Thursday, 13 July 2017

The Waiting Game

I've been trying to figure out how to best deal with my current situation – not feeling safe, constantly scared, feeling overwhelmed and out of control.

A day or two after I last wrote, I broke down. I confessed to mum how much I've been struggling lately, especially with the trauma dates, and the extent of my self-harm and use of medication and alcohol, as it's all that gets me through each day. That life in general is overwhelming. I told her I think I need to go back to the Clinic for a week or two, and I need to see my GP to make it happen.

After an hour or two of panic and hysterics, she eventually agreed to make an appointment with my GP and drive me there as I'm in crisis. Apart from the pressure wounds and oil burns, this was the first time in about six months that she agreed to help me get to appointments.

The next day, she backtracked, and wouldn't do it.
  “They probably wouldn't have a bed for you anyway...”

Eventually, a few days later, she followed through on her original agreement, and last Monday I saw my GP, which was the first appointment available.

I told her the same things I'd told mum. She agreed it was a good idea, but said a few things that made me feel hesitant.

She thinks it's best to not tell them I'm trying to hide from trauma dates, but rather to have professionals to talk to and learn new mindfulness skills. Groups might be a problem. I can do the ones that don't involve talking. Groups like yoga, mindfulness, maybe stuff like art therapy, but I worry they're going to expect more this admission. She also said I need to try to have more days off drinking so the Clinic can know withdrawal and seizures won't be a problem. There's also the worry that they might want to reassess and change my meds, which I feel very uncomfortable with. When I take them properly, the meds I'm on do help a lot.

In the end, I'm feeling apprehensive and not overly hopeful, despite her saying she'd push for me to go in, and thinks it'd be helpful for me. She took me to get bloods done, and said she'd send off the paperwork that same day.


Amazingly enough, the next day there was a phone call from the Clinic to set up an intake interview. Last time, it took around six weeks to hear from them. Mum played the role of messenger because of my fear of talking on the phone. I just choke up and I can't get a word out. The nurse unit manager raised the issue of attending groups, but it sounds like the non-talking groups might be enough if I'm lucky. She doesn't want me hiding in my room, although last time, I spent most of my time either walking laps around the corridors or smoking with a coffee in the courtyard.

Then, I started getting distressed, so she said she'd call back in the next two days to make a time for the interview. Upset that it meant more time before I could get support, I broke down crying, attacked myself, and ate a handful of sleeping pills, hoping I'd feel better in the morning.

Wednesday and Thursday, I spent all day stressing, waiting for a phone call that never came.


Then, on Friday, mum went away for the weekend. It was my first time home alone in over a year. Before my brother moved out, he'd sometimes be gone all day, and it's not like we sat around chatting for ages, but having someone around in case something went wrong was a safety net I never appreciated. I didn't realise how hard it'd be.

I don't want to get into too much detail, but that night, I hit a wall. My friend A and I were talking about weight issues, and he wanted to see what I looked like at my smallest. I should've known better. I'd sent him pictures from my set weight (BMI 19-20) a while ago, and he told me I looked like a cow. This upset me so greatly, I didn't speak to him in the longest time.

I'd deliberately not sent pictures at, or near, my lowest weight, because it's obvious his view of women's weight is not right. But this time, I did. Truthfully, I wanted to test him. His reaction would give me an important insight to what he really thinks of me and if he was a worthwhile friend. If he said I looked awful, that would've been a good thing. If he said I looked good, that would mean he's not someone I want to have any interaction with.

Unfortunately, it was the latter. He though the pictures of me around BMI 12-13 looked good.

It was horrified and distressed. I tried calling mum to talk, but as I got more distressed, she hung up. I felt scared and unsafe and wished I wasn't alone. I tried to calm down and called her again, but it didn't go much better. After that, she stopped answering my calls. I left a voicemail, explaining that I didn't feel safe. That it was my first time alone in over a year, and it's scary to know there's no one to catch me if I fall, no one to help me if I did something stupid.

I felt, and still do feel, so low and hopeless. I couldn't just not do something about it. It was the worst time to be alone. In the end, I tried to find the least-destructive ways to self-destruct. After more sleeping pills and a few new burns, I just listened to sad music and passed out, and slept as deep as death.


Mum eventually got back on Monday afternoon. She asked how I was doing, and I told her it'd been a pretty miserable weekend after everything with A.

