an impractical plan to avoid death

If you read my blog regularly you will know that I only really cover two topics:

-         -    being sick

-         -    being sick of moving house

And so this post will cover these themes in detail, because I’m sick and we’re moving house again and I’m sick of moving house and moving house makes me sick.

The realestate agent told us last week that we have to vacate, and to say that I took the news well would be untrue. I was a neurotic psychotic mess, crying with despair one minute and laughing uncontrollably the next. I said to Ben that this is what I will be like when I am pregnant, for nine whole months. It was dark, but I think he looked frightened.

Last time I felt like I was going to die. I know that sounds melodramatic, but illness is a common pre-death state and one never knows if one’s lifeless body will revive. As we packed our dirty mop and dirty dog into the car ready for the four hour drive to our new home I started to get stabbing pains in my head. They were ‘is-this-an-aneurism?’ pains, and we wondered if this was a hospital emergency. Mercifully they didn’t persist for as many months as the severe malaise, and I didn’t die.

Moving house and chronic illness are a toxic combination. This particular life event has a 100% record for undoing my health progress significantly. Three doses of this in one calendar year is not recommended.

Two moves ago, Ben had this great impractical plan to send me away while he moved house. I rejected this idea instantly, on two grounds.

1. He needed me.
2. I didn’t want others to have to help us if I wasn’t pulling my weight.

One move ago, Ben suggested his impractical plan again. I rejected it because he needed me as we were living in a remote town with few friends.

This time, Ben suggested his plan again and I have gratefully agreed to it.

I am either getting less conscientious, less proud, or more fearful of relapse. After psychoanalysing myself, I feel it’s a muddy mixture of all three.

It’s a bit of a social norm and pride issue, the whole being- there-to-move-your-own-house thing. I used to think it was an outrageous idea to ask other people to move house for me when I was ‘perfectly’ capable. All of next month’s adrenalin wildly gushes to my aid on moving day enabling me to fool even myself of my suitability for the job. But once I have collapsed into bed it is difficult to depart it anytime soon.

I still have to hunt, inspect, apply, pack, and clean beforehand, but my body seems more approving of quiet regular efforts than short sharp ejaculations.

At this point I am no longer hysterical, which is a relief for my small family. Wolfie kept stealing wet tissues and eating them, and he would have become constipated had my anguish persisted. I feel what I think is peace and acceptance, but it could be numbness. I have just discovered that looking at deathly cute baby animals has great emotional benefits, and I feel quite a connection to this kitten.  

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