“I walked a mile with Pleasure;
She chatted all the way;
But left me none the wiser
For all she had to say.
I walked a mile with Sorrow;
And ne’er a word said she;
But, oh! The things I learned from her,
When Sorrow walked with me.”
― Robert Browning Hamilton
Update - Monday, 23 June 2014
Peas father is now off the ventilator but remains confused for the lack of a better word. While he is aware of his surroundings, his thoughts are jumbled and he is frustrated. Doctors have asked to give it a week so we'll see how it goes.
Aunt underwent her third amputation last week. The surgeon is now convinced that there may be more dead tissue in her upper thigh as well and has broached the subject of larval treatment. She had the first round done on her birthday and treatment lasted for 48 hours. More details in the next two days or so.
We only hope this alternative therapy works in her favour and even if she has to do it more than once, it is far better than being rushed to surgery every ten days.
Love and light.
Original article - Monday, 16 June 2014
Years ago, as I sat broken into pieces with my therapist, she read this to me and asked me what it meant. I didn't have a clue. As we discussed it, I understood it to mean that you need sorrow in your life to teach you and to make you whole. You will learn nothing meaningful or very little from joy.
For those of you who know my family and I personally, you already know our walk with sorrow has been a long one in the past few months. On some days it doesn't feel like we're walking with sorrow, it feels as if she's packed her bags and moved in with us permanently.
In early April, Peas father fell and broke his hip. This has resulted in a series of complications and as of yesterday he was in an ICU ward on a ventilator.
On 20 May, as I sat and waited for the neurosurgery unit to see me, an aunt I was close to had a 'boil' on her foot. She has had diabetes for 19 years and the boil now looked like a whole other foot had grown onto her foot. Obviously, something was wrong.
Once we left neurosurgery at Hospital A, we rushed her to Hospital B where the doctor then said she had septicemia and needed to go to Hospital C. Even by my own standards, three hospitals in a day was a whole new record.
As we got to Hospital C, things didn't seem all that bad. "We'll have to remove a bit of her toe," they said. For a person who lives on logic, this made sense to me. Remove the infected part and life will go on. If only logic won every time.
"We need to speak with the immediate family in person." This was the call we received the next morning. After more than 10 years of being in and out of neuro wards, I can guarantee you this is never good news. Not when a doctor says it. What it usually means is a life changing decision that will send ripples of change for the rest of your life.
And so it was. The infection was worse than everyone thought. They needed to amputate from below the knee.
I physically felt my heart break.
But still, prosthetics has come a long way. We were upset but hopeful. It was for the best. Little did we know that was only the beginning.
Sorrow didn't leave our sides after that. Ten days after the first surgery, the wound did not heal so they removed a bit more for fear of another infection. Now, ten days after the second surgery, the wound still has not healed as it should and they will be removing a bit more tomorrow morning.
I can only imagine the physical pain and heartache my aunt is going through. Being the youngest of my three aunts, her humour and her charm hasn't lost its shine and my only hope is that this will be the last procedure for her to endure. If our bodies had been intended for one leg, we wouldn't have had two to start with.
As we absorbed this major shift in the past month, I have no doubt that morning will come again. As the African proverb goes, even the darkest night must become morning. Is there a reason this has happened now? I don't know.
What I do know is that with any downturn in life, you know who your real friends are. The angels God sends, be it the ones who knowingly reach out and or the ones who even without knowing your story, reach out to you as a sign that everything will be okay. It is for these friends, few as they may be, I am forever grateful.
And then there's the wisdom of babes, as my 4-year-old niece has so aptly put, "Tell her we love her so much, even when her pretend leg comes."
Love, sorrow and the pretend leg. Even as the walk with sorrow may seem too heavy at times, as it turns out, love truly is the greatest of them all.
Love and light, always.
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