Today Chris and I meander across the causeway and down to the sea. It is a pleasure to see the wading birds foraging in the mud for food. We hear the throbbing sound from three swans as they glide high above us, wings beating in unison. Sunlight dances in the rock pools. Darting fish are just visible beneath the water, rippling the surface. Gentle waves lick the shoreline, then pull back leaving the damp sand glistening like sparkles on a Christmas card.
I breathe in the seaside smells and hear the distant sound of children’s voices. It feels almost normal, yet the shadow of the impending treatment hangs over me. The more I read about it, the scarier it feels. I’m told that my resistance to infection will be lowered, and that the chemicals will poison my system. I have thrived on being fit and healthy until now. I resent this intrusion. At the same time I know it is the only way I can survive.
I am thrilled that Rachel Jonathan and the grandchildren are coming to see me tomorrow. I am so relieved that I am finally out of hospital and hope I will be strong enough to make the most of their visit.
It is difficult having only sporadic contact with the little ones, as I worry about bonding with them. I send them small things through the post on a regular basis- stickers, Mr Men books; anything that I think might interest or fascinate them.
I was heartbroken when I missed my annual trip in July and really appreciate the effort Rachel is making to fly here with three small children aged five, two and a half and three months. It is a year since I hugged them. The thought of holding my newest granddaughter in my arms for the first time fills me with joy. I can’t wait.
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