Mothering Sunday

Mothering Sunday, and I planned to ‘go to church’. Woke up at seven o’clock and thought I’d snooze on for a bit longer, only to find that… gosh, it was half past nine already and the service would be starting any minute. What to do? Church in bed, of course.

As soon as church was over, I realised I hadn’t heard from John, so I rang him. He said he thought he wouldn’t phone me early so that I could have a long lie-in, it being Mothering Sunday and all. How lovely of him. Anyway, he wasn’t too bad – still on oxygen, which is helping no end with his breathing. He even had a little go at running on the spot for a few paces this morning.

“Do you need anything, john?” I wondered. “Ah, well, now you mention it….” He did. More PJs and eye drops and drugs…. oh, and grapes would be good, if you’ve got some spare. “They are planning to move me over to the QE soon,” he said, “so it might be better if you bring the things today, rather than wait.” Right. You’re on.

It turned out to be very lucky in the end, because I did get a wriggle on and shoot over to Heartlands and drop John’s stuff off – about ten minutes before the transport turned up to cart him off over to the other side of Birmingham. And he’s now got a room with a view but the puddings aren’t as exciting.

The medics are still baffled as to what is going on with the ol’ man and he continues to be ‘an interesting case’, with junior medics doing their training on him. “We’ll just take a drop of blood, Mr Sleath. From an artery rather than a vein to check for x/y/z, if that’s OK?” Painful. “Oh, Mr Sleath, that one didn’t work – the machine is broken so it didn’t give a reading. I’ll just take a drop more from another artery….” And then a third time. Poor John – he’s like a pin cushion and has been poked and prodded all over. And no, it doesn’t hurt when you press there.

This afternoon I was booked onto another one of the Writing for Wellbeing courses. It was so wonderful to spend two hours with like-minded people and to be offered ideas about which to write. I loved it. Especially the bit where I pretended to be Roo, from Winnie-the-Pooh, and wrote all about my experiences of learning to swim in a stream. Glug-glug.

Afterwards I shot over to Mums. However, because I was in such a hurry to get there, I forgot half of the stuff that I was supposed to be taking. I’ll have to go back tomorrow. Ah well. “Hello,” she said, cautiously, as I came in through the door. I asked if she was alright. “Yes, I’m fine,” she replied, mystified as to who was behind the mask. I undid the mask and flashed a smile at her. “Oh, it’s you!” she laughed. “Didn’t you recognise me, Mum?” No, she hadn’t, and couldn’t, with my mask on.

She was well but, as always, forgetful, claiming to have seen this or that for the first time, or to have ‘never seen that before’. I came across the photo album I’d done for her when she was ninety. She was thrilled to browse through it and then lovingly stroked the cover, saying, “Ninety! Gosh, I’m ninety! Who’d have thought I’d get to ninety.” And bless her, she had no idea how old she was actually going to be this coming birthday. “Ninety-five? Can I have that in writing?” she said. I wrote it in the calendar on her birthday, and she sat looking at it, marvelling over it for a good five minutes.

Later on, once I was home, I decided to treat myself and sit and watch the final of ‘Dancing on Ice’. Disappointingly, I had missed a couple of calls from the boys while I was at Mum’s which is in the depths of a black hole with no signal whatsoever, so I was incommunicado. Ah, well, perhaps they’ll phone back, I thought, and one of them did. Catch up with other one tomorrow maybe?

  • 4,618 people tested positive for the virus today
  • 52 people died with the virus in the community in the last 24 hours
  • 32 people died in hospitals with the virus on 12 & 13 March
  • And we are on Day 355 since the beginning of lockdown last March; and Day 363 since John and I enclosed ourselves in our home voluntarily. (I know, I know, I said I wasn’t going to put these figures in but the urge overwhelmed me)

In other news, I, and many others, lit a candle yesterday in peaceful vigil for the murdered Sarah Everard. Many are now outraged at the way the police treated those women who chose to hold their vigil at Clapham Common. It’s a strange world we are living in and strange times we are going through. These times bring to mind the lines from the hymn ‘Father hear the prayer we offer’:

Father, hear the prayer we offer: 
not for ease that prayer shall be, 
but for strength that we may ever  
live our lives courageously.

I certainly pray for courage now. Courage to speak up if and when need be. Courage to challenge the now established customs that impinge on women’s rights. Heavens above – it’s Women’s Lib all over again, isn’t it?

Take care everyone. God bless.