Page 3 of Sweet Dreams at the Forever Home on Muddypuddle Lane (The Forever Home on Muddypuddle Lane #2)

‘I’m going to die,’ Nora wailed, sniffling into a tattered tissue.

Trinette picked up a plate of biscuits and held it out to her. ‘Not just yet, surely?’

Nora took one and bit into it, crumbs cascading down her cleavage. With her mouth full, she replied, ‘No, but I could go blind or lose a leg.’

‘Did the doctor actually say that?’ her bezzie wanted to know.

‘Uh huh.’ Nora nodded. ‘He said it’s a serious condition and I need to take it seriously.’

‘Seriously?’

‘Yep.’ What scared her the most – as if the threat of going blind or having a foot amputated wasn’t scary enough – was that he’d wanted to see her as soon as possible.

Like, today . He said he could fit her in this afternoon and GPs never did that.

Getting an appointment was normally as hard as catching smoke with your bare hands.

She’d had to wait ages the last time, yet miraculously he’d been able to see her this afternoon? !

Nora had struggled on with her work in the salon until the time of her appointment, trying her best to pretend nothing had happened, but inside she’d been reeling. Diabetes. Wasn’t that a disease old people got?

Every chance she had, she’d reached for her phone and googled it, but she’d only ended up scaring herself even more. And now here she was, sitting in her bezzie’s lounge and crying on her shoulder.

‘I didn’t know he was even testing me for diabetes,’ she added tearfully.

‘My gran always used to say she hated going to hospital because you went in for one thing and came out with another – usually worse than the very thing you went in for! I always thought she was joking. I wish I hadn’t gone to see him now – I only wanted HRT. ’

‘Did he prescribe you any?’

‘No. He was more concerned about my blood sugar level, my cholesterol, and my blood pressure. They’re all too high.’

‘Did he give you anything? ’

‘Advice.’ Nora spat out the word. ‘Lose weight, was the main one. Oh, and he gave me a couple of leaflets.’ She fished them out of her bag and glanced at them helplessly.

‘He said he’s going to give me a chance to bring down my HABC, or whatever the hell it’s called, and test me again in three months. ’

‘But can’t they give you anything for it?’

‘They can , but he doesn’t want to. He said that putting a patient on medication doesn’t address the root cause.’

‘Which is?’ Trinny was looking as concerned as Nora felt.

‘Diabetes is sometimes genetic and there are other reasons, but in my case he thinks it’s mostly due to bad diet, not enough exercise, and too much visceral fat.’ Nora grasped the rolls of flesh bulging over the waistband of her work trousers and jiggled them.

Trinette gasped. ‘That’s fat shaming! You ought to report him. What has he got against curvy women, that’s what I’d like to know!’ Trinny wasn’t a skinny waif, either.

Nora wished it was simply a dislike of cuddlier ladies that had driven the doctor to tell her to lose weight, but she feared it wasn’t. From the snippets she’d gleaned from the internet, she had a feeling he might be right.

‘What about your menopause symptoms, the waking in the night, the tiredness? What’s he going to do about that? ’ Trinny demanded.

‘Um, he says it’s the diabetes that’s making me feel this way.’ Apparently, being constantly thirsty, weeing a lot (especially at night), and feeling knackered all the time were classic symptoms.

‘What are you going to do?’

Nora let out a resigned sigh. ‘I supposed I’d better try to lose some weight.’

To be honest, she didn’t know where to start.

She’d never dieted in her life, and she’d never wanted to.

She was happy with her body and had never desired to be slim.

She also liked food too much to restrict what she ate.

And by food, she didn’t mean stuff like salads, either.

The food she liked was hearty and substantial.

Food such as pies and stews, casseroles and hot pots, pasta, pizza, chips, cakes… Real food. not rabbit food.

‘You could try going to the slimming club in the community centre?’ Trinette suggested, but Nora shuddered.

The thought of a public weigh-in was just as abhorrent to her as a public hanging. Anyway, she’d already been weighed at the surgery, and she hadn’t enjoyed the experience in the slightest.

