This wasn’t the Mother’s Day my mother was expecting: I found out this morning that she’s been in hospital since yesterday. I won’t go into details; suffice to say it should be a routine, non-life-threatening thing, but naturally I can’t help but worry about her (considering how my grandfather going into hospital 16 years ago ended with him not coming out again). My grandmother’s thus home alone, and I’ll need to visit them next weekend (which I was planning to do anyway, but under more auspicious circumstances), as even if my mother has the operation promptly, she’ll likely have to stay another week afterwards.
At the same time, “best mate” is going through hell thanks to his job in construction, as he has to do whatever contractor work his brother gives him, even if it means 12-hour days (plus commute) up to six or seven days per week, and only the fact that (a) admin pays so much less and (b) taking a sabbatical to study for something better would mean not working prevents him from getting out of the industry entirely. “Don’t work in construction!” he repeatedly tells me, to the point that it’s become his catchphrase instead of quotes from Father Ted, Family Guy or Beavis and Butt-head.
If I were superstitious, I’d wonder if my recent life improvements and general good luck were somehow being “paid for” by bad things happening to people I care about. After all, it seems like “best mate” has been going downhill ever since I got my current job… and my mother’s illness seems to have arrived at about the same time as my connection with someone through a dating app, with whom I had a nice date in Oxford yesterday (and, at the risk of jinxing things, might actually have asked me to “Netflix and chill” next time!).
Naturally I’m delighted that things are finally going well in my life — I know I’m not earning as much as I did at Camden (though that was only because of an acting-up allowance that I wouldn’t still be getting), and I know this new romance could go the same way as all the others; but at the same time, I’m enjoying my job and know it’s merely the first step in a career, and the fact that I get so many dates these days means I feel like I’m getting closer to finding my “missing piece”. This kind of thing is what I’ve wanted all along, and the whole reason I started this blog was to chart my escape from the depths of depression through changing my life.
The trouble is simply that if the people I care about suffer, aside from it tainting my own happiness, it might undo everything. It’s not impossible that “best mate” will end up leaving here, perhaps returning his stuff to Ireland while he goes off around the world, in order to escape the life he has; I don’t know if I’d stay here, as he’s been my rock these past years, and it’d be no fun living in this house without him (as his replacement would undoubtedly be annoying).
Similarly, if ($DEITY forbid!) my mother does leave us, I’ll have little option but to return to Worthing to take care of my grandmother, and leave behind this life I’ve built in London. I’d be equally upset if she survives but is left unable to exercise, as that’s made her so happy over the past few years, and again I’d probably have to come home to look after her — and it’d be hard to find any kind of decent job in the Worthing area (though I’d certainly learn to drive).
Hopefully I’m getting worried about nothing, and both these situations will be resolved positively over the next week or so — and without me having to “pay” by getting fired or embracing a life of singlehood. It’s bad enough that my yoga friend had to stop his classes in Euston, and that I’m having to see my personal trainer a bit less in order to reduce my outgoings — I don’t want to go backwards, to the days when I worked in a job I hated and came home every evening to sit around doing nothing useful…
I want my life, but I also want my loved ones alive and well — since they’re part of my life, and thus part of my happiness. Is that so wrong?