I did manage an hour on the doors yesterday morning with June and the group. We didn't find many in - but we did some return visits.
Its a miserable thing this arthritis. And it is making me so tired. Everything, even getting out of bed, becomes such an effort. Maybe I will finally be able to get the emergency injection during my hospital visit this week.
I am wondering if its time for a poem...
I wrote this many years ago about my mother as she began her descent into the arthritis that finally killed her. All her muscles wasted away, as her bones eroded. And of course, the heart is a muscle, so, in the end, it wasted away too. We were in Saudi Arabia when it happened. My sister rang me, very worried, to say that they were just rushing mummy to hospital. Then we sat and waited for the final call, which came about half an hour later.
Some time before, we had found dry rot in our old terrace house, which perhaps accounts for the rather jumbled metaphor. So, not a brilliant poem but one that I did think about today.
I think about my parents most days, but not always of them old and sick of course.
IN THIS OLD HOUSE
In this old house all is still within
And nothing moves inside us
Except the thing that eats the bones
Can they isolate the virus?
She pulls the skirting board away
To show a heart stopping display of white
So we’ll call the specialists to her home
As the deadly stuff eats up her bones
But if Rentokil will not suffice
Her bones will lock in blocks of ice
The value of her house will tumble in a trice.
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