We are getting ready for a visit to the green isle. It's long overdue and there are several very elderly sweethearts waiting for us to bring them on a nice long drive with a pub lunch in Roundwood and a nice cup of tea in Avoca, thank you very much.
Which we will do.
Then we shall attempt to meet some of the 500 cousins but we are making no promises. And of course there are the mountains and yes, I notice the look R gets in his eyes whenever Wicklow is mentioned. So we will pack one pair of walking boots. His pair that is, because packing mine would be so futile and only add extra weight to the baggage allowance. And it still hits me somewhere in the lower stomach, this reality that all that is gone, my energy, my stamina, my health, for crying out loud. But we decided that R simply needs to go on a good long hike with a bit of rain and a packed lunch and slippery mud and all the fantastic scenery. And that I will spend the day visiting pottery shops and then sit and sip tea in one of the grand old houses converted to attract loads of tourists, complete with parks, waterfalls and garden centers.
For the last three years I have tried, really tried to accept that this illness has presented me with limitations that cannot be changed, and I think I have done a fairly good job with this challenge and all the yuk limitations and I swear that I constantly revalue what is left of my health. Concentrating not on my illhealth and symptoms, my vulnerability, but instead on my personal strengths and bla bla bla.
But on some days... Never mind.