Sickness is another country. Strange internal landscapes of dark and gray, and then the even stranger intermittent sunlight filtering in from somewhere else, flickering threads of bright white. Everything outside this room is foreign land.
The pain: so intense at times I feel like I'm dying. I want to die. Every movement causes a different angle of hurt; radiating, pulsing, throbbing, or erupting like fireworks; but constant, in some form. I try to surrender to the sensation. This is just more feeling, different, and the proof of life. Out pain, out. I let it move up to the crown of my head, away.
Panic and delerium come and go, as do tears for my mother, my lost self, my other lives, my children, all of them, the burden of this episode on Lee. His patience which I so often underappreciate.
My legs and torso ache from lying in bed for a week and a half...two weeks?, but sitting up is an exertion I can hardly bear. Walking to the bathroom is an excruciating expedition. My balance is off, and I bang into doorways. Once vertical, my head THROBS, and I watch myself, or my body, as I, my self's self, float above, full of pity for this gaunt, hideous, filthy corporeal woman. In the mirror, she looks back hollow-eyed.
But wait. Comparatively, there is a certain luxury in being ill and alive in a warm little house on our own garden plot of land, with my doting husband and children and happy animals. I will not die--not now, from this. Others are much worse off. Much. Am I allowed this misery and sadness? Sort of, Yo. Yes and no. I am so lucky to be loved. By my family, and by the many friends who have sent me caring thoughts.
Time is bent and crooked and seeping. Nothing makes sense. I am being left behind, the train rolls by. When awake and coping, I send emails to the lists of friends, clients, employers, acquaintances. Pathetic notes explaining my absence. Is it spring? The sun is out. Now snow. Now wind against the rickety window panes. I want to go.
The doctor gave me potions, lotions and advice. My child inside is safe and sound, and even if I were inclined to accept antibiotics and the like, the doctor agrees we should avoid all that for the sake of baby, although she did give me several painful injections to halt the progression of this thing. Wait and see. The infection has migrated to the bones in my face, and Lee watches for signs of ocular damage. I am ready to go to the hospital if this is required. But I think I'm getting better. Much much better. I tell my body to accept the power of suggestion: strong, beautiful bones. Healthy teeth and blood. Blue eyes, rest and sleep.
We are all so strong and so vulnerable, and so amazing and small. I feel my baby move, just slightly. Try to eat something. Try to breathe.
Then noises downstairs, and Horus and Treva run up to see me--ignoring Lee's instructions to leave me slumbering.
I can only open my left eye right now, but I can see the kids around the corner, tripping over each other. They jump up on the bed, and snuggle into the crook of my arms. "Here we are, Mum! We came to see you! Do you need us to make you feel better?" Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes.
Extreme situations bring that which is important into impeccable focus. My children. My family. Friends. You. Thank you.
xo