I'm not sure if the Clinic called when she was away. The phone rang twice on the Monday before she got home, plus once on Friday. I don't know if it was even the Clinic, as I thought they left messages, but most calls go through to our mobiles these days, so I guess it's possible.

Tuesday and Wednesday went by. No call. After more than a week since the first phone call, I'm starting to think they won't call back. I'm spending all day stressing and waiting, but I'm losing hope they'll call again.


xxBella

Monday, 19 June 2017

Steps

Last week I finally got to see my dietician for the first time in three months.

My GP has been working on taking me out for short walks when she does home visits. The idea is that I'll eventually be able to walk to appointments by myself, and although it's not even a kilometer away, I'm still a long way off walking solo.

Even walking alone to the corner of the block is terrifying. My GP found a way I can get to the clinic winding through the laneways instead of the busy streets, but she thinks I need a psych to help me overcome the fears before I'll be able to walk alone.

She was coming to pick me up and hour before she started work, so there'd be enough time to walk me to and from my appointment with the dietician. She was running late though, so she drove to pick me up, and then walked me home.

It was so good to see the dietician after so long. In the five years I've been seeing her, I've never had this long between appointments. She gave me a hug straight away. Thankfully, she didn't push weighing me as she saw me get distressed when she asked, so she focused more on what/how much I've been eating and drinking, and how life is going in general.

My GP made another set of appointments in five weeks, walks included, before she walked me home. The walk itself was difficult - not physically, but mentally - as it's the farthest from home I've walked in many years, but it definitely helps not having to do it alone. Rational or not, I feel so unsafe, even just a short distance away.

Unfortunately, neither of them are sure why I've been feeling so sick the past few weeks. I've been doing liquid days every other day to reduce how often I'm sick, because on days I eat solids, I'm up all night nauseous and usually vomiting. And it's not the alcohol - if I eat early in the day, before I drink, I get sick. If I eat but don't drink, I get sick. If I do liquids only, even with alcohol, I don't get sick.

I asked them both about it, and they said they'll discuss it with each other and get back to me. We went over what I can handle without getting sick, and it's really only yoghurt, iced coffee, supplement milk drinks (Ensure or Milo), hot chocolate, ice blocks, jelly, and thin pureed veggie soup (my current obsession is cauliflower and leek, for only 44 calories per cup - simply a cauliflower, a leek, and a stock cube, boiled and pureed). The current advice is to just stick with liquids and puree as much as possible.


June also marks the end of my traumaversary dates, and is always a very difficult and triggering time. The end date doesn't stop the feeling. I've spent most of this week knocked out on meds during the day and drinking until I pass out at night, which is why it's taken me nearly a week to write about the appointments.

Every day is just trying to get through in one piece, but then I wake up the next morning and have to go through it all again.

I feel so low and hopeless. The overdose urges have been so strong, but I've whittled down my stash by knocking myself out. I'm torn between using my extra meds to avoid the days, or keep stashing them for an overdose, although the latter would get me in trouble if they realise I haven't been returning any leftover meds as I'm supposed to.

I just don't want to be here, stuck in my head 24/7. It's taking all of my willpower (and a shit tonne of vodka) to avoid ending up in A&E.

I can't even enjoy things like TV or movies unless they're incredibly sad. Comedy makes me feel even worse. I can't even laugh if I wanted to.

To be honest, I would actually consider another inpatient admission. Even though the last one was somewhat disastrous, it did keep me safe while I was there. But considering the lack of support at home, chances are I won't even be able to see my GP until the next appointment in five weeks (unless I manage some awful accidental injury like the oil burns), and god knows what could happen in that time.

For today, it's a soup day, with no extra meds up my sleeve until this afternoon's delivery, and counting down the hours until it's somewhat acceptable to crack a bottle of wine.


xxBella

Monday, 5 June 2017

I've Lost my Fear of Falling

Next week, I'll be seeing the dietician for the first time in... about three months, I think. It's been hard. Before that, I'd been seeing her every Tuesday at 8:10am for five years. I've only seen her once since I lost transport, and that was because I had to see my GP to dress my pressure wounds from a hospital admission, and I managed to sneak in an appointment with the dietician at the same time (evidently, only physically injuries are worthy of helping me get there).

My GP's such a dear. She's going to pick me up and walk me to and from the appointment, all in her own time. We've done two walks on home visits so far – once just to the corner of the block, once just under halfway to the clinic. I've got to admit I'm nervous. Partly because walking around in public is one of the biggest challenges with my agoraphobia, and I haven't walked that far in years (excluding the occasional quiet bushwalk).

