Another way of looking

There is always another way of looking at things. So, we’ve had a shock, though as the days have passed we have both become calmer and more sanguine about it. However, I thought about it as I walked through the rain this morning listening to the pittery-pat of the drops on my umbrella and in a way it is a good thing to know all this, at least it gives us, me, time to put things in order, and to make my goodbyes. It may all be nothing, the consultant may be wrong or I may not have such a virulent strain of it and I may yet die an old woman. Who knows? Who can ever know? The knowing, such knowing is not ours to have. And if it is, what a precious thing that is, to be able to prepare to put ones’ house in order, how I long to be able to do that. The mess she left behind was exhausting. I don’t want that for my loves to do. So we just have to wait and I will meanwhile begin to pay proper attention.

My finger seems to be getting a little better, or am I imagining it? My arm aches though, is the poison travelling up the vein? And my wrist is red. Is it all connected? It would be nice to feel well again. This infection makes me a little queasy and the ABs continue to be horrid.

I dreamt of a lover. The desire, though never properly expressed, was intense, as was his. He was beautiful, slim, dark, tousled-haired. I felt his bones, his skeleton, his skin and the heat of him. Rare dreams these days.

Work to do. Washing to hang out first, then coffee, then work. Next week he is 72 and we will have been married (on and off – but symbolically together) for 21 years. No mean feat. Ah but how I love him.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.