Number Ninety One: The importance of home and the magic of a Waitrose trip.

Well, I’m not as angry as I was. The blog post helped, keeping up with my good habits have helped. But I think the main reason I’m not as angry now is because I’m so unbelievably tired! I think the last time I was this tired was definitely after having Nunu. Not having a full night sleep for months but being fairly mellow during the day seems to have a similar impact to being super busy during the day and not really sleeping brilliantly at night. Who’d have thought?!

Stressed, that’s been my current mood over the last few weeks. Stressed, followed by now being run down and full of cold. Trigger of this has definitely been getting ready for the kitchen extension move. I can’t remember if I’ve written about this before or not but the short story is that just before Beanie died, he wanted an idea of what me and Nu could do with the house. So, he got in touch with our neighbour who’s an interior designed to pop over and give us some ideas of what we could do. He made the appointment for the Monday, he went into the hospital the Wednesday before and well, you know the rest.

Once he’d gone, I got back in touch with the designer and arranged for her to come over, to finish what Beanie had started. Fast forward just over 12 months and here I am, sat on a truly wonderful friends sofa with my entire human and canine family, because the back end of my house has been demolished! In order to get to this point, I’ve had to:

  1. Pack up the kitchen and move it into the living room/Nunus bedroom/my bedroom.
  2. Pack up work clothes, nursery clothes, dog entertainment and toys to prevent toddler sharing related meltdowns and move to our Guildford friends house.
  3. Pack up weekend related items, dog care, clothes and pretty much everything else and move it to my parents house 56 miles away round the m25.
  4. Various kitchen and home items to be sold and pick up arranged.

All of this has to be conducted alongside:

  • Work, which is SUPER busy
  • Nursery
  • Dog walks
  • Some type of dating/social life
  • Exercise
  • Trying to eat relatively healthily and not to survive on a diet of biscuits, as much as I want too.

It must have been about this time last week, that the elephant in the room came and sat on my lap. I was leaving my home. Yes, I know not forever, just for a little bit. But I was leaving my home. Our family home. My sanctuary. Him. And that made me feel awful. Like I was abandoning him, leaving him behind. Literally, he’s still in the bedroom! But I thought that I was moving into our friends home with a toddler, 2 dogs and a fish. I think the ashes of the dead husband is the line!

And so there I was, Saturday afternoon, stood in the dining room. Dad had left for Luton with a packed car. My car was packed and I was ready to go and get Nunu from friends house, to then head to Luton. There I stood, taking one last look at our crappy wooden kitchen we always both hated. The space where the Rangemaster oven was that we struggled with the plumber to get in place. The space where the dining table was, where we played our first game of cards against humanity as the sensational six and got drunk on crème de menthe (ok, not we, just me and JC!). The light fitting we both hated as I thought it looked like a sex swing and he always cracked his head on it when ever the table wasn’t under it. Knowing this was the last time I would ever stand in this spot, looking at stuff that was ‘ours’. Everything from this point forward was mine, inspired by him. So, I said bye bye, turned around, walked out the front door, and left.

It’s been a lot. A hell of a lot. But we’ve dealt with worse right? Head down, arse up, lets crack on and get it done. My hope was that once we were only in 2 places, rather than 2 places, whist moving out of the third, thing would be easier. That my evenings would be my own again and I could start to get a better balance on life.

We’re now at the end of week one out of our lovely little house and things do seem to be settling down. Today was the first time I’ve actually had a little space to breathe a bit! No mad rush after work to get 1001 things down, no popping out in the evening to buy stuff that I really should have packed or should already be in the house. Toddler collect, bedtime done, dinner cooked and bum planted on sofa. But before all of this, I popped into Waitrose to get something nice for dinner, because I was tired and pissed off because the parking office had closed earlier than I thought it would, and because I’d been a bit of a cow to TDW (sorry again my darling).

And as I had time to kill, I headed to the café for a free cup of tea and a very naughty slice of chocolate and salted caramel cake (I have a cold and was grumpy, it’s medicinal). And I bumped into Dr D – Beanie’s oncologist. I haven’t seen him since Beanie’s funeral. I’m aware that amoungst family and friends, there are differing views of Beanie’s Cancer treatment. But to me, this man is a hero. Because he tried. He tried to save our family. He didn’t succeed, but he tried and he was genuinely sorry that he didn’t succeed. And because of this, to me, he is a man in a million.

So we had a hug, and I flashed him some recent photos of Nunu (last time he saw her, she would have just turned 1), and told him a bit about the kitchen. He asked how I was, I said I was ok. That we were doing ok. He asked if Nunu knew her Daddy, I said that she could pick him out in a line up, smiling to myself as I knew she’d gone to nursery in her TARDIS t-short today. I sent hellos to the amazing colorectal nurse, and then said goodbye.

And I felt better. I sat and had my tea and cake, text TDW that I really was sorry and looked forward to the evening ahead. The therapeutic power simply bumping into a man I have a world of respect for, simply asking how I was.

We’ll cope, we’ll be ok. We’re the Cox girls. We’re fucking awesome!

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