The other factor is that I also really don't want to get on the scales, but I'm worried she'll want to weigh me having been so long. I just don't want to be weighed and monitored any more. It's just stressful and pointless at this stage.

For the past week or two, I've been feeling awfully sick whenever I consume solids. It's like a cross between nausea, cramps, and heartburn. I've only been eating a small dinner so I can have the first part of the day without feeling sick, but I'll wake up two or three times a night with my stomach screaming at me.


I had a strange incident on Friday. Mum woke me up at 11am, thinking I'd overdosed as I never sleep that late.

I have to stress – I hadn't taken any extra pills or smoked or anything like that. But I was completely out of it. And I have no idea why. I was confused, panicked, crying hysterically, unsteady on my feet... I ended up having one smoke and a few sips of coffee before going back to sleep.

When I woke up again three hours later, I felt fine. It's a complete mystery as to what happened that morning, but mum later told me that she was about to call an ambulance, as it took her 10 or 12 tries to wake me before I even opened an eye.


Then, on Saturday, I had one of the worst breakdowns I've had in a while. Just the usual crap – crying about being worthless, useless, a failure and a fuck-up. After beating myself up, both mentally and physically, I went into the kitchen in a fury. I destroyed a heap of food, throwing the packets on the floor and stomping on them, throwing tubs of yoghurt in the sink. It was... not my finest moment.

A couple of hours later, I lay on the couch and took the stash of meds that I technically was not supposed to have. Judging from what I took compared to previous overdoses, I was expecting to probably wake up in hospital again. Before I passed out, I locked and hid everything self-harm or overdose related, and this time hid the keys where no one could find them, just in case. I've only just finished replacing everything after my last overdose, when the police found the keys in a drawer and confiscated all of my tools and meds. Since a lot of the time I'm still actively self-harming and being generally non-compliant by the time the ambulance gets here, they always seem to be accompanied by police these days.

Amazingly enough, I still woke up early the next morning, at home, with no emergency services. I was just a little wobbly on my feet and uncoordinated, and all I could think was regretting wasting my stash on a failed overdose.


To end on a positive: 
Over the two weeks between May 15th and 28th, I had six nights off drinking, which is better than I've done in a while. Given, I did smoke for a couple of those days, but hey, a win's a win. If I can stick to roughly every second night instead of every night, I think that's my goal for the moment.


With any luck, I should be able to get a new laptop in the next month or so, which will make it easier to keep up with blogging (mine died just before Christmas, so I've had to rely on when I can borrow Mother Dearest's computer).


The Aftermath...
xxBella

Thursday, 11 May 2017

24

It's been a week of birthdays in the house. First with my 24th on April 30, then my mum's 60th a week later.

We'd planned to go out for dinner for my birthday, and while it's something I enjoy, it doesn't make it any less stressful. Between the act of going out, and the hours it takes me to feel presentable enough to, I started getting anxious, edgy, overwhelmed. I leaned on my PRNs through the day, perhaps a little too heavily.

We went to an Italian place that I've been wanting to try. I was still full from the cake, but wanted to go out because I just enjoy the experience of going out for dinner, even if I couldn't eat much. I indulged in linguini carbonara, since I knew I wouldn't eat much of it.



The big highlight of my birthday was, as those of you on Facebook would've seen, I am now the lucky owner of a NES Mini. I was so disappointed when I couldn't get one, but he managed to track one down. I was so excited when I opened it, and spent the next few days playing it for hours on end.



But between the fear from eating so much and wanting to self-harm, it only made me more determined to go ahead with the laxative overdose that's been building for the past few weeks. Plus, I've mentioned before that the only times I don't drink are if I'm physically ill, in hospital, or smoking. Laxatives would mean I'd have some time off drinking due to being physically ill/in pain, and drop some weight (from not drinking or eating much because I'd be sick, not from the laxatives themselves - we all know it doesn't work that way).

I took them across three days, hoping to prolong the pain and sickness without needing to go to hospital from taking a whole packet, as has happened a few times before. I had 20 one morning, but still drank because the cramps didn't kick in until later in the night. The next morning, I took another 20, but still only felt sick for a few hours in the late night/early morning. Then, I took 60. That worked. I was too sick to drink anything or eat much for the next two, two and a half, days. It wasn't fun, but it got me two days off drinking.


Then, it was mum's birthday on Sunday. I had a fantastic homemade Indian dinner planned. Three mains and five sides, but it ended in disaster.

