January 8: Home Sweet Home

Home is not where I technically live at the moment but the old family house where my sisters and I grew up – by far a better place for an invalid, especially as I’m banned from driving and lifting anything heavier than a half-filled kettle for six whole weeks. Especially as my 'technical' home, in the south west, is a new purchase and a temporary building site and doesn't feel like home at all. But this family home, this supposed haven of rest and recuperation is in the process of being sold itself (Mum is moving to the countryside with her man. They’ve already got their new house but this one - on the market for zonks - has only just found a bidder). We’ve got a month to vacate.
Recovery at home is just as slow as in hospital. My scar is long, runs straight down my stomach for a good 10cm, and hurts like hell. The rest of me aches in sympathy. Sometimes I stay in bed all day. Sometimes, pyjama-clad, I crawl downstairs, dragging my duvet like a child drags a blanky, and slump on the sofa.
Strangely, it’s a wonderful time. My mum, middle sister and her daughter, my niece, are around. We have home-made chips for dinner most evenings as we have already packed-up all the pans, and the best part of the larder cupboard so making anything healthy seems like too much work (plus we love homemade chips). The house is in a turmoil of boxes and mess and more boxes. The dog’s happy in the chaos, though he doesn’t understand why I won’t walk him (I always walk him). The tail-less cat is as grumpy as ever but comforting and familiar. I watch DVDs (the niece’s, as I have no energy to fight over the remote control), play Memory and card games with her (she knows I can’t move and milks it), turn my head and hide under a cushion to sleep amongst the fug of noise whenever it all gets too much.