I have decided to give in to the inevitable and go into hospital next week.
The pattern goes, two or three weeks having tests to find exactly where the blockages are. (Tubes up my nose, tubes up my bum, tubes down my throat, pumping me full of barium for the cameras to follow.....)
Then, a week or so for the surgeon to appear (great illusive hero of the hour) and schedule the operation.
Then a psychedelic, surreal week of anaesthetic highs, unspeakable pain, opiate blankets and gritted teeth determination to walk, shower and defecate before they'll let me go home.
Bang on a month usually. 130 miles from home, no visitors. No kids. And, (watch this space) what will the "event" be? There's always an event. The wrong drugs? An evil nurse? A stroke? A seizure? Crash trolley dramas with sprinting experts?
I'm probably not as ill as I have been on admission before, but if I don't go now, Xmas will start to loom and nothing in this world will keep me away from Dave and the kids over Xmas. I was in for December once before. Some time during the week before Xmas, Kings College choir came to each and every bay of every ward and sang to us. It was quite magical and totally unforgettable.
So today, sod the liquid diet and being sensible. I have dressed myself up, done my hair, put on make up. Who is that looking back at me? I literally don't recognise her. You would never know there was a thing wrong. I'm going to the cinema with my boys and after, we're going for pizza.
I will suffer, but I will treasure ever second, watch my boys entranced faces, hold Dave's hand and try to store every second in my memory for the month to come. The way my toddler smiles, the mess on his chubby pink cheeks as he smears margherita in his hair. The constant stream-of-consciousness chatter of my 6 year old and the joy of just being together, the four of us.