PigPog

Back in August, I received a phone call from my mum.

> “Don’t worry, but I’m in hospital.”

Of course, I’ve never done what that woman told me to, so on hanging up I kicked off a couple of weeks of panic, anxiety and worry over what was going on. I only received information in dribs and drabs… she was having an operation, it was to do with her stomach problems, she was in surgery, took a little longer than expected… and then a week later found out that it was emergency surgery to remove a tumour.

Since then, Mum’s had to learn to live with a stoma which she nicknamed “Fred”. Mum tolerated Fred’s presence for six months, living life to the full, including going on holiday twice. Last weekend she went back into hospital to undergo a reversal operation, to have Fred out of her life and return to functioning normally. The op was on Monday, and once again I’m receiving just bits and bobs of news from the hospital and the lovely Derek. It seems the op was a success but from what I can gather recovering from it is a bit of a struggle.

Times like this I really feel the 200-odd miles between us, and part of me just wants to drop everything and race up there to be by her side, to watch her every move, to make sure she has everything she needs. But I know she’s in good care, the staff at King’s Mill are excellent, and if I did turn up, she’d kill me.

When we talk to her on the phone Michael always quacks at her, because either a) Mum’s fondness of the phrase “mi duck” or b) Michael’s a bit silly. She loves to hear the ‘quack quack’, so please, send some healing silly quacky goodness to my mum today.

Keep on keeping on, Mum. Dawlish is waiting for you in April.