I am actually writing this the day after , as yesterday , I felt too bad. Even to talk to you. It was the hardest day , bar none, and I'm not sure why. The photographs show how I look and I'm so obviously on the mend but, to me, without the initial relief of being up and about and the first flush of gratitude that the incision had not been longer or more complex, fading, I just hated the way I look. There seemed no point wearing nice clothes and, venturing out to Waitrose ( on this occasion , yes, to return some mental boots I comfort bought, then returned ) , I felt that everyone was looking at me. I was worried that I might meet someone I knew , or worse, half knew, and that I'd have to explain what had happened or, worse again, not get the chance to explain what has happened. I couldn't meet anyone's eye, I felt rude but it was preferable to registering anyone else's reaction.
Out of proportion ? Deluded? Self important ? Probably, Yes ! Yes ! Yes ! But, there it is ... It has given me the ( smallest I appreciate ) insight to those with visible disabilities . And the enormous bravery required . I have more than a feeling that there are organisations which can help with this kind of adjustment and perhaps it's a mistake to think I wouldn't qualify for a listening ear because ( please God ) mine is temporary but I'm getting a grip and watching and waiting.
Here's me looking extremely sorry for myself. Not helped by my poor old eyes who are still smarting at even a waft of Clinique .
A close up. I've chopped off my chin as a Friend kindly pointed out the need for a bit of electrolysis in an earlier photograph. It's not that I don't know... Just a matter of prioritising. I could sod it and take up knitting and organic living and then I wouldn't need to bother
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