Bye bye Roger, hello E.T.

Day 351

A word about guinea pigs.

Dearest Roger has died. I knew he was ill (just like Spike Milligan) but the vet said he wasn't.

But he was. Died in my arms on Thursday morning.

Farewell you sweet natured, soft furred, handsome fellow.

Sandra and Barry, the girls he has left behind, are coping - for which fact I am very grateful. We only got Roger in the first place because bitchy old Barry was constantly picking on poor little Sandra. Get a neutered male, we were told, so we did and they all turned into one great, big, peaceful, lovely family of oinks. So have been on the lookout for a return to the snotty behaviour from Baz but it seems ok for now.

Old friend Janine came for the weekend. She is funny and beautiful and interested in the same things as me, which is a treat when you live with all blokes for too long.

She brought with her my birthday present - a large, mummy-sized money box and a smaller set of salt and pepper pots ALL IN THE SHAPE OF GUINEA PIGS!!!!!!!!!!

They are sitting on top of the cage and looking too life-like for comfort sometimes. I have named them Mandy, Dick and Phil, respectively. I don't normally name inanimate objects - I have never named my car, for instance - but they make the loss of Roger a little easier as it feels like I have just got three more (and they don't poo or eat, which makes life cheaper). Yay. (Thanks Janine, you always know the right thing.)

Except even she could not solve the 'mystery of the stained hand'. Sounds good that - the 'mystery of the stained hand' (pause for blood-curdling laugh and spooky noises).

Quite simply, I went to bed, slept, woke up and went to the loo, then went back to bed with a book (one of the shopaholic books, so I couldn't put it down). Then the phone rang so I answered it from the extension in Sam's room as it's closest (he wasn't home). Sat on the end of his bed chatting to Janine about what train she was arriving on and what we were going to do when she got here, and then I looked down at my hand.

It was covered in a rust coloured stain over half the palm and most of the fingers.

And it wouldn't wash off.

In fact it took two and a half days and a lot of scrubbing to clear it.

And I have absolutely no idea how it got there.

I don't smoke so it wasn't a weird, massive nicotine stain.

I'm not American so I don't use iodine when I cut myself (I'm British - I just run it under a tap or suck it or, if something's hanging off by a thread of sinew, I slap on a bit of Germolene).

I hadn't picked up some large, rusty object whilst fast asleep in bed, and even if I had, it ought to have washed off, which it didn't.

I don't think it was a stigmata, but if it was, then it was wasted on me.

And it wasn't blood or paint.

So that just leaves alien encounters in my sleep. Newsflash. Aliens now kidnap us in order to badly henna our fingers instead of conducting mad experiments involving drills and such.

Perhaps there is a new strain of young aliens who spend their gap years in India, before settling down to the proper task of abducting humans.

So if you wake up in the morning with a hankering for the remains of last night's curry for breakfast, it may well be less to do with your hangover and more to do with recently ashrammed aliens with no artistic ability.

You have been warned.

"Rosebud..." (said in the voice of Orson Wells)

Day 336

Squeezing out a blob of pink toothpaste and it forming a perfect, five-petalled rosebud on one's brush is a good start to the day, I find. It's a Zen thing, isn't it, to be able to find a moment of peace and beauty that grounds us in the here and now? Or is it only Zen if you can make it last longer than the time it takes to clean your teeth? Which I can't really. So possibly not that Zen.

Had a visit from our landlords this week. They are lovely people and it is always nice to see them, but so much nicer when you know you can afford the rent, which, temporarily, we can't, so Steve was quite anxious. I, however, live in an unreality bubble where showing them their newly laid patio, decorated bathroom, and beautifully made roman blind were all much more important to me, so I was quite excited.

My bubble won the day. They paid for the lino and the blind, and said to just keep them informed of what we can afford and when we can pay it, and left with a list of other things to get sorted for us on our behalf. How many landlords hear you tell them you don't know how much rent the social is going to pay while you're out of work, but it might not be all that is due, and they give YOU money !!!???!!!

(Brief interlude here for Kylie Minogue moment - "I should be so lucky, lucky, lucky, lucky...") Thank you Sian, thank you other Steve, we are unbelievably blessed to be your tenants.

I think of my Steve's worries before they came, and I wonder how many people miss the opportunity to feel excited like I did, because they are so busy trying to divert the bad thing that they predict is coming to them? If you have a choice, why not be a glass-half-full person as it surely makes the world look rosier?

Perhaps the pain of being 'unprepared' when something bad inevitably does happen (as it does to everybody sometime) outweighs all other considerations. The fear of being hurt again can leave us in the habit of looking over our shoulder, and missing the toothpaste rosebud right under our nose.

I do understand this, I honestly do. I found my own fears tripping me up this week, like dirty laundry dropped on a dark floor. I am visiting another doctor next week and all my past experiences with them hang on my back, pulling my focus away from reality, away from the positive, and away from the present. I am already envisioning not being listened to, being dismissed and disbelieved.

Have I gone completely bonkers? What possible good will that do me? That goes against everything I believe. And yet I am SO tired that, perhaps, I am not quite my usual self. I sense my brain malfunctioning and sending me down thought-tracks that are alien and uncomfortable for me, but have hardly the energy to resist.

How easy it would be to fall asleep on the job here, so to speak. To let the negative thoughts just run their course, determine my actions, and choose the words I speak to the doctor next week - to influence the attitude I walk in with and the way I listen (or not). How 'reasonable' to complain afterwards about the way I was treated, and divulge myself of all responsibility.

I've lived like that. We all have. We 'go with the flow' and think things are 'done to us'. Which we either like or don't, but always think we have no power over.

Bollocks.

I can't do that any more.

I will squeeze out a whole tube of toothpaste if necessary, until my brush is a bunch of roses. I will remember how much is possible. I will say "Thank you, thank you, thank you" to the universe for sending me that landlady, and I will go to the doctors with an open mind, heart, and ears. I will go expecting a gift, even if it is no more than the gift of someone's time.

I will see this as just one more step on my road to recovery.

I will believe in my recovery and give thanks in advance for it.

And I will do it with a fuzzy brain, no concentration, a tendancy to weep for no reason, an inability to get out of bed most days for long, and some significantly increased pain levels. Because, really, what is the alternative?

My glass is half full (of mouthwash) and my toothpaste is pink. Bring it on, guys, bring it on.