Brie and bacon quiche, crushed bbq potatoes, salad

This morning the crisis nurses (two, not the one I was expecting) came to see mum. Mum initially played along as best she could, although insisting all the while that nothing was wrong and she was fine.

Towards the end of the appointment, though, I could see mum’s mood turning and knew I was going to be made to pay for arranging the help mum needs. And I did: within 15 minutes of them leaving, mum was lying on her bed telling me “I wish I was dead”.

She kept this up for most of the rest of the day, speaking to me only to tell me that her head hurt, she had toothache, and it was too hot.

While she punished me for my audacity, I decided to deal with a recommendation made by the nurses (and by several of you loyal Pineapples), and submit a request for a Care Needs Assessment. I have been putting it off for fear of mum’s reaction, but if she’s going to be angry with me anyway then why not do it?

This afternoon I received a call from the nurse, letting me know their duty doctor wants to do an ECG before deciding what to do about mum’s anxiety. I had to arrange this visit around my therapy appointment, which this week is Thursday rather than Friday, which mum heard. That sent mum into a spiral of “you’re leaving me, don’t go, not even out into the garden”.

You won’t be surprised that I haven’t told mum about the ECG appointment, so that can be a fun little meltdown for tomorrow.

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After all that, I didn’t feel like doing anything fancy for dinner, so I heated up a ready-made quiche and turned some leftover potatoes from last night into crushed roasties.

The potatoes were still nice. The quiche… well, I’m glad it had the name of the flavour on the box, as I never would have known otherwise. It tasted mildly of eggs, mildly of salt, and of absolutely nothing else. It was inoffensive enough that mum ate it without complaint, though, which is about all I could ask for after a day like today.

And there I will leave it, while mum is still talking to me, and doing so without unbearable levels of complaining.

Wish me luck for tomorrow, please: I think I’ll need it.