A mixed anniversary

Yesterday, 27th November, was the anniversary of three very different things.

First, it was the 17th anniversary of buying my caravan in 2006. I needn't show pictures of it, as it featured in a recent post (Swansong of a caravan on 21st November). It was then new, and was jointly purchased with M---. We both put up an equal amount of money. But it was bought in my name, and I was the formal owner. When M--- asked for her money back in 2009, as we were (by then) unlikely to go caravanning together any more, I simply returned what she had contributed. My status as sole owner was unchanged. But of course, I was now free to use the caravan exactly as I pleased. And as this blog can testify, it has been the means to visit places all over the country ever since. Truly my hotel bedroom on wheels. 

Second, it was the 15th anniversary of buying the Slow-worm, my thick but flexible silver necklace. I'd seen it in a shop called Enigma in the centre of Bournemouth. M--- had long had one of her own, which I had admired. Now I could have one for myself. But I decided to get her opinion before buying. So it was late in the afternoon, when it was getting dark, that I led her to the shop. To my surprise and pleasure, she bought it for me. I've always thought it was in the nature of a conciliatory gift, as we'd had a fretful exchange earlier that day. Whatever the reason, it was a lovely gift, and one I have treasured ever since. It goes with anything: any outfit, any hairstyle, and almost any other item of neckware, so that I often pair it up with something else, most recently Starfishie. In fact, here I am yesterday, wearing both Slow-worm and Starfishie: 

My fringe has got way too long, but Anne's coming to do my hair tomorrow afternoon, and I'll look neater afterwards.

The third item was more concerning. It was the 4th anniversary of my fainting at home, and waking up on my back at the threshold of the bathroom, with my head in a pool of blood. I'd obviously hit the door frame on my way down, and cut my scalp with gory results. The curious thing was that I had no recollection of falling. One moment I was on my feet: in pain, but fully aware. The next moment I was waking up, as if coming out of a deep sleep, the pain gone but conscious of a curious wetness and stickiness. Of course one side of my head was dark with congealing blood, although it looked far worse than it was. I had the presence of mind to take some photos: I knew that would help me get urgent medical help. Then I cleaned myself up, washed the bathroom floor, and set off on foot for the local doctors' surgery in driving rain. 

The photos got me the immediate attention of a doctor, although he told me it was a job for A&E at the hospital in Haywards Heath. I trudged over to friends Jo and Clive, looking like a drowned water rat by the time I got there. After toast and coffee, and a good cry, Jo drove me to the hospital and stayed there for hours with me until I was seen. We passed the time doing downloaded crosswords on her phone. I am forever grateful for her loyal assistance and companionship on that long afternoon. The outcome was some of my hair snipped away, and the wound glued together.

In the four years since, I have still not been able to recall anything about the fall, and the moment of hitting my head. Nor have I dreamed about it. Perhaps a kindly amnesia. I deduce that I was unconscious from pain before I lost my footing. I suppose that's evidence for thinking that once the mind blacks out there is nothing, and - effectively - existence stops. The only similar experience I have had was when on the operating table, nodding to the nurse and anaesthetist, and remembering nothing whatever after being injected and then asked to count to ten. (Apparently I got as far as 'one') Perhaps that's how dying will be: a sudden cessation of consciousness. No warning. No fading out. Not even the apprehension of a black void. Just an abrupt cut-off. 

As my head certainly took quite a crack, I've been watching for signs of impaired mental function ever since. I'd expect difficulties with thinking, with counting, with sustained concentration, with remembering names, and generally increased forgetfulness. But so far there hasn't been anything to make me worry. So maybe I've got away lightly. I can't believe there has been no lasting effect, particularly as I'd already thumped the back of my head on rocks down in Cornwall in April 2016. This would have been the second trauma to the head in the space of three years. Well, fingers crossed that there are no more such accidents!