Seven & a half weeks seems like a very long time ...

Today my husband is currently en route to hospital for his second session of radiotherapy treatment for prostate cancer. He has to have a 10 minute blast each week day for the next 7½ weeks. He is behaving very calmly about the whole situation but I know him quite well. He’s frightened and that fear is, understandably, causing him to behave in more of an irritable fashion than usual. He looks and feels very tired but, at the moment, is insisting on carrying on “as usual” work-wise which, in one way, is laudable but I’m not hugely certain that wearing himself out is a brilliant idea when undergoing a treatment that can, amongst other side-effects, cumulatively make one feel exhausted.

We have been enormously lucky in receiving so many messages of good luck and kind wishes for his well-being from friends all over the world. I’ve been really rather overwhelmed by emails, messages on Twitter, calls from friends.

The sad fact is that I had to remind my husband’s own siblings that it would be good of them to contact him to find out how he’s doing. I received but one response to this reminder … my husband’s older brother emailed to request that I shouldn’t be so condescending. The dichotomy of having so many good wishes from friends makes his family’s behaviour seem all the more aggravating to me. I resolve not to give this too much priority but, that said, I’ve been up all night not only worrying about my husband but also prickling with indignation about his dysfunctional family.

This diary clearly isn’t only going to be about how my husband is coping with his treatment but also how I am feeling about it from day-to-day. I’m not going to spout rude words herein but suffice it to say that it would be a damned sight easier for me to deal with my husband’s fear than it is to navigate nervously around his denial. He and his family are so controlled (and, indeed, controlling) but I must remember that everyone deals with problems in their own way. Just now my husband’s way seems completely alien to me.

If anyone would care to scream on my behalf, I would be very grateful.

The Longest Hour

Saturday started off in much the same vein as most of our Saturdays do. DH was in a benevolent mood and generously let me have a lie-in. Josh was happy and just a tad more boisterous than his usual exuberant self as he'd invited a friend round to play in the afternoon.

The afternoon arrived rather sooner than I expected as I hadn't quite finished luxuriating in my lazy Saturday morning. DH, continuing in his mood of benevolence, decided to take the dogs along with Josh and his friend for a walk across the Common. How sensible, thought I! He'll wear the dogs out and the boys can run around playing frisbee, chasing each other or hunting for the newly acquired boomerang which never does seem to come back regardless of however closely we follow the instructions.

Josh had mooted the possibility that Daddy could walk the dogs whilst he and his friend played in the local storage area for spliff butt-ends, used condoms and syringes. I believe that Bournemouth Borough Council calls the area "a playground". This possibility was negated immediately by the cruel Mummy on the grounds that the apparatus in the so-called "playground" was far more suited to children much younger than Josh and his friend and, invariably, the "children" frequenting the playground were, given its catchment area, doubtless parents themselves and given to roughly shoving aside those kids who genuinely wanted to play. DH and I both agreed and voiced our opinion that a good run along the Common would be a far better prospect for two little boys with excess energy to burn off. So with those instructions clearly ringing in their ears, the intrepid walkers set off ...

I installed myself comfortably in front of the computer and settled down for an hour or so of uninterrupted twittering.

After about 20 minutes, my 'phone rang. I answered it and heard the words that no mother wants to hear. An uneasy silence then the voice of a husband trying very hard to sound calm and "matter-of-fact", asking "Is Josh at home with you?"

Well, of course he wasn't and neither was his friend.

I'm writing this well before the watershed and cannot therefore repeat the response I gave to the now not so terribly "Dear" Husband.

Keys grabbed, bag grabbed, 'phone grabbed and into the car. Poor car's suspension may never recover from several high speed launches into mid air over the "traffic calming" humps in our road. I parked at the Common and began hunting for two children. They were nowhere to be seen.

Several more increasingly fraught telephone exchanges between DH and I ensued. No-one batted an eyelid in the playground as I was using vernacular that was everyday speech to the people who frequent it.

I gave up looking in the playground and jogged the entire length of the Common peering behind bushes and trees as I huffed and puffed my way along. I saw lots of children but none of them were "mine".

By this point in time, I was already rehearsing the appeal I would make on TV that night and the cinema in my head was replaying every horrifying occurrence involving lost children that I'd ever seen.

My 'phone rang once more. My hands were trembling as I answered it. A very small voice said "Hello Mummy, I'm back at the house".

Tearful and exhausted I went back to the car and drove back home.

I did that "bad Mummy" thing of not waiting for explanations and just ushered Josh's friend into my car and took him back to his parents.

When I re-appeared at home, a Josh with a very wobbly bottom lip flung himself into my arms and told me what had happened. It seems that his friend had "really, really" wanted to stay in the playground and as he was "our guest", Josh had persuaded DH that they would not move "an inch" and would be there waiting for him on his return from walking the dogs. Josh's friend had wanted to explore "the bit behind the playground" and Josh - ever the polite and accommodating host - had "innocently" and "grudgingly" agreed. Hence, when DH arrived back at the playground, the boys were still exploring "the bit behind" and DH couldn't see them - which is when I received the first 'phone call.

Josh was grounded for the weekend. The very worst sort of grounding that only involved homework, meals and early nights - no TV and no computer AT ALL.

DH - for his complete inability to adhere to the simplest of instructions and total ineptitude at controlling two small humans who are 46 years his junior - is grounded until further notice.

Mother's Day was wonderful. After the initial relief, I suffered the nervous reaction of a full-blown migraine - so bad that I could barely read the sweet words on Josh's card.

The memory of that hour will stay with me for as long as I live. May it always and only be "just a memory".