I coped well with most of the day. My dosa batter failed spectacularly, managing to melt the base of my KitchenAid blender in the process (and I was just blending uncooked, cold, soaked rice!). My grandfather's signature sponge cake collapsed. I managed to cope with hours in the kitchen cooking dinner, only to (accidentally) spill oil all over my hand at the last minute.

I got ready to serve. Everything was ready to be played up, and I'd just finished the pappadums.

I think it's probably because I usually use a different pan of the same size, and the usual one is heavier, but I used the old one because I didn't want mine tainted with oil. I just lifted it up on too high an angle, because it poured from the pan and over the handle to my hand. That's what I get for cooking with oil.

Thankfully I turned off the burners before I moved the pan, otherwise god knows what could've happened.

I screamed and ran to the sink for cold water, and my family came in. I felt so bad for fucking up, I just kept apologizing. My brother is good with first aid from his years of volunteer work, so he helped out, and wrapped the fingers in plastic wrap to protect them. They wanted me to to A&E, but it felt ridiculous, so I said I'd just see a doctor in the morning.

Mum went to buy a bag of ice as I'd used what was in the freezer, and Steve started tasting and picking at the food, and I nibbled on the hard-won pappadums with another glass of wine. I ate dinner with one hand with the burnt hand still in water. I kept my hand in water overnight in a bowl on a table next to the couch.


We had to close Billy out of the kitchen, as he kept licking oil off the floor after it cooled down. Not only was there oil all over the stove top and on the floor in front of it, but it spread as mum and my brother walked through it searching for first aid supplies. Between cleaning the benches/stove/floor, it took mum a full day to clear up the disaster.

I have oil burns all over my thumb, index and middle fingers, thumb web and palm on my left hand, despite leaving it in icy water for 12+ hours after the incident. Once I realized it'd take more than a few days to start healing (or stop blistering, for that matter), I started slowly typing this post on my phone instead of the laptop, since I currently can't type with my left hand.

Being a physical injury, mum actually offered to drive me to see my GP and get it dressed without even having to ask. A blister on my thumb had already burst by the time I got to the appointment at 8:45. They popped the others that had come up, and dressed them tightly. I had to get a tetanus/whooping cough booster, and they warned my grandmother's ruby and diamond ring might have to be cut off if it kept swelling.

More blisters came up through the next few days. It happened on Sunday, and I saw my GP and the nurse on Monday, Wednesday, and I have to go back tomorrow too. Yesterday, my fingers were covered with blisters, and again they were popped and dressed, as well as getting a flu shot.

Next week, my GP is doing another home visit, as I haven't had a proper appointment in two months. I'm dreading having to go for a walk, although it'll still be short. For now, I'm just resting and loading up with painkillers.

And, of course, more birthday picture-spam...



More gratuitous selfies from going out for dinner

I don't get birthday cakes much anymore. I used to make my own, but these past few years, it's been too much, and mum never bakes anymore. So this year, mum bought me a lamington sponge cake (for you non-Aussies: a lamington is sponge cake that's been coated with an extremely thin layer of chocolate icing and sprinkled in coconut). Not my first choice, but it was at least something everyone eats. I had a small piece in the afternoon, and the family devoured the rest over the next day or two. I didn't much care to have more than one slice. I just wanted the gesture.
(And, naturally, there's no eating in this house without two furry supervisors)

The cheesymite scrolls I made for mum's birthday

The oil burns as of yesterday


xxBella

Saturday, 29 April 2017

Facing Reality

Today, I thought I'd finally do a post about something that's been troubling me lately. Alcohol. It's been an increasing problem over the past 6 months or so, but this past month, I've only had a grand total of two days off. Most days, I wake up with no memory of the night before.

I don't like the thought of being labelled as an alcoholic or drunkorexic. When people ask if I drink, I tend to say “I enjoy a few glasses of wine with dinner.” as it seems so much more socially acceptable. But I am an addict, and one addiction became another when I quit smoking synthetics (10 months ago now!)

I've been trying hard to not keep drinking so much. Unfortunately, finishing the day with a few drinks has now become the norm and not the exception. If I have to drink, I've set goals of not drinking until 5pm, instead of starting in the afternoon, and keeping a tighter limit on how many standard drinks I do consume (ideally, 10 standard drinks max, instead of 14, 16, sometimes up to 20 drinks).

