First anniversary.

Yesterday marked the first anniversary of Carol's death - 15th October 2020. Perhaps understandably I didn't feel much like writing about it, and today I have more of a sense that I ought to mark the occasion than I particularly want to.  On Sunday at Communion, the priest had read out Carol's name among the list of parishioners on the anniversaries of their deaths as he always does: I'd remembered when it was, so I wasn't taken by surprise, rather, I suppose comforted by a feeling that she was now in a better place than the one she'd left.  Looking back, which I try not to do too often, the last couple of weeks were altogether pretty grisly and it was with a definite sense of relief that I realized her time had finally come.

The post year hasn't really been much like I'd expected it was going to be - although truth to tell I didn't have much of a clear idea of what to expect.  I didn't go to all pieces (or at least, I haven't done yet) and I dealt with all the practicalities early on quite calmly and efficiently.  I shed a tear or two at the crematorium  but mostly at home it's just been learning to accept reality... remembering the good times and all the happy years we spent together, and nothing's ever going to take those away.

 One thing I've still got to tackle is the legacy of all the stuff Carol left behind: the tons of craft material, her books and DVDs, which are still all as she left them.  It's because I simply don't know what to do with them rather than I can't bear to touch them or anything like that.  Eventually I know I'll be galvanized into action and come up with a plan of some sort, but I don't sense any great urgency at the moment.  I've dealt with everything that was urgent in order to maker the place habitable for me, and the stuff that isn't can wait a while longer.

Best birthday present ever

 I went for my ultrasound scan this afternoon. I elected to go privately: University Hospital Coventry were supposed to have been sending me an appointment through, but such is the massive backlog of work that Covid has caused, nothing had materialized despite my GP having marked the referral as 'urgent' and I really wasn't prepared to wait any longer.  The NHS are very good at some things, but appallingly bad at others, and I was glad I could afford to pay for it myself.  I was, as befitted my status, treated like a valued paying customer, and my arrival at the BMI Meriden hospital was just like checking in to a posh hotel.

 An extremely nice doctor talked me through what was going to happen (I was expecting to radiologist to do it) and it was pretty much like the Abdominal Aorta Aneurism scan I'd had done five or six years ago.  I  was instructed to take deep breaths and hold them, and there were a couple of times when it was a little bit painful as he pressed down quite hard with the little transponder (is that the right word for it?).  About twenty minutes I think (I wasn't really keeping tabs on the time), and it was all done.

The result? It turns out I have gallstones which have been causing my gall bladder to become inflamed.  I said we'd suspected I had liver trouble, but he said no - there's nothing wrong with my liver.  So all that worrying for nothing!  Well, not quite nothing, I've still got to decide what to do about the gall bladder, but that's going to pale into insignificance compared to the prospect of something a liver transplant.   I can't easily express how relieved I feel: it's a tremendous weight off my shoulders, and worth every penny of the £320 I'm shelling out to have it done.

I mentioned that my mother had had gallstones: they're apparently quite common and while they're not hereditary as such, they do run in families.  She had hers removed: I can't remember whether she had the gall bladder itself removed as well or not, but I daresay I knew at the time.