The weekend was a mixed bag. 48 hours to digest the news of the past few days and hopefully come up with a plan of action.
It didn't start particularly well: all of Saturday I felt ill. Whether it was the effects of the previous night, or my general condition, or just one of those things, no idea. But, I spent the day curled up with the dogs, feeling somewhat sorry for myself. Still, at least I didn't have to suffer listening to my football team lose yet again (free weekend due to the FA Cup, if you're interested).
Late afternoon, a friend and former colleague stopped by. He was the latest in a long line of people utterly floored by the news. We chatted until I realised the nausea was peaking, I made his excuses for him and dashed to the bathroom. Standing there, having missed the basin, but not myself, I cried at the state I was in, and what might be to come. Not long after my wife got back from work. There wasn't much she could do to help, so I basically gave up for the night and turned in. All in all, a fairly depressing and unproductive day.
Sunday morning it all started a bit better. My wife and I went paddle-boarding for an hour or so. The calm of the morning taking away some of the angst. I was feeling better, and we had breakfast at home. She had work again for a few hours, but I busied myself with a few tasks, before she got back, and then another friend called round to check on me. Later that afternoon we took our dogs for a long beach walk, then sat with friends to watch a glorious sunset. These are the sorts of things worth living for. We got the hounds back home, fed and watered and then had our own tea. My appetite has fallen off a cliff to some degree, but I tried to force down as much as I could.
After eating we discussed the plan, clearly the next step being the important one: identifying where I am having the fight of my life.
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