A Real Blogger

I want to be one. A real blogger, that has a great following from all around the world and even Mars – maybe? But right now I am battling headaches. I have also been very stressed because my husband of forty-seven years has been in hospital for over three weeks. This is the fourth stay this year.

In February we were all struck down by Covid-19, to our shock and horror. For Les, this seems to have kicked up the M.S.A. a few notches.

It feels like everything went wrong. Our daughter has to have spinal surgery, our washing machine still isn’t working and just when I was about to say,”at least it isn’t raining!” I shouldn’t have even thought that because on the 11th of April, the heavens opened and a flood of Biblical proportions struck Kwazulu Natal,. our holiday province. It was Easter time – inland winter had already bitten and we were ready to welcome residents, as it’s usually still warm enough to swim in the Indian Ocean.

It poured down for days and days and days. Where there never ever was a stream, a bubbling brook, a trickle, the water just collected itself into massive run-offs, sweeping away whole communities, informal settlements and solid brick houses. Rivers burst their banks, bridges collapsed and potholes were turned into giant craters. More than four hundred people lost their lives in the most devastating circumstances.

This is when you know how lucky you are to have a house that withstood the deluge, warm food, a dry bed and for the most part, a certain sense of safety and security. t has been a particularly difficult time.

But that is not what this short blog is about. All of the above made it impossible for me to even look at the keyboard. I’ve done no writing and I have to say I’ve really missed it and that’s why I knuckled down today to get this topic loaded.

The other day I almost killed my husband. It wasn’t a crime of passion, or even annoyance, although there have been times in the past when I felt like it.

No, this was sheer determination to help as best I could. So while he parked comfortably on the toilet bowl, he shaved and I suggested a basin bath. He agreed and vigorously washed his hair and I added a bit of extra hot water to pour over the nether region – we almost had great balls of fire

Anyway, he recovered enough to have me rinse him off all over, which I did with much gusto. The floor was awash with water, resembling a Turkish bath house!  Not that I’ve ever been in one, but I have a great imagination …..

He stood up and we pretty much dried everything, mopped up a safe dry path for his exit – he took two steps and just fell over. He gained scratches on his back that could have been attributed to a night of fun at the cat house, a black eye and various bruises that made him look a losing boxer.

To cut a long and painful story short, we managed to get him dressed and on the bed.

We now have a very fancy shower chair and I have been warned that there will be loss of life if I ever attempt anything like this again in my whole entire life.

And so, the decent into the realms of M.S.A. and Parkinson’s begins.