Sixty Two

Wednesday, 4 September 2013

Sixty Two - found!

I have an unnatural, mainly unfounded, irrational and intense hate (that's a strong word, perhaps 'mistrust' is better) for removals companies. This is unlike me, I generally like giving people money to do things for me better than I could do myself. This 'problem' has undone us before and I'm sure it will again. Every time we move house I swear I'm going to get someone else to do all the hard work and pay them. They come to give quotes and the minute they walk through the door I'm trying to get rid of them.

Perhaps all the talk of how many boxes they think it will take, or how long, freaks me out. Perhaps it's the reality of what we are about to embark on. Maybe it's just the thought of a stranger touching all my things? I don't know but I'm afraid I just couldn't get past it. Again. I employed mytruck driver, a man I have known since I was in my teens, a mixture between friend and an uncle to me. Roped in My Dad, Brother and his Girlfriend for the move and started to barter and beg for help packing.

Packing the house back into boxes was, apart from the annoyance of having to actually do it, a very cleansing experience. We managed to syphon off an enormous amount of things to go to the charity shop and the boot fair. This means we have a very slightly smaller, enormous collection of stuff. The hoarding has definitely passed from my Husband and me straight to our daughters.

Mother in Law absorbed the children as much as possible and the rest of the time we sent them for play-dates and let them play on the laptop. The dog got bored and unpacked some boxes and simply destroyed others by chewing the corners off them. My Mum and my Dad's girlfriend packed and sorted and folded. As the rooms piled up, the boxes kept coming. As fast as they arrived – from the supermarket, from friends and from the storage shop – we filled them.

On Tuesday 20th I had to take a break and head up to Guys for my dose of Herceptin. I took Daughter number one with me for support and we had lunch in Borough Market together before heading back. She spoke about her fears of moving and how she felt about leaving our 'home' in Kent. I listened and made the right Motherly comments whilst coming to a strong realisation that I am more than thrilled to get out of the house that holds such painful memories.

On the Wednesday evening, whilst tackling the shoe mountain, I pulled something in my left arm. It wasn't too painful, just a sharp twinge but it gave me cause to stop and examine. On reflection, my arm felt different and when I paused long enough to consider it I realised it had been feeling different for some time. I had done an excellent job of ignoring it. The pins and needles had started on and off in my hand in Ireland and slowly but surely the arm had felt heavier.

I pinched the skin around my elbows and unfortunately the left was not the same as the right. I measured around my arm just above my elbow and it was a good centimetre bigger than the right. My mind searched back over what might have caused it. The puppies constant nips? Too much driving? Had I hurt it putting the awning up? I emailed my Breast Care Nurse and stopped lifting things.

On Thursday I went back to London to have my arm looked at by my surgeon. He agreed it was swollen and there was more fluid. I had my arm scanned to see what the extent of the swelling was but would have to go back in a week for a repeat. In the mean time, I was to treat it as lyphadaema. The thing I've been trying so hard to avoid. I promised to take extra care and do absolutely NO lifting.