Shufflled along into the kitchen this morning, bleary eyed as usual.
Beautiful boy, black cat, had wanted to be let out at 6am. I knew this because he systematically claws the corners of the bed base, through the black (Dorma no less) valance which is already showing signs of having been ravaged previousley). I shuffled to the kitchen and let him out. Little lady cat shot through the door having endured the wind and rain during the night, and swiftly settled into her fleecy blanket in her basket. She decided to have a night on the tiles and refused to come in before we retired for the night.
At 9am the rotund ginger boy wanted to go out and makes stupid squawking noises at the bedroom door. I admit defeat and get up, shoving stiff limbs into dressing gown sleeves. On hearing human movement in the kitchen, all three decided this can only mean one thing. Food!!!
Rotund ginger one does a u turn and decided his need for nourishment outweighed his need for a pee, and almost tripped me up, weaving purposely around my ankles. All three were now present. I managed to dribble some dry food into two of the feeding bowls, without having to reach down or strain. However, the third bowl was placed just inside the sliding back porch door. This is because the beautiful boy has a tendency to throw his food back up shortly after eating, so consequently is fed nearest the exit.
As I reached down to move the bowl I could feel my knees giving way, ever so slowly. Slowly, slowly, slowly, until I had my right knee on the floor and holding the sliding door, trying to support myself. It wasn’t working. The door was functioning perfectly and continued to slide. I was now on one knee, with my palms outside the threshold, on the step. My left knee was still bent. I tried to place my hands on the said knee, attempting to push myself upon it. Not happening. The strain was unbearable and I had to end up sitting on my rump, legs splayed out in front of me. The feeling of being so incapable was overwhelming. I somehow managed, with great difficulty, to get myself onto all fours. I thought I could crawl the few steps to the nearest kitchen chair, by which I could put my forearms on and support my body, while I dragged my useless legs into some sort of position that would allow me to fall onto the seat.
I eventually did manage this, but the tears flowed. Hot tears just rolled down my cheeks. I haven’t been in a situation like this since last summer, when I ended up in the flower bed, and hubby struggled to get me upright, like I weighed a tonne. I don’t! The tears were a combination of feelings. Fear for what the future holds, disbelief that I was unable to do something as stooping and standing back upright, anger at this bloody disease, realisation that it is here to stay and isn’t going anywhere.
The beautiful boy meanwhile, waited patiently, looking intently at me, wondering what I was doing crawling around the floor. He just walked to his bowl and proceeded to eat the biscuit I now poured in. Hubby slumbered on, oblivious to the mini drama that had taken place. And so the day began…