Three stone overweight.

Who knew?

Obviously not her. She’d suspected she was a little on the heavy side, but not three stone .

And according to the GP, a three stone loss would only just put her at the top end of the ideal weight range for her five feet five-inch height.

If she wanted to be in the middle, she needed to lose four stone in total. Four!

That wasn’t going to happen, was it?

‘Aw, hun, I’m sure it’s not as bad as he made out,’ Trinny said, offering her another biscuit, which Nora took. ‘I mean, lots of people have diabetes and they’re okay.’

Unfortunately, Nora suspected it was as bad and that she might never be okay again.

‘Are you alright?’ Andrea asked Nora the following morning when she popped into the bakery for her usual cakey breakfast. ‘You look a bit tired.’

A bit tired? Nora suspected Andrea was being polite.

When she’d got ready for work this morning, her mirror had practically recoiled at the sight of her pale, drawn face and dark-circled eyes.

And she laid her lack of sleep last night firmly at diabetes’s door; she hadn’t slept a wink because she’d been reading anything and everything on the subject that she could get her hands on.

Starting with the leaflets the doctor had given her, then swiftly moving on to the internet, she’d devoured every morsel of information, swallowing some of it and spitting out other bits until her brain was so full she thought her head might explode.

It was bursting at the seams with facts and figures, dos and don’ts, but the general consensus of all the websites and forums was that carbs and sugar were out and healthy eating and exercise were in.

It made her want to weep. In fact, she did have another cry, along with a hefty portion of ‘why me?’ and a side order of self-loathing.

If she’d paid more attention to her diet and had more self-control when it came to bread, cakes, biscuits, sweets, chocolate, crisps – the list could go on – maybe she wouldn’t be in a situation where she’d have to watch what she ate forever.

Diabetes, she’d discovered to her sorrow, was for life.

It wasn’t going to go away; she was never going to be cured, no matter how much weight she lost nor how much exercise she did.

She could never go back to her normal way of eating, nor her normal lifestyle, because that was what had got her into this pickle in the first place – and why was her every thought food-related ?

‘Nora?’

‘Huh? Oh, sorry, I was miles away,’ she said, realising Andrea was waiting for a response. Or hoping she wasn’t about to keel over. ‘Busy, that’s all. I’ve got a lot on my mind,’ she added.

Abruptly she felt a blush whoosh up her chest and into her face. What was she doing in the bakers when this was supposed to be the first day of the rest of her non-baked-goods life?

Grabbing the neckline of her top, she fanned herself rapidly.

‘Hot flush?’ Andrea sympathised. ‘I get them all the time. The damned menopause is a damned nuisance!’

Wordlessly, Nora nodded. It wasn’t strictly a lie – she did have hot flushes – but this one was caused by shame, not the menopause.

She couldn’t help feeling that if she confessed to being diabetic, people would look at her generous curves and come to the conclusion that she’d brought it on herself.

Hell, why wouldn’t they, since she was thinking the exact same thing?

It wasn’t fair, though; there were loads of overweight people who didn’t have diabetes (Trinny, for one), and Nora felt she’d been dealt an unlucky hand.

After all, she didn’t sit on her backside all day stuffing her face with cake.

She had an active job and was on her feet from nine in the morning until seven in the evening some days.

Okay, one day: Thursday was late night opening.

And Saturday was early closing. And the salon wasn’t open on Sundays.

But the rest of the time she was on her feet because you couldn’t cut hair sitting down.

Well… you could, and you should if the client had long hair, but the vast majority of the time hair cutting was an activity best performed standing up.

Andrea asked, ‘What can I get you today? A coffee puff? A custard slice? Or how about a nice Belgian bun?’

‘Actually, I don’t think I’ll have a cake,’ Nora found herself saying. ‘Just three chocolate chip cookies, please.’

Start as you mean to go on, she thought.

And she meant to go on by cutting down , not cutting out .

