Boxing Day

Boxing Day was the tail end of an obscure Christmas, the fag end of a year of abuse. 

My wife in too much agony to be touched, even slightly, without violently flinching, unable to feel her body below her waist, slumped, paralysed , in the sudden red glow of fireworks from next door, a party to which we were not invited.

Boxing Day was the pain in my guts, the longing to go running on a beach with her, knowing she is more ill than I have ever known. Christmas Day was the ME kicking her hard in her back and head.

There is no let up to the disease's merciless attack, its progressive worsening, its savage ravaging of my wife.

Boxing Day was me feeling very small  indeed, an impotent  spectator at the ME feast. So angry. 

Long Boxing Day of pain.

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