As Robyn is only too prepared to remind me - I'm too proud.
She is right, I am proud and to me it's a virtue. It's how I've survived this long; as my treatments failed too soon, through pain and despair. I fought on.
This morning (because of my pride) I moved instantly from ecstasy to agony and now I just need to find another empty yoghurt pot.
I have problems with my feet; it just hurts too much when I need to wash them, cut my nails, put on socks and take my socks off. I can't cross my legs any more. It's agony.
The choices are giving up - which is not me. Getting in carers which is expensive and demoralising or getting Robyn to do it all for me which changes our relationship for the worse.
So, I've been struggling on and afterwards spending a couple of hours to get over it all.
Today I had a really great idea - I 'borrowed' one of Robyn's old yoghurt pots which is a bit like a tiny bucket. I set it down on the bathroom floor and put my left foot on it . Suddenly washing my toes was a pleasure, putting on a sock a delight.
With a certain degree of misplaced pride, I patted myself on the back. Then I put my right foot on the upturned pot.
Suddenly there was an ominous cracking sound, a crunch and then the pot collapsed. Then I screamed in pain. My big fat leg broke the pot.
I was back in the world of pain.
Of course, my mistake was that I didn't bother to find the lid of the pot and just used it upside down. I'm guessing that if I put the lid on it, the pressure of the air inside would hold up my leg. That's what I'll try tomorrow.
But, as they say, pride goes before a fall.
(a don't stop till you drop production)
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