Man Gwyn

Well, pardon the longueur. It's been a tough time lately.

Three weeks or so ago, an augur came. Not locusts. Not flies. Not even a blight of the crops. But chickenpox. Again. A spot I willed to be an insect bite and half-managed to convince my childminder was same acquired a brother and a sister and another and another. Thankfully, Eleanor was only mildly affected and relatively untroubled by it all. But, still, cue more time off full-time work to care for my poor, lovely little (for at least two weeks) pariah.

Then, just as I was again reminding myself how marvellous the sisterhood is (something that as a single goodtime gal all those moons ago I had never even stopped to consider) and for the umpteenth time internally debating how work/life/creative balance can/could/might ever be possible: a curve ball. My grandmother was taken to hospital with an inocuous ailment. It all seemed to be Nothing Serious and even comedic when my mother noted that she was calling out bingo numbers in her delirium. And then her kidneys started failing and she developed septicaemia. Within 24 hours, she was fighting for her life. The news had a terrible effect on me. Throughout my childhood and on into adolescence, she had always lived just down the road (and still does - except, well, I am no longer there). She is 84, but hitherto looked at least 15 years younger, and, in any case, I don't think I ever noticed that she was getting older. It was shocking, but when I thought about it was more shocking that I was shocked. Totally unprepared.

I saw her last weekend. It was impossible to get away before then because of the complex obligations you seem to acquire once you're officially a 'Grown-up'. Inevitably, this delay leads to yet more guilt for me to pack into my excess baggage. However, she is somewhat better and seemingly no longer playing chess with you-know-who. Her kidneys have, by some caprice of biology or sheer bloody-mindedness, started to function again. She is taking the odd spoonful of PCT vegetable soup and complaining enough to make me think her odds may be improving.

But she is so frail. And it is a long road ahead. I felt terribly shaken seeing her in the hospital. My grandfather died there after a long, long battle with cancer 18 years ago. It's never really quite left me. Well, clearly, the hurt never does. But it was also the physical things. I still have nightmares about his tracheotomy. And blood. And things. God, do I hate hospitals. Not the smell of bodies not working but the way they have to attempt to cover it up with that pink disinfectant you see here and there abandoned in the corridors in those gargantuan plastic bottles with the handles. And they never quite manage it. Cue more guilt for thinking how I feel about it.

Anyhow, the mood was leavened somewhat by my aunt and my mother debating whether my grandmother looked better with short hair or a bob, each grabbing hold of one side of her parting as they put forward their side of the argument. A typically Welsh way of dealing with all tragedy and pain - realised or in potential. Meanwhile, my grandmother - who in fitter days would have floored the both of them - stared serenely ahead of her. Prepared, I thought.

Normal service will resume shortly. Until then, take care of yourselves - and each other, as Jerry would have it.