My month of May passed in shock, sickness and the
slow-motion of watching the self from another place. After collapsing in the
forest when out with my dog – who incidentally probably saved my life by
licking my face until I recovered consciousness - I was diagnosed with heart
problems, taken into intensive care for an operation and eventually sent home
for the beginning of a long recuperation which will include weeks in a special
centre in Roscoff. I don't have the results of the latest tests yet, I don't have
the strength to do more than stroll a few hundred metres with a companion, I no
longer breathe easily and I can't face visitors. I don't work or drive, and
cling obstinately to this shrunken world. Alongside this torpor, there is a strong
element of unreality and separation, a sense of observing the struggles of
someone else. To be inactive, fearful and mentally unfit is so alien to who I have
always been. Now what, I wonder constantly. My personal landscape is destroyed.
Out of the many upheavals and changes that have ensued
from one sunny Saturday afternoon, the worst is knowing that I will never again
set off light-heartedly for a walk in the forest.
1 comment:
I've only just read this. I'm so sorry. But glad you're alive and being taken care of. Now what? Just do the next thing and the next thing and follow the long slow path to recovery. The torpor may well be your body's and mind's way of allowing you to do this. Don't give up hope, things won't always be so bad.
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