Cheese

Life has changed in our wee corner between three fields and a wood; although, perhaps not in the way you might expect. We still love the views. We still enjoy the stillness (haha, see what I did there?!). We do spend a lot more of our time indoors at the moment. However, so far, this is not proving much of a hassle – I’ve been indoors a lot lately anyway, and Shaun has a rather fine collection of gadgetry.

The big change in our lives has been that my Mum, who has Parkinson’s, is now living with us. Ordinarily, she lives in her own home, coping remarkably well as her condition progresses, with the help of various mobility aids, three carer visits per day, several fantastic friends and family members, her own sheer stubbornness and, it has to be said, her wacky sense of humour. But these are no ordinary times. Three carer visits per day equals three chances per day for the virus to get to her. (You know, that virus.) Multiply that by the number of other people each carer looks after. Factor in my brother who, as a delivery driver, is also very mobile. (Please take care of yourself, David. We love you.) Factor in any other contacts (think: medications, groceries), and then all of their contacts; and suddenly, the number becomes exponential. From the bottom of my heart, I am grateful for carers, drivers, pharmacists, and all of the people we now call key workers. It’s rather sad that it’s had to come to this, a worldwide pandemic, for these people to gain long overdue recognition and respect. I sincerely hope that each and every one of them makes it through this crisis. They certainly deserve to.

Mum has been living with us several days now, and we are all settling in to our new way of life. It has definite advantages, such as Mum’s excellent home cooking. She may be more wobbly these days, but she still makes mighty good meatballs, and rapturous ratatouille. It’s generally good fun too, and there are some hilarious moments, such as today’s, ahem, misunderstanding:

Mum: What are you doing?

Me: Blogging.

Mum: Logging?

Me: Blogging.

Mum (looking confused): Jogging?

Me (louder): Blogging.

Mum: Dogging?

We gave up at that point.

Having reassured my mother that I enjoy less voyeuristic pastimes, I went out for a walk. I’ve been enjoying having more energy lately, and it was time to burn off some of the extra calories from her delicious cooking. I decided to do the full llama circuit, which is: down to the llamas, over the wee burn, and back along the bigger road. (When I say ‘bigger’, I mean: wide enough to accommodate a tractor and a Fiat Mezzo, which is what you get if you halve a Fiat Uno lengthways.)

The full llama circuit includes an Extra Hill, which is fairly steep at one point. Usually, I skip ahead to a suitably adrenaline-boosting song on the iPod and lean into it, enjoying the opportunity to work up a bit of a sweat and burn off said calories. Today, as I prepared to lean in, my internal surgery scars reminded me that I still have limitations. I paused. Does that mean I have to go back the way I came, I wondered. No need: I just took it slower, and all was well.

Looking back proudly, I reflected that the only aspect of the experience I would need to change for next time was my playlist. The shuffle feature had landed randomly (I swear) on a song by the irrepressibly bouncy Abba. A few skips had thrown up some songs even less suited to my pace (like Rage against the Machine); so, I just stuck with it. If I tuned out a little, I could slow it down in my head: Knowwwwwiiinnnnnnngggg mmmeeeeeeee … knowwwwiiinnnnnnnngggg yooooooouu … aaaaaaaahhhhhaaaaaaaaaaaaa …

As I continued along the circuit, a yellowhammer eyed me warily from a fencepost. I didn’t blame it: my iPod had just started playing something even more cheesy than Abba. No doubt the wee snob favours Vivaldi; I, however, am not at all averse to cheese, of both the musical and the edible kind.

Cheese (the edible kind) hates me though. Sadly, it hates me even more these days than ever. Before endo came along, cheese used to express its antipathy by gleefully forming additional layers of adipose tissue. We were engaged in a constant battle of equals, cheese and me. It worked its way in, and I worked it off. Now, though, cheese is winning the war, having added indigestion, interaction with medication, intestinal distress and endo belly to its repertoire.

‘Endo belly’ is a common, daily inconvenience for women with the condition. You tentatively eat something innocuous (soup, let’s say): minutes later, your abdomen has swollen to the point that you appear visibly pregnant. Over time (and misplaced congratulations from others), you develop an awareness of the foods that give you endo belly. For me, cheese is one guaranteed balloon fuel. Bread is another. You learn to make dietary adjustments, but it can still catch you unawares. After a while, if you like pizza as much as I do, you learn to work round the endo belly (literally).

There is an altogether sadder side to endo belly, though. Infertility, one of the best known and most prevalent symptoms of endometriosis, repeatedly robs many women of their chance at motherhood. To add insult to heartbreak, women (and their partners) are often congratulated on what is essentially a sackful of gas, just when they have discovered yet again that there will be no baby this month. In an arguably worse piece of cruelty, endometriosis substantially increases the risk of ectopic pregnancy. So; a woman who has tested positive at long last is forced to lose her child, in order not to lose her life.

Life, so beautiful and fragile, was evident all around me as I made my way home. I could hear the noisy arguments of the sparrows. I could see the secret, circular passageways made by small animals in the hedgerows. I, content to be childless, am lucky. So many others are not. Most of all, though, I feel lucky to be here, and that my Mum can be here too. I feel lucky that the people I love are well and am grateful for every day that they still are. Long may the good luck continue, for all of us, and all of you.