She’d still have her treats, just not as many or as often.

Or as much. One slice of cake instead of two, for instance.

And swap normal pop for the zero sugar variety.

Maybe invest in some reduced sugar syrup for her coffee, too.

Going cold turkey wasn’t for her – she’d never be able to stick to it.

Until something happened later that day which made her realise that she might not have any choice…

‘It’s a lovely day, so why does everyone look so miserable?’ Andrea wanted to know as Elijah limped into the shop with a tray of twisted blueberry buns fresh from the oven. Still warm, they smelt divine, but he barely noticed.

Andrea was saying, ‘First there was the postie, because his van had a flat tyre. Ashton, I said to him, at least it’s not raining.

Then there was Nora from the hairdressers.

She looked washed out, poor thing. But the menopause can do that and I think she’s suffering a bit.

I couldn’t even tempt her with a custard slice.

So,’ she put her hands on her hips, ‘what’s your reason for having a face like a slapped arse?

Is your leg hurting? I see you’re not wearing your boot. Did they tell you to take it off?’

‘Yeah.’ Elijah didn’t want to say any more. He couldn’t. If he did, he feared he might howl.

‘You do look a bit pale and drawn. Why don’t you sit down for a bit? Have you taken any painkillers?’

It wasn’t his leg that was aching. It was his soul. No more running? Elijah couldn’t contemplate life without it.

And how was he going to tell his son?

Abruptly Elijah felt old, worn out, on the scrapheap.

He’d envisioned himself still running into his seventies and eighties, yet at fifty-two he was washed up.

He hadn’t believed the doctor. Had asked for a second opinion.

And when she’d gone to see whether the consultant was available, he’d been convinced she was wrong.

But she hadn’t been. And Elijah was devastated. What was he supposed to do now?

Last night he’d lain awake, telling himself he should be grateful for what he had.

There were people who were in far, far worse situations than him, unimaginably worse.

He had his health, he owned his own business, he owned his own house; he even had all his own teeth and a full head of hair (although it was receding ever so slightly at the temples).

But nothing could console him. His life was about to undergo a major upheaval, and he wasn’t ready for it.

Was he overreacting?

He suspected he might be. His ex-wife would probably tell him to get over himself. Get a grip. Find another hobby. But running was what he did . It was who he was, and he didn’t think he had it in him to reinvent himself.

And then there was his son. Running was what connected him and Cameron.

Was that about to be lost? Cameron was twenty-two, with a promising career and a busy social life.

Would Elijah see as much of him if they didn’t go running together?

Would his son now regard him not as a fit, agile man who happened to be his dad, but as a middle-aged boring person who he had to visit out of duty once or twice a month?

Elijah hated to admit it, but there was also a sense of pride in being a long-distance athlete at his age. Most of the guys he’d been in school with had beer bellies and man-boobs, and on the odd occasion when he bumped into one of them, he was secretly pleased with how he measured up.

No longer being able to run was unthinkable. Yet that’s what was happening. Had happened. He’d run his last marathon.

The question he now had to ask himself was, what could he do instead ?

Nora squinted crossly at the appointment book.

The pencilled in details were blurry, so she took off her reading glasses (she’d reached the age where she, along with many of her contemporaries, were forced to wear them), and blew on them to create a momentary fine coating of mist on the lenses, then gave them a rub with the hem of her tabard.

Replacing them on her nose, she peered at the diary again.

Annoyingly, the writing was still blurry, so she took the glasses off once more and held them up to the light. Both lenses looked clean enough, but she gave them another polish anyway.

It was only when she popped them on again, did she realise it wasn’t her glasses that were the problem – it was her eyes . Her right eye, to be exact.

Nora went hot, then cold, as nausea swept over her.

With a racing heart and clammy hands, she picked up her phone and did a quick google search.

Squinting through her good eye, she confirmed her fears: blurred eyesight could be a sign of high blood glucose, and as she’d discovered during her research last night, high blood glucose could lead to impaired vision, even blindness.

Oh, hell.