I wrote the following while awaiting James' return from a bronchoscopy. James had been fighting a virus for a couple of weeks, and saw a ten percent decline in lung function. We were relieved to learn that there was no evidence of small airway disease, but rather, James had inflammation that would (and has) heal, and James' lung function would (and has) return to his baseline.
Once again, I sit in the familiarities of a waiting room. James disappears down the hall for a routine bronchoscopy, and I remain tense with the anticipation of his return to the recovery room. I know that the benefits of bronchoscopies far outweigh the potential risks, but concern still rests on my chest as an ever-present caution.
I wish I were able to distract from the weight of uncertainties. My body remembers those paralyzing fears on a certain level. I recognize the absence of threat, but I continue to experience a body-based reaction. There is a divide between the rational and the emotional. The trauma of James' second transplant is still very alive inside of me.
All hospitals are the same. The air is stale with loneliness, or rather, a certain isolation. I suppose it could be the sterility of it all. I am familiar with the strong smell of antiseptics and ammonia. The constant flickering of fluorescent lights hum along with a chorus of machines beeping in succession. There are always bodies in movement, but I feel an eerie stillness. This is a world on hold.
The haunting shadow of memories comes in all forms. I reassure myself of distance from the past, and attempt to silence my mind. I breathe into the present moment. My thoughts do not wander far from experience, but I have no desire to re-live a single moment of past. I need to feel movement in a forward direction.
Writing has become a lot more difficult. I do not recall labouring over my words by James' bedside. I suppose it has become more difficult to separate from the heaviness of my emotions. My grief has settled in the marrow of my bones. I am out of practice. I must re-learn language as an escape. My love of words remains intact.
In April, I wrote a long post about the changing of seasons. It disappeared into the virtual world, and it has taken a while to get over that disappointment. I wrote it without an internet connection, and it failed to save on the iPad app.
We are in love with Victoria in the Spring. We are surrounded by the beauty of living energy, blossoms and blooms of re-birth, and a strong sense of renewal. We tend to our garden with love and nurturance. We have strawberries and blackberries, and apple and plum trees. We are also nursing several herbs and vegetable seedlings. Our tomatoes, beets, carrots, peas, kale, potatoes, and onions are all sprouting out from the soil. The daily growth is a wonder to witness. We love to be able to cook with contributions from the courtyard garden.
We take advantage of any and all opportunities to spend time in nature. We walk the beaches, hike the mountains, bicycle along the seaside, and relish in every moment of feeling alive. James will be one year post-transplant in a couple of days. We have been doing a lot of reflecting. I will have more thoughts to share in the coming days.
