Honey-mustard glazed chipolatas, chips, salad

With apologies for the somewhat unsavoury subject: last night, before lying down to sleep, I went to the loo and looked back into the bowl to find an alarming amount of blood in the bowl. There was (and is) no pain, and so far no recurrence, but it’s not the sort of symptom you can just ignore.

So early this morning I was on the phone to the GP surgery to arrange for a conversation with a GP. Mum wanted to know if the appointment was for her and, assured it was for me, said “oh, OK then” and went back to bed. Her maternal empathy knows no bounds. /s

Later she got up, flapping around unable to decide whether to stay up or go back to bed, and taking my general lack of opinion on the topic to be indifference. Then she said she was going to wash her hair, but wandered around, angling for attention and reassurance that she wasn’t doing anything wrong – until I belatedly realised that she was genuinely struggling to remember how one goes about washing one’s hair.

I am so used to mum’s games and gambits for attention that I just assume that’s what she’s doing, so am blindsided when it’s a genuine moment of cognitive failure. That it was then followed by demands for me to attend the next crisis – the water wasn’t getting warm quickly enough for her liking – while I was busy carrying the cup of tea I had for her just highlights how complicated my caregiving role can be.

The rest of the day was spent waiting around for the GP to call back, with mum constantly at my side wanting my attention on her toothache, the garden wildlife, the passing clouds – anything to drag my attention back to her. By lunchtime, when my attempt to eat a sandwich was repeatedly interrupted by “Suki’s bowl is empty, her water bowl doesn’t have much water in it, take notice of me” (I may have imagined the last bit), I was on the verge of strangling her.

Finally the GP called back and booked me in for an in-person appointment on Friday. I should expect multiple tests, apparently, which is no novelty to someone with a chronic illness.

Assured again that the appointment was for me, not her, mum declined to show even the slightest interest in why I need to see a doctor. Which, on one hand, is good, because I don’t need her panicking, but is bad because I would occasionally like a little bit of genuine interest from mum. You would think I would know better after 40 years, wouldn’t you?

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I took some chipolatas out of the freezer for dinner, then started to consider what I would do with them. I briefly thought of doing toad-in-the-hole (sausages in savoury batter), but the suggestion caused mum to wrinkle her nose in distaste. So instead they just got roasted with some oven chips, with a honey-mustard glaze (simply equal parts wholegrain mustard and honey) added for the last 10 minutes of cooking.

Mum said it was “just spicy enough” for her, which is bewildering as commercial wholegrain mustard has almost no heat to it at all as far as I’m concerned.

It is to be followed by a generous slice of coffee cake with pecans and bitter chocolate. Earlier this afternoon I went to make the cake. Mum heard me moving in the kitchen and, assuming I was making dinner, said “don’t do much for me, please”. I said “I’m making cake”. “Oh,” said mum, “then yes, please!” 🤦‍♂️

And with that, the waiting – at least for the cake – is over. Here’s to cake!