Fractious

Here I was back at home, free to choose my own schedule, to do more or less as I please, to enjoy the solitude for which I’d been yearning – and perversely I felt fractious and sorry for myself, uncharacteristically ready to find fault. Where was the beautiful big bunch of flowers, the rapturous ‘welcome home’? The last time I’d had an operation, I’d thought beforehand about how friends often say ‘let me know if there’s anything I can do to help’, and I’d let it be known that I would appreciate it if anyone felt like making us a meal. It’s a way I’ve been happy to show my love and care for others in the past. This time I hadn’t asked – and no one had offered. Where was the reaping what I’d sown?

Instead it was up to me to put an extra bit of effort in, to make myself feel loved and cherished. I discovered a chicken breast in the fridge Vic had defrosted and then not used, plus a few rashers of bacon. I decided to cook a luxurious evening meal and walked into town to buy cream, mushrooms and leeks. In the supermarket I bumped into a friend who drew me into a warm hug, inadvertently applying painful pressure to the wound. “You didn’t drive in, did you?” she demanded. “No, I walked” I responded quickly. What I hadn’t anticipated was that my legs were feeling quite trembly, and I would have appreciated a lift home, but I didn’t think to ask and she didn’t think to offer, even though she told me she was planning to drop a card and some flowers round later on. We parted, each to our own shopping, and I walked home. I hadn’t been home long when the doorbell rang – it was my friend. She thrust a bunch of pinks and a card at me and scurried off to jump in the car with her husband. They lead VERY busy lives. Strangely the interlude didn’t improve my mood. Here were flowers and a card signed by some of my friends at church, but this peevish spirit dismissed the gesture as being too little, too late. No pleasing some people, eh? Who IS this churlish monster hiding behind my polite smile?

Dinner was every bit as delicious as I’d intended. I cut the chicken and bacon into bite-sized pieces, fried them with the leek, onion, garlic and mushrooms, added a tin of cream of chicken soup then tipped it all into a casserole dish and topped it with thinly sliced boiled potatoes (from the allotment, naturally), poured cream over and cooked it for 45 minutes. Vic arrived home as I was cutting up the chicken breast with a sharp knife. I barely acknowledged his greeting, instead continuing to concentrate on the task in hand. After a pause he asked, “Have I upset you?” It was the wrong thing to say. Please don’t ask me what the RIGHT thing to say would have been at that point! After I’d verbally eviscerated him, I suggested he give me a bit of space to find myself again. Later he gave me the beautiful get well card his boss’ wife had made for me. Strange how the kindness of casual acquaintances can reach us when we have all but closed ourselves off to those who love us.