I must confess that I’m a bit of a whinger. I know, I know… this surprises you (!!!)… but I am prone to moaning, groaning and whinging (yes, I know they mean the same things, but I added the extra word for emphasis and to assist non-Oz readers in deciphering my slang!).
I’m well-versed in playing the victim and – if I do say so myself – I do it with great aplomb.
Regular readers would know that a lot has been happening of late. In the past seven weeks, my father has been hospitalised (ostensibly with some bowel problem), air-lifted to a nearby capital city, diagnosed (again) with cancer, moved into palliative care and passed away.
I returned with my mother (and brother) to my (former) hometown for the funeral (etc) and am travelling back to the capital city (where I live) tomorrow. It occurred to me that it will be exactly seven weeks ago when I was in my hometown for a long weekend (as my father hadn’t been well – the cancer was already obviously invading his bones) and he was admitted into hospital. I extended my stay as a result and – it means much of the ensuing time has been focussed around his health and how best to support him and my mother. When he was transferred to my current hometown, my mother stayed with me for over a month and I spent most evenings after work visiting him in hospital and driving my exhausted mother home to my place where I tried to care for her and ease her sorrow just a bit.
This upheaval is an excuse – not a reason – that my life (of late) has been somewhat unsettled. I’ve tried to continue to exercise; and my healthy eating wasn’t TOO bad until the last week or so. But, I know it’s important for me to realise now that all is not lost. I haven’t jumped on the scales as yet to see what damage the last week may have wreaked, but even I can tell that (despite a possible few kgs gain) I’m still significantly slimmer than I was when I started this weight loss program back in May – something I must remember if the scales deliver bad news in coming days. My faithful (but comfy) old shorts which await each of my visits to my parents’ place, literally fall down now and I received a number of comments from my mothers’ friends who hadn’t seen me for a few months.
So, as a new week dawns I have to get back on that horse. Or wagon. Or bike. Whatever it is that one gets on.
I’m planning on taking a couple of more days off work as it’s (quite frankly) been about seven weeks since I did my own thing in my own house, so I’m not quite sure how I’ll react when I’m back home. But, after scoffing a favourite childhood treat of chocolate icing on biscuits earlier today, even I know that I can’t continue using comfort food or alcohol to fill an aching void gnawing away in the pit of my stomach. And at some point I need to accept that I probably haven’t got a sore throat, but just a lump that isn’t yet ready to go away.
I’m assuming normality will help and – although I’ll have a couple of more days at home, I hope to stay away from the junk food, open my food tracker for the first time in a few weeks and slip into bed each night feeling strong – physically, mentally and emotionally and knowing that, by just doing my damnedest, I’ve done my father proud.