There has obviously been a hiatus between my last blog post published in early November and this one. Even after I wrote about committing to posting here on a regular basis. The hiatus wasn’t intentional. A medical crisis – where life and death opened the door to greet one another – unexpectedly occurred on Remembrance Day. That day has taken on a whole new meaning. I won’t go into the details of the story as it is not my story to tell and the person in question wants privacy. But I can tell my story, edited in parts to protect privacy.
There was the onset of the medical crisis, death had opened the door. Then 2 seconds of panic. Then moving into action doing what needed to be done to save a life. Ensuring that life and living could stand fast while it stood on the threshold looking at death.
Going into detached mode, thinking through logically what needed to be done, sorting out the care that was needed and getting it. I was in the situation taking action. Yet detached reflecting on what was the best thing to do given the situation.
Looking back, the best decision I made was not to say what I thought was happening, shutting the door to anxiety or panic.
Great care was given quickly by the NHS. A life was saved.
Then the routine of hospitals, tests, endless appointments with medical professionals, recovery, learning about the impact and the upcoming forever changes to a life, learning about the medications, reading to learn more, and the uncertainty.
The rest of November and December felt like I lived life in a kind of suspended bubble with sporadic contact to the outside world. In that first month, if it wasn’t essential, it didn’t get done. It couldn’t. There wasn’t the time. Caring for someone in the acute phase of a medical crisis can be full time. Even when things were just starting to calm down a little bit, I dropped the ball on a number of tasks and things I had promised people. I simply didn’t have the head space to hold everything.
Yet life continued. Thanksgiving and Christmas were celebrated. Family visited for both. A busy time caring and guesting. Now life is returning to some kind of normality. A ‘new normality’ I often say. The life we knew and had has ended. We are constructing a new one. Day by day, experimenting with what works and what doesn’t, learning with each new experiment. Life even looks in part like it did before.
But looks can be deceiving.
We know our life has changed and we know the nuances of that change may not be readily visible to others. One thing remains the same, we work together in partnership and I’m so so so grateful I still have this living partnership.
© Copyright Barbara Babcock 2014