Talking

My gran always had me down as an open book. Fair comment I think. What you see is what you get. Someone who is at ease with being who he is. Although there are people I admire greatly, I’ve never actually wanted to be anyone else. Furthermore I’ve never been plagued by nagging regrets. Sure, with hindsight there are things I might have done differently, other paths I could have chosen. But these things are all irrelevant. I decided what I thought was best at the time, which is all that any of us can do. Those decisions and subsequent actions are now history. They’ve faded to nothing in a place that no longer exists. My memories, at this time in my life, are clear and in the main provide a kind of comfort, but my natural inclination is always to look forwards. That’s the only real way to travel.

Just before our lovely hospice nurse left on her last visit, she asked me if I was talking to anyone. By anyone she meant a counsellor. “Would you like me to refer you to our psychology and social team?”

Mags has found her fortnightly counselling sessions over the phone to be quite helpful. So I’m signed up for my first appointment next week. I’ve been aware of the service from the outset, and I’ve had it in mind to put my name forward on several occasions. To be clear, any hesitation isn’t rooted in some kind of macho resistance. It’s just being honest enough with myself to recognise when the time is right. As she stood on our doorstep, about to head for her car, the hospice nurse was obviously one step ahead of me. We talked, and all the while she was reading me. Leafing through the pages of this open book and finally making an intervention that will no doubt help as the heaviest of storylines continues its development.