On becoming reconnected (The Recovery Series)

I’m lying in my bed. It’s been a while, but I don’t remember pain like this. Even the brilliant drugs that they give you in the hospital doesn’t work. So what best to do with pain but to write. This is my recovery series. It mightn’t make much sense. I blame the pain.

I went to the hospital on my own. It made perfect sense to me. There was no reason for anybody else to leave home at 7:00 in the morning and get on a train and then get into a taxi only to be told to sit in the waiting lounge for what may be 8 hours (and it was). My knight in shining armour would be called when needed, and would arrive perfectly on time, even if he did go to the wrong hospital and would finally get to the correct hospital half an hour after he said he would be there in 3 or 4 minutes time.

And somewhere in the quiet, I got very lonely. I realised that I hadn’t really heard from anyone. In the hushed ward, I suddenly was very alone. Well, not really, there was Lynne in the bed to my left, who refused to take out her contact lenses, or to remove her nail polish and makeup, reading Hello magazine and telling me how little confidence she had in everybody there because she couldn’t have a coffee and 9:30 was usually breakfast time and a nurse of 40+ years experience could barely get up from the floor after helping her put on her anti-embolism socks which she could have just done herself. It was difficult to be alone in Lynne’s company. But Hello called her back and the silence ensued and I went back to feeling rather sorry for myself.

Confession – I am not always close to my family, both by proximity and by relationship. I love them all, but I am a terrible communicator. I don’t like telephones, I rarely write letters or cards or emails, unless it’s business related or urgent. I don’t remember birthdays or special dates (it was about 8:00 in evening before I pootled downstairs to my loving prince’s office and asked if it was our anniversary – we had both forgotten). My family lives in different timezones, and we’re, none of us, good at counting. I’m basically a rubbish member of my own family.

But I have got a good one.

My mother led the charge, up hours before she should ever be, calling all to prayer and showering us in her unwavering faith of a God mightier and more good than had ever been conceived of by the mind of man. She has enough faith for everyone on my ward. Man, she has enough faith for everyone who needs it and more than a little for those who think they don’t. There she was, on my phone that I should not have been using on the ward. My brother, a man of few words, most of those funny, was there with his love and his thoughts soon after. My baby sister, all capital letters and exclamation marks, joyously admonishing me to GET BETTER SOOOONNNN!!!! YOU’LL BE JUS FINNNEEEE!!!! and making me giggle, which rumbles the butterflies in my tummy and jolts me with a heady mix of anxiety and elation.

I heard from my older sister the day after. She said she had been hesitant to write since finding out that I was going to the hospital. I understand. I truly do. She’s there too, sending me her good thoughts, sure that I will have a smile on my face.

Under the gleam of the knife, my family was there. Perfectly there. Perfectly on time. Just like my knight.

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Published in: on February 23, 2013 at 8:13 pm  Leave a Comment  
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