Well, that was underwhelming. And I couldn’t be happier!

First, a little update on this morning’s post. My father-in-law remarked, having read my compliments about my in-laws, “You must be ill if you’re making compliments to your in-laws!” We laughed.

Sadly for us, they are now at the airport after three wonderful weeks with us. We miss them already, but please G-d, they will be back soon.

Literally two minutes after they left, my new hospital bed arrived.

And, as you can see from the photograph, it is completely underwhelming!

It looks remarkably like my old bed. It sits neatly alongside my wife’s bed, at exactly the same height, and is pretty much the same size and shape. We have the same bedding, and we’ve splashed out on an exceptionally comfortable mattress (yes, a medical one!).

In fact, to look at our bedroom, you would hardly know anything had changed.

I have more buttons on the remote control and considerably more capabilities. When I need them, they will be there.

And that’s it.

Of all the physical changes and adaptations I’ve had to make because of PSP, this must be one of the most underwhelming. And that’s precisely what makes it so wonderful.

I had built this up in my mind as an enormous milestone. A hospital bed. In our bedroom. At 51. And in truth, it is, of course.

My fears were enormous. My trepidation was huge. I imagined something that would transform our bedroom into a hospital room, another very visible reminder of the disease and how far it has progressed.

Instead, I have a comfortable bed, sitting happily alongside my wife’s, which happens to have some very clever technology hidden within it.

I’m delighted.

Of course, PSP hasn’t gone anywhere. The anxiety of the day cost me half an hour of powering down, during which I was almostcompletely unresponsive, and the pain in my leg, as a result of the last few days, is still very much there. But none of that takes away from how pleased I am with the outcome.

I’m enormously grateful to the fitters, the suppliers, a neighbour who helped us, our HMO’s physiotherapist who assessed our needs and, indeed, the people who designed hospital beds that can be brought into ordinary homes without making them feel like hospitals.

Most importantly, I’m grateful that this change has turned out to be so much smaller than I feared.

As I wrote this morning, the arrival of the hospital bed was never going to be the most important event of the day. Saying goodbye to two people we love dearly mattered infinitely more.

And now the bed has arrived, it turns out that it really was a very small part of the day.

There is perhaps a lesson here for me. Not every change associated with a progressive disease has to feel devastating. Not every new piece of equipment has to represent another enormous loss. Sometimes something we dread turns out to be perfectly manageable. Sometimes the anticipation is far worse than the reality.

And sometimes, being underwhelmed is the best possible outcome.

I’m comfortable. I’m pleased. Our bedroom still feels like our bedroom.

Life continues. And today, that feels like a very good thing.