This is the week that was #52: The Swerve

This week my inbox has filled up with invitations. The week before, too, and the week before that. As Christmas approaches, the invitations come through thicker and faster.

Some of them, when I was in a brighter frame of mind, I accepted. I got an hour and a half into the new winter menu at Tusk with the gang until I fainted and had to be escorted out.

After the weekend I rang the doctor. At my surgery they have this understandable but really annoying system whereby you have to ring reception who will arrange for a doctor to ring you back and during that telephone call the doctor will decide if they need to see you.

I answered questions about the fainting – yes I had eaten, no I’m not prone to fainting – and was told to come in for tests. Blood tests, urine tests, pregnancy tests (lol), and take it from there. They want to check my heart out. I want to pluck my heart out.

I swerved making that follow up appointment. The literature said that unexplained fainting increases likelihood of heart attack or stroke within seven days. Well it’s been over seven days and I’m fine so I think we can all stand down.

The real reason I swerved it is because I don’t want to cry in the doctors office. I don’t want to sit and weep and ask for help and be knocked back again like last time. I don’t want their tablets, which take weeks to kick in and make my face hurt. I want to feel. I just don’t want to feel quite like this.

So I swerved more invitations. Launches, birthdays, get togethers. I tried to swerve taking my son to a kids party but his father pretended to be busy to avoid taking him. I would swerve the school run if I could but it is part and parcel of parenting and without it I’d surely stay in bed all day.

I was asked to be part of something exciting, something which I didn’t want to swerve, but which ended up clashing with a joint birthday party for my son (he wanted his own but times are getting hard so I’ve had to go in with other parents which adds to my sadness and guilt of already crap parenting recently).

Other things I ponder on: my friend and I already have tickets to a comedy show which I think will do me good and I fully intend to go to. The offer of dinner, on her, beforehand doesn’t tempt me though. I have got nothing to say.

The invitations in my inbox would have filled me with joy when I started blogging. There was a time when I was a fun person, full of life. It wasn’t that long ago. I don’t know where she is, but she’s not with me.

Crazy Pedros first birthday, the launch of Rudy’s pizza on Castle Street, the winter ice rink. They’re all my cup of tea. There was more too, loads of stuff I can’t eveb remember because I can’t focus on anything enough. I’ve had to reply saying I’m not available for events but thank you for the invitation.

When the email came through for the Albert Dock family friendly Christmas evening, with carol singing and roasted chestnuts, tears pricked my eyes. I’d like to go to some of these things. I want to be one of the happy mums that you see on Instagram, in nice new winter clothes with a happy family around them, all excited for Christmas. But I’m not. Not at the moment.

Maybe next year.

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