Not as sunny and warm as we'd hoped, perhaps, but certainly as restful as I could have wished for.
Nothing to do, nothing to worry about except which book to read next, which food to choose from the sumptuous buffets, whether to swim in the pool or walk to the beach.
We've never done this before. It's not my kind of holiday, being catered for in a place with pools and beaches and sunshine. OK for a couple of days perhaps, but then I'd start twitching and wondering where the action is. Walks! Bike rides!
But now, it was just what I needed. Tiredness still overwhelms me. Yes, we did the walk and the bike ride (leaving daughter behind, mind: this kind of holiday was her choice and walks/bikes didn't feature on her wish list) but only for a few hours at a stretch, and that was me done for. Back to the book, the glass of wine, the food all nicely cooked with someone else doing the washing up.
I am intrigued by the person emerging from this illness.
I'm not the woman I was before. Not physically, not emotionally. One day I may be able to reflect on that properly, but for now, let's just reflect on the hair. After all, that is what most people comment on when they see me.
It is now at a stage where I can pretend that it's meant to be like this, and the image-conscious daughter no longer needs to worry whether I'll whip off my hat.
I can't stop running my hands through it, because it feels so unusual and luscious after all that baldness. Small milestones: first shampoo, first drip-drip after a shower. First time I had to do something to it because it was sticking up the wrong way.
Some friends urge me to keep it like this. Trendy! Sassy! Glamorous! and words to that effect.
Perhaps. I'm not sure. It's not bad - and it's a whole lot better than no hair at all - but I'm not sure it is me.
Problem is, I don't know what me is anymore. As I said, I'm not the woman I was, but neither am I sure who I have become... which is both exciting and alarming, depending on the mood.
|Relaxing in Majorca|