake, I just want a chocolate orange cupcake sprinkled with custard creams with a cuppa tea, that’s no reason for my stomach to be annoyed, right? RIGHT?!).
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Alternative title : I officially suck at pull ups … I’m more likely to bust a blood vessel in my noggin a la “Stressed Eric” than manage one of those! Yet here I am, scheduled in for 3 gym session a week, in which pull ups are involved (so says my training plan) … Or rather, holding onto the bars, legs kicking about in effort and trying to move upwards while I make an odd “meeeeehhhhhhhhh” sound but not really accomplishing much more than like a centimetre! Urgh!
Since losing both my dad and my uncle in the space of 6 months my brain has suddenly become focused on the fact that I haven’t been taking particularly good care of my own health … Skip a thyroid tablet, eh I’ll remember tomorrow! (Not the best of ideas given how forgetful I can be in the mornings). Skip a meal, eh I’ll eat later! (Or not). Skip meditation, eh I’ll be fine I’m not that stressed! (While chewing my way through all my nails … Well, except toe nails, not quite as flexible anymore what with skipping some Yoga classes).
Alternative title : It seemed like a bad dream … The pews were the same, the funeral directors ushering people to their seats were the same, the air was as musty as all those months ago, a coffin on a stand, roses atop … But it wasn’t a dream … We were back at the crematorium. Saying goodbye to another.
Where my dad had the scent of petrol and the roar of scooters, punk music blaring over the sound system as his coffin was walked into the crematorium, glistening fresh snow and a celebrant with tales of mischief, my uncle had rainfall (in typical Lancashire style), a sombre silence as the pall bearers lifted him over the threshold, and prayers sung in broken voices.
**Sorry this post is rather late – I didn’t have the emotional energy to post it when it was first written**
Alternative title : I wanted to be happy, I really wanted to be happy … After all, birthdays come with presents and cards and cake and love and hugs and all those wonderful unicorn fart-esque moments. I tried to be happy, I really did try … But I couldn’t … Because you weren’t there to say “happy birthday flower”, because you were no longer part of the signature on my “happy birthday daughter” card … Because you weren’t here.
I wanted everyone to forget the date, I wanted Facebook to bog-off with it’s little celebration (in fact I might tell it to permanently bog off once I’ve written this post), I didn’t want cake or flowers or cards, I wanted an unremarkable day. I can’t say that I wanted a day like any other because I spend each day attempting to navigate around the dull ache that I now recognise as your absence.
I just didn’t want reminding that this was my first birthday without my dad …