I'm eating less as I'm drinking more. The depression isn't helping with either. And with just a few hundred less calories of food and a few less drinks (usually around 500 now, before alcohol, which is usually around an extra 600-700), my weight has started to drop again after being fairly stable for the past few months.

In a way, I sort of justify my drinking to others because it keeps my intake higher. Truth be told though, the only real reason I want to cut back is so I can lose weight faster.


Last week, mum went away to visit friends for a few nights, and I decided to use the quiet time as an opportunity to have a night or two off drinking. I figured that, since I never eat dinner or set meals when I'm alone, as I lose all track of time, maybe I wouldn't drink either. I set myself up on the couch with my cigarettes, notebooks, chewing gum, extra meds, and water, and spent my days on the couch marathoning The L Word for the millionth time.

I can't lie – it was very tempting to get some smoke, since that's one of the few times I never drink (the others being when I'm physically ill, or in hospital), and when I'm home alone is the only time I can get away with it without it causing arguments. But after spending so much money on alcohol recently, I couldn't do it. It's funny. Everyone says I must be saving so much money since I quit synthetics (and rarely smoke the natural stuff), but in reality, I've been spending nearly as much on alcohol, especially in the past couple of months. At least smoke has no calories...

She was away for four days, and on the second day, I managed to get through without drinking – my first day off in a month. The next day, I drank early in the afternoon. I think I'm starting to get withdrawals if I try to have more than one day off. Even the first drink made me feel so much better. Being the weekend, my brother was home. Apparently I passed out on the kitchen floor for a few hours that night, for no apparent reason. I tend to pass out quickly and unexpectedly these days. Just a couple of nights ago, I had my soup heating up for dinner, my toast cooked, but passed out before I could eat it.

The last day she was away, I was sick. And no, it wasn't a hangover – it lasted through the following day. I couldn't even finish ¼ of a cup of coffee, and even cigarettes made me feel sick. I spent the day in dark and silence, my head pounding, quickly throwing up any thing I tried to drink. My body ached from the act of being sick so much. But it gave me another night without drinking.


On a different note, over the Easter weekend, I spent a few days with my friend R. It was so nice to get a break from the day-to-day life at home. I even managed to get out for a walk. It wasn't a particularly long walk, but with the pressure wounds from my last overdose still healing, it was a slow walk. It wasn't easy, but being a public holiday, there were very few people around, which was a bonus. So that was outing #4 for the year. It's the longest time I've spent walking around town in many years. Still, it was a nice little getaway from being stuck at home, and spend some time being social.


Tomorrow is my birthday, and I'm dreading it. Birthdays have usually ended in disaster for some years now. There's a sense of impending doom, and it could go either way. Will I be able to go out for dinner? Will I spend all day drinking myself into a stupor? Will everything fall apart? Watch this space.


I've been terrible with staying up to date on blogs these past couple of weeks, but I'm slowly starting to catch up, so please bear with me.



Easter Weekend supplies

Staying warm in a dressing gown before going out
(My black one was in the wash - please don't judge my backup pastel polka dot one!)


xxBella

Friday, 7 April 2017

Finding my Feet

My GP came for a home visit on Monday. After a chat, we did go for a short walk, as she's trying to help me build up to be able to walk to regular appointments. It was just 200 meters, down to the corner of the block and back, but for me, it's a lot. The thought of doing it alone makes me panic. Baby steps, though.

I've also got even more antibiotics and cortisone to help the pressure wounds heal, but to be honest, I've barely touched them. Taking antibiotics is something I've always struggled with – some weird form of self-neglect and/or punishment. So the pressure wounds on my feet from the last overdose are healing very slowly. I've not been able to do step aerobics for a month now, which is driving me nuts, and have only just started walking laps around the house again without hobbling.

She's doing another home visit in a few weeks, and the dietician will stop by occasionally on Tuesday after she's finished at work. So hopefully losing transport to appointments won't be quite as devastating as it could've been.


Also, I'm pleased (and greatly relieved) to report that Bill's surgery went well, and he's recovering nicely.

His surgery was last Friday, and for the eight hours he spent at the vets, I was worried sick, waiting for the phone to ring. Each hour that passed made me more and more anxious.

A few nights before the surgery, I broke down, hysterical about his health and his age, worrying that I've not done enough for him, that I haven't loved him as much as I could. I was still feeling a sort of pre-emptive grief from the few days there was talk of having to say goodbye.

