Hands

Came back from the GP today, and spoke to my neighbour – My neighbour, who met me when I was a purple-mohawked 22-year-old lab technician, at the Big University and with all my life ahead of me.

Today, I picked my dog up from him, on my crutches, my hair last washed in October, wearing the high-vis jacket I found in a bin four years ago, because I can’t afford a proper waterproof.

“What does he say then?” he asked “Are you getting better? Staying the same? Getting worse?”

And I had to say “Pretty much worse”.

And then, you know, my heart just broke. He looked so sad. I don’t know what I would have done living here without him, he’s the best neighbour that anyone could ever ask for, and I’m basically giving him a life sentence of having to look after me. He walks my dog a couple of times a week. Last year, he was checking on me every day over Christmas, since I was trapped on the settee by a dislocated hip. He’s holding a few hundred grams of paracetamol for me, to make sure that I don’t do anything terrible with it.

Christ, everything hurts today.

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