Since having my treatment, I have been faced with a brand new challenge: accepting that I won’t be able to do what I normally do for a while.
Normal life for me is looking after my children, planning and teaching yoga classes, organising my household (sort of), telling my husband to put his shit away for the 100th bloody time. I am incredibly determined by nature (hear that Hubby? – determined, not stubborn) so in the past this has helped me to carry on through the tricky days.
However, this time it’s a bit more serious. Ignoring my instinct to carry on and push myself a bit more is hard enough. On top of that my youngest is hardly here at the moment giving me time to fully recover (she’s being spoilt rotten by her grandparents, the poor little thing). So I am basically redundant, heartbroken and after working my way through Shoreham’s supply of chocolate biscuits, also worried about the size of my ballooning backside.
So it turns out that my biggest challenge is not building back up my immune system (which of course is very important to ensure that I don’t catch all those delightful winter bugs that are on their way). It is accepting that I have to be a grown up about it all and take a big size 9 step back for a little while.
Remember all those times when you were told as a child that it will be your birthday before you know it and it felt like forever until you got your new rollerboots…? (a pause for those who are too young to remember rollerboots) Well it’s a bit like that. But this is about getting my life back. Who would have thought that dragging my two-year-old along the seafront on a scooter and holding my eldest tightly until she felt better about the fact that her little sister had just ripped the head off her googly-eyed painting of me would be the things I miss the most – chest-crushing cuddles and scooter-sciatica. It’s only been a couple of weeks, but I miss it so much.