The poor boy knew something was up. Usually, he runs out to the car and is happy to go to the vets. This time, he wouldn't move off the porch, and I had to carry him out to the car, where he sat shaking on my lap the whole time. At the vet, mum went to drop him in while I waited in the car. Again, he wouldn't move. He even climbed up on put his head on my shoulder. He used to do that all the time as a puppy, but he hadn't done it in a long time. It's the closest you can get to a hug.

We all thought he wouldn't have any teeth left when he came home, but it turns out it wasn't quite so bad. He had more teeth left than the vet thought, considering he wouldn't let anyone have a close look. Dogs have 48 teeth to start with. The vet drew a handy diagram of the 20 teeth he'd had removed (over several surgeries) in the past, the 14 they removed that day, and the 14 he had left.

I was worried about how he'd recover, how much pain he might be in, and how I'd cope with it. When we picked him up, he was so excited and energetic. Since then, he's just slept and slept. There's no doubt he's more comfortable now than before the surgery, even though he's still healing. 

I know I probably should've posted earlier, but I've been so worried something would go wrong or complications would pop up. Amazingly enough, his mouth hasn't even bled once, which we were told to expect. He had his follow-up appointment today, and everything is healing perfectly. There are no words for how relieved I am!




This fortnight's groceries – the bare essentials, after I found out about the surgery. 
Watermelon is always my No. 1 essential. 
That said, I always have lots of stew and soups in my freezer for evening meals.

His little paw print bandage from the IV


xxBella

Sunday, 26 March 2017

Difficult Decisions

My baby boy Billy has had a rough go of it this week. One morning, I woke up and his mouth had been bleeding. He's always had trouble with his teeth (and his ears... and his back). The conversation started about that it might be time to think about making a difficult decision. Yes, he's now 14, and after so many surgeries over the course of his life, we don't have that kind of money just sitting around any more.

I froze. My heart jumped into my throat as my stomach sank. I wanted to drink. I wanted to smoke. I wanted to cut and hit my head and overdose. I wanted to do anything to block out this pain. I can't bear the thought of losing him.

Ever since we lost Silky, just over four years ago, I realised for the first time that they wouldn't be here forever. I'd never considered that they wouldn't always be by my side. I've been petrified of losing Billy too. For four years now, I've said I could never get another dog as the pain of losing them is too much to bear. I've always said that it would be the end for me. That I really couldn't go on without him.

That night, he lost a lot of blood. Mum asked if I'd made a decision, and I just lost it. I sat on the floor and started bawling that I can't do this, I don't know what to do, I don't know what I should do. It felt like my heart was breaking. I spent the first few days in tears.

We took him to the vet. Due to my agoraphobia, I usually hold him for the car ride, and stay in the car while mum takes him in. This time, I actually went in for the first time in years.

We got a quote on the surgery, and depending on how many teeth need to be removed, it's going to cost somewhere between $1,400 and $2,000. He doesn't like his mouth being looked at, but it looks like he'll need all of them removed (what's left after the previous surgeries, anyway). I just hope he'll be okay without them. His teeth are diseased, and if they're not removed, it'll go into his jaw bone, which would eventually lead to a fracture.

I managed to find one company that would approve me for a loan while a) on a pension, and b) without going into an office in person. It's going to take a long time to pay off, and the interest rate is ridiculous, but it's worth it. I can't imagine life without him. Besides, after spending tens of thousands on various surgeries and medical issues over the years, I can't just give up. I will do anything I can to keep my baby boy safe.

He's been doing a bit better the past couple of days. His mouth only bled for the first two or so days. But for the first few days, it looked like we were going to have to say goodbye. I fell into mourning even though he was still right here beside me, and it's a hard feeling to shake. He's not a young pup any more. I guess it just reminds you of how fragile life it, and how quickly everything can change.


Tomorrow my GP's coming around for my first home visit appointment. She also wants to try getting me out for a short walk, which scares the shit out of me. I haven't even been able to walk around the block for years, despite wanting to. I know the goal is to be able to make the 5-minute walk solo to get to appointments, but even the first steps are terrifying.




On top of getting out to take Bill to the vet and tomorrow's walk, last weekend we went out for a family dinner for my brother's birthday at his favourite local Indian place. We haven't all been out for dinner since he and his girlfriend broke up a year ago, when we'd all go out together. I haven't had any reason to go out for dinner since then either, so it was nice for a change.

Samosas, Chicken Pakora, and Aloo Tikki for starters

Can you tell my brother loves naan bread?





xxBella