Thoughts From A Life In Limbo

The hospital bed that is now base-camp

The sky in the Indian Ocean burns my eyes. Each morning when I pull up the blinds that infinite ciel blue, uninterrupted by cloud, is so bright that my tired eyes, dulled by five weeks living in a cave of artificial light, cannot process its purity. It is the same when, after significant effort, I drag myself downstairs and out into the fresh air- I have to allow my eyes several minutes to adjust to the brilliance as spots of white light dance across my vision.

My life has evolved over the last five weeks into a kind of semi-life, a hibernation, a limbo of existence. A day is considered a success if I manage to get dressed in everyday clothes, if I face the effort it takes to wash and dry myself, if I succeed in avoiding the allure of the bed during daylight hours. I occasionally force myself to exit the hospital that has become both prison and womb, but even then it is only to drape myself across one of the benches in the forecourt, usually dressed in an eclectic mix of inappropriate clothing, chosen for their comfort and the ease with which I can slip them over my cast.

I am a strange beast here in the hospital, neither well enough to be discharged nor sick enough to take kindly to the suffocation of my internment. I am constantly greeted with the question “still here?” and as I wander the corridors and courtyards I am aware of the questions in the eyes of those who contemplate my pilgrimage. My leg betrays me, swelling uncontrollably and turning the visible portions a deep, angry purple in protest if I overexert myself and I can go from frustrated and full of energy to exhausted and trembling in a matter of minutes.

Looking bored at the end of the afternoon...

 The breath-taking natural beauty of the mountains I look upon from windows and terraces around the building are in stark juxtaposition to the looming tower of concrete and iron in which we reside.  The routine of hospital life is exhausting; nurses and orderlies come and go at all hours and my room is no private safe-haven. If the staff knock before entering, which is unusual, they rarely wait for a reply and respect no timetable but their own waking me at 5am for blood draws and again at midnight to ask if I need anything. I almost broke the other leg the other day when a nurse opened the bathroom door without knocking as I was standing in the damp, slippery wet-room, balanced on one leg, trying to dry myself with the tea-rag they call a towel. And yet I cannot deny the dedication and affability of the staff here- always smiling despite the varying moods of those in their care, gentle and concerned in the face of a worry, however ridiculous, and interested in the lives of those around them.

My days seem endless and are mostly controlled by the schedules of friends and family, which dictate when I can expect to receive contact and distraction. The rest of my day is filled with reading books and watching DVDs kindly donated by the English speaking community on the island, rallied to my cause by an dynamo of a woman whose attention was brought to my plight by my fathers comments on Facebook. Therese took on the role of friend and saviour without missing a beat. She visits almost every day with stories of the island and anecdotes from friends, she has sent an army of people to visit and is constantly checking on my progress. The clothes I wear are hers, the snacks I squirrel away are treats she collects throughout her day and my toiletries are the best organic and natural products that she insists on providing me. In her I am truly blessed.

 

With all my books and DVDs from friends...

I try not to think of what’s going to happen next because no one seems to know and it is too hard to be in a constant state of expectation. What I do know is that this stage of my recovery is about to end and another, more challenging one, is about to begin. At some point over the next two weeks the surgeon will make the decision to take off the cast (depending on the quality of bone fusion he sees in my x-rays). This event will signify the beginning of the second part of my journey. It will mean that I am ready to fly (in a plane of course- the surgery gave me no magical powers sadly) and also that I am ready to begin physiotherapy and re-education.

I have been warned that rather than the cast removal being just another step on the ladder, it will in fact take me all the way back down to the bottom rung. I will have to be prepared that my post-cast leg will swell again and that and my old friend Pain will be back with a vengeance, returning to the levels I experienced in the first 10 days post-surgery, necessitating the reinstitution of a regular drug regime. I will be unstable, weak, stiff and fatigued and a 12-hour flight to the UK is only going to exacerbate all these symptoms. So I will arrive in the UK tired and bruised, swollen and sad and in need of a once over by a doctor. But once I am back in Wimbledon I can focus on my physiotherapy exercises and try to kick the crutches as quickly as possible so that my re-education can finally begin.

My pathetic personal struggle is a constant psychological contradiction for me. I am frustrated and afraid (anyone who has ever met me will tell you what a wimp I am) and yet I am constantly witness to situations and difficulties that dwarf my own, leading to intense feelings of guilt. Those around me are standing tall, pillars of stone in the face of the howling wind, while I feel like a whimpering child in the corner, witness to the devastation of the world and unable to act. I have nothing but respect for the friends and colleagues I am leaving behind in Madagascar, fighting the good fight, not least of which is my own mother, who has taken up the mantel and is shouldering every single one of my responsibilities there without a sigh of complaint.  I long for the day when I can re-join the ranks. Without the life I had begun to build I feel empty and I struggle to pick myself out of the crowd.

Yet, having said all that I am looking forward to continuing my recovery in London, surrounded by family and friends who vow to support and encourage me as I relearn the most basic of skills, standing, walking and climbing stairs. To that end, I have ordered a couple of things on line that tickled me... one for me and one for my long-suffering boyfriend who has promised to be at my disposal when I get back to the UK...

FOR ME- "What I really need are MINIONS!"

FOR BRIAN- "Pick me! Pick me!"

I didn't need to get anything for the rest of my cheer squad who, thanks to my uncle's dedication and wicked sense of humour, are all drinking out of these: