one month in Toronto

We have been in Toronto for a month now. This seems absolutely insane to me. Time seems to simultaneously disappear in the chaos of crisis, but also seems to slow in the every day moments of simply being in this world. This is the well-known illusion of time.

James was in the hospital for the first couple of weeks in Toronto. Those weeks were defined by the infinite boredom of hospitals (and loneliness of the long nights apart from each other). The uncertainties of those weeks has remained, but the sense of urgency has transformed into an acceptance. The following weeks gave way to the process letting go of our grief, re-framing our thoughts and feelings, and determining a level of stability, in all sense of the word (and world), and despite the continuous unknown.

My blogging doesn't seem to change. I write the same words in different combinations. I repeat the same script (both in writing and out loud). The translation is the same: James and I are still waiting. Our lives are one hold. We are forced to move from one moment to the next (without taking a single second for granted). Yet, I am always aware of the surrounding world. It continues to move at an unfathomable pace.  How do I make sense of all this? The background of our lives is a constant a blur of packed streetcars, hurried conversations, and never-ending meetings and appointments. The streets are still crowded and polluted with noise long after James and I close our eyes. We are always slowing down and holding our breath. We want that illusion of time; the one that will last well beyond the statistics and realities of our situation. We need that illusion of time.

We meet with the transplant team tomorrow. It will be a long day. We are hoping for answers. We are hoping to hear something different. We are also preparing for otherwise. We may need to remain static (even in this never-ending motion). I suppose it might be another form of balance. We are good at balance. We balance each other.