… We are home. When I was given the diagnosis, I was also told it would require five to six months of treatment in Sydney. Obviously now I know they can’t possibly account for things like ongoing low blood counts or a three week hospital stay for, essentially, a cold, but for a while it felt like we’d never get back. And actually, once we’d settled into the self-contained unit, it felt normal to be there. And comforting, in a sense.
Being home is weird. It feels both satisfyingly familiar, and like I’m living someone else’s life. And in a way, I am.
The house we walked into three days ago belonged to a carefree three-year-old and his somewhat angst-filled but generally ok parents who were dealing with grief, gout, financial stresses, and a new pregnancy. The house did not belong to an embattled four-year-old, his weary and heartbroken (though gradually repairing) parents, and his completely fresh and innocent baby sister.
It’s simultaneously like being warped back to June last year, with extra memories, and like I’ve missed a chunk of my life. I don’t feel connected to the stuff here. Or maybe I do, but it’s all a painful reminder of how much has changed in such a short time. Either way, my instinct is to get rid of it. I know that would be a silly thing to do right now, so soon after arriving home, but this is how I currently feel.
We knew it would be tough to be home, and we were gently reminded that things may not be easy – I’m aware of what I’m feeling and why I’m feeling it, but, much like the post-baby blues, knowing doesn’t make it hurt less.
It’s just a matter of being patient.
Anyway! On the lighter note of Dubbo wasting no time in displaying its Dubbosity since we’ve been back, I went to the sushi place that we once frequented, only to find their chicken katsu had been renamed ‘crumbed chicken’.