Audrey’s Blog on living well with disability and breast cancer

Grandad cuddles are the best  I’ve noticed a reluctance to write about the last week. It’s something about making it more real. We’ve been going day to day enjoying the pleasure of sharing Christmas with our family, including  our grandson,Davie for whom every gift opened was worthy of of a ‘wow’ alongside the distress of seeing our beloved dog, Cara, go through a terrible time. On thé Monday before Christmas we took Cara to the vet hospital. Our own vet had referred her eventually when they were no longer sure of what the growth on her leg was. They gave us no warning of what was to come. The vet who assessed her told us straight away they thought it was an aggressive cancer and they did a series of tests to get more information. By the end of that day they advised that there was no spread and it was hard to know exactly but they thought it might be a sarcoma that comes from blood vessels. We had to make a quick decision as the time taken for the most accurate diagnosis may al

But not really. That £5k could have had very different purposes!  I really wanted a holiday where we could both relax. I feel cheated to be honest and then worried that the pain getting in and out of chair in the lift might be worse than how I feel later in the day dragging myself up our stairs when my spine is protesting. The alternative is to lose our dining room and set up our bed room there. The cat and dog loved it when we did that for me returning home after spinal surgery. Maybe we should just coorie in downstairs?  But for me the dining room is full of family times. Of Christmases when my Mum was still with us, of board games, of music and laughter. Currently the colour in Christmas table cloth is a scene of individual creativity and a symbol of community: of loving family and loyal friendship. How can I lose that? That’s the loop I go round.....I guess I will make decision once I’m less angry about having to make such a choice. I need some scream therapy I think! 

Friday thirteenth  The date itself a portent the exit poll even more. And yet Hope was there in our attention to nuance, to the Professor of Polls, in our racing hearts. I KNOW it’s hope that kills but what is there without it? It’s a black hole of anger or bleak acceptance, a desert of despair. We need hope. As England hung its flat cap on getting Brexit done. We drank deeply on disbelief.  How can this be? This landslide of leave,  a mystery, a heart rending loss. And slowly Scotland showed it’s different hand. Our scarred lands of decayed industry, of Highlands cleared of people for profit spoke in a different voice: it spoke of choice, of hope. It’s a confident voice. Not one with begging bowls but of rights to be heard. It’s the voice too loud to be unheard. It’s the insistent song, of a land ready for change.

So last Friday-just before Christmas- I got this letter. Your PiP ( personal independence payments) has been stopped, you owe us money, your car will be returned....... It hit me like a steam train, one with a snow plow on the front that brutally scoops you up and throws you off the tracks. That takes your breath completely away. I panicked, my breath hard to catch, my pulse racing, my mind unable to make sense of it, I started to sob. But how? I tried to read it more closely this time. I gave it to Andrew to try to make sense as well. It seems I didn’t return the form. But I did, I sent it off in good time ( you get threatening letters about being late with the form) but this letter said differently. I was shaking, trying to read and make sense whilst attempting to calm a racing brain. I went online to read about when your form hasn’t been returned. I finally found a phone number and called. It was Friday evening but it seemed, if I waited I could speak to someone. I waited, I dr