Destination Unkown.

 

Considering my categorical youth, I’ve herded my fair share of shoddy years, under my swiftly approaching 25 belt. But this year of the baa-baa black sheep has to fair near take the biscuit. And not just any biscuit, for that matter. This is a chocolate free; melt in your tea, crumbs all over the sofa and carbs all over your waistline, morsel of a biscuit. YEAY! :/

We’re now in freaking August and I’m beginning to feel like somebody signed me up, for Noah’s ark part II. (And this isn’t a nod to the current weather report, on Manchester’s shocking attempt at a half convincing summer. Oh no.) On board they disorderly scurry; the snowballing tumble weeds, followed by the bad news and its black cloud snood. The breath bandits of anxiety and the jumbo jets of pain, followed by its very own mushroom cloud of mortiferous pollution; and so they continue. Two-by-two tons they march; meanwhile I’m neck deep, on bottom deck, attempting to patch up the hull with a Hello Kitty plaster, to prevent the onslaught of an ocean of darker thoughts and draining finances.

 

All the while, every other man and his Dachshund are hurtling on by, aboard their water tight, gold leaf Catamaran’s; busy making babies, rolling in the dollar and taking selfies on their casual weekend’s in outback Nepal. GREAT.

For a no less than 100mph me, such a state of stillness, has been in itself a Himalayan hike of a mindset adjustment. Not only stepping back from a stimulating and secure career, but begrudgingly allowing, family and friends who have overwhelmingly stepped up to the laborious agenda, of rallying around after me. And indeed rally me around too, in my gangster-got-envy wheelchair.  (Oh yeah. You heard it here first.)

 

Yes HUMANS! Who’da thunk it? Those beings that I am so often to quickly disregard; rarely applaud and evermore refuse to idolize… (All the while waving the flag of glorification, for the Holy Turtles, Sea Horses and fluffiest of Piglets.)

From girlfriends whom sleepover, to boyfriends whom don’t sleep at all; prop up you up, hold you tight and fetch you meds through out the night. From giggle transfusions, girls that come bearing Bonsai’s, full days of deliberating over which crucial beads, will adorn to your habitually oblong dream-catcher. Good reads (and some very under whelming), a new found love in Folksy/Americana melodies and being home in time for dinner EVERY night (even if your appetite, didn’t RSVP.)

 

There has most undeniably been several freight loads of delight, that have blossomed within the bleakness.

This 24th year of endurance, has been the penultimate ‘kahuna burger’ of enforced Mediation. I’ve learned to accept a situation; I’ve learned to listen and to love my body (a totally alien concept.) I’ve learned learn to appreciate what matters, whom matters, the bigger picture. I’ve thought hugely upon my placement within this planet and my status within the popup storybook of my lifetime. And though I feel I’ve reconfigured my goals and reawakened my appetite for embracing the today (friendships, spontaneity, adventure and all that comes with it,) I’m still very much sandwiched between those barbed-wire cliffs, that surround a town called purgatory. Meh!

Until I receive prognosis, upon next weeks hugely anticipated operation, all plans, goals, finances and ‘what if’s’, cease to a G-force halt. Though one week may seem menial to the unknowing ear, when you’ve been unwell for 7 months and out of work several weeks, each day becomes seemingly so much longer than the last. Even more so, when your body holds’s you random to the confinements of a blow up bed for an entire 10days, because your own crib is just too painful to support you. When fetching your self a glass of water, consumes a days worth of energy and sitting up straight leaves you short strawed on the oxygen front. I’m lucky to be off said drugs, that absolutely contradicted the demands of my anatomy and I am heel clicking-ly jubilant, with this new found ability of entering the kitchen unaided and taking a pew in a rather civilized fashion. Though not totally ‘civilized’, that would be all kinds of boring right? Thus, I have the savior of all inventions, encased around my being at any given moment…. Meet the pregnancy pillow!

(PS. There’s positively no bun in this oven, I promise.)

r=bloogers, manchester blog, lifestyle blog, orthopaedic pillow, pregnancy pillow, illness, cancer

 

Turning any situation, into a cozy one… since three weeks ago.

And no this woman is not I. She’s merely a Pinterest dream, that I bare no resemblance to, in the peaceful and/or glamorous department. (Though the jury’s definitely out, on her super defined, rectangular and askew bump…)

I tend to favor a more Michelin-Man take on the look. Providing both a soothing and functional ledge, for coloring, crafts and snacks galore; whilst Mr. Maximus inevitably attempts to muscle in on the snuggly action.

Anyway, one has to dash.. I have a jam-packed day, full of no plans lying ahead. Though I did peel back the first twenty or so pages of Louise Welsh’s ‘The Cutting Room’, after hours last night. Of which at first glance, appears to be a seemingly easy to digest and an ‘unputdownable’ nugget of literary fiction. So maybe I’ll plough my nose into that, for a sneaky hour or so and if not there’s always origami.

With love Raphaella x

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