Well, that was a very 2020-ish sort of week.
Oh, for those heady days of innocence, way back when nobody would have understood what the above sentence meant. Right now, you probably wouldn’t even be surprised if I told you that the neighbourhood had been invaded by hordes of opera-singing purple mega-ants, or that a sinkhole had opened up under Twisted Towers and had swallowed all of my yarn. Fortunately neither of these things has happened… although given that it’s 2020 I should probably say that neither of these things has happened YET.
What has happened is the culmination of a couple of nasties that have been brewing for a while. Thing one is that this week, at the ripe
old young age of 47, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. Do you have ANY IDEA how hard it is to crochet a breast tumour in order to illustrate this post?! I mean, viruses and bacteria look cute and quirky under the microscope, but breast cancers just look like BLOBS. This is the best I could do. It’s not very good:-
If the universe had bothered to give me a questionnaire asking whether I actually wanted a bunch of mutant cells to have a party in my right breast, I would of course have ticked the ‘NO’ box very firmly indeed. But I wasn’t consulted, so I’ll just have to make the best of things. At least it’ll provide a plausible excuse for lounging on the sofa, sighing melodramatically, and knitting, during the months ahead. (WHADDYA MEAN, “THAT’S ALL I EVER SEEM TO DO ANYWAY”?!) No matter what happens, I’ll still be here, knitting and blogging and chattering with you lovely lot. I’ve got further tests next week, and the results will determine whether treatment will be very un-fun, or very very very un-fun. Fingers crossed…
And if there’s any comic potential to be had from the situation, then rest assured that I will find it and I will drag it outside and I will flog it mercilessly until I’ve extracted every last drop of humour for the purposes of this blog. I can’t help it: that’s just how I’m wired. When things get tricky, my inclination is to make a joke. I should probably see a psychologist about that. Oh wait…
There’ll still be new knitting to show you. Plenty of knitting. I’m very worried about how treatment will affect my running, though. Running has been the saviour of my physical and mental health in these recent perimenopausal years, and I’d really like to keep lolloping across the Oxfordshire countryside. I’d even love to do another marathon.
But for now, I’m fine, the Stoic Spouse is fine, and most importantly, the twinnage know an age-appropriate amount about what’s going on and they seem to be fine so far. Hopefully the cancer will prove to be not too aggressive… although I think I might have just heard it growl. I’m worried about my patients at work, but I’ll use my last few pre-surgery weeks to try and organize things in the best way possible for their benefit.
And I’ll just have to hope that no opera-singing purple mega-ants show up around here, because I really DO NOT HAVE THE ENERGY to deal with those right now.
As for the other tricky thing that’s happening, I’m not sure how much I’m allowed to say publicly quite yet. But I’ll risk saying this: the publisher that commissioned the book on stranded knitting that I’m writing is… um… having a tiny weeny bit of a bankruptcy problem at the moment – or at least, the company that owns the publisher is. So it’s likely that I’ll have to find a new home for my half-done book. I hate to think how many hard-working people are facing redundancy because of this. And I hate to think about what a rubbish time this is for them to be out of work.
2020, eh? What a year!
But let me tell you, there’s nothing like a three-inch-tall bossy-boots tapping on the window to help keep things in perspective. Sinkholes, cancer, bankruptcy, opera-singing ants, none of it matters a jot, as long as Robyn-the-robin gets her breakfast on time. She’s got life sussed, that bird, I tell ya.
Until next time, my fine fibrous friends.