A chilli bubbles in the slow cooker, the ironing can wait another day. At last I am learning to pace myself so that days full of tears are less frequent.
I recall the early days when searches for the old Dawn were in vain. The old Dawn had left without warning. She had sailed away to unknown shores. The clouds were dark as I wept for her, missed her and yearned for her return.
Antidepressants softened the loss and eventually lifted the clouds to allow the sun to peek through.
Almost three years have passed since I started the tablets. Our visit to the fjords made me think of the old Dawn; she would have climbed the mountains instead of looking up from below; she would have walked up the glacier instead of spying it from a boat; she would have danced the night away instead of wiggling her hips as she passed the disco on the ship, on her way to bed for an early night.
But my smiles never faltered. My squeals of delight resonated on the boat trips; early nights meant I stood on the balcony and watched the matrix of clouds hover over the lowering sun, which never set. I snapped away to capture the magical reflections on the fjords’ silent waters. Best of all Mr H was always by my side.
This year I had considered getting off the antidepressants but my GP and Neurologist persuaded me not to try until we sort out my epilepsy. Good Plan. Why change when I am at last in such a good place.