Today is two years since I got the biggest shock of my life.
Two years since being driven by a worried Danda at 2am to hospital with stomach pains.
Two years since having an unreasonable number of doctors look in places I would never have dreamed they needed to look!
Two years since I was stuck all over with needles which would live inside me for next six days, leaving me tiny scars that are still visible today.
Two years since a lovely kind doctor approached me with the terrifying news that he’d have to stick a tube down my nose and to my stomach to empty it.
Two years since being told I was next in the operating theatre and waking up hours later, literally stapled back together.
Two years since the every day functions of life were torn from me and I needed nurses to wash me, a tube to feed me and a catheter to wee.
Two years since being put on a geriatric ward and becoming a delirious TV addict with access to self medicating pain killer.
Two years since developing a fear of food and living off a spoonful of mash a day.
Two years since I became unable to stand for more than a few seconds without being exhausted.
Two years since telling Danda, “I don’t wanna go a walkies.”
And two years since I thought things were falling apart.
But they didn’t. Wonderful things happened. Friends and family were all mixed together and stuffed into a cubicle during visiting hours and it was brilliant. I would never have invited that combination of people to be together anywhere but I had no control over this and it turned out really really well.
Danda visited every day. Every single day. Every available visit. Twice a day. Him and my brother paid for vouchers so I could watch the TV or make phone calls, which I did. I made long rambling morphine-induced phone calls where I babbled and sniffled and sobbed and raged.
When I tried to understand the logic in what had happened to me and needed someone to blame or hate, everywhere there were people ready to support me and let me rage at them and at everything.
When I hobbled down the road for a cup of tea at the deli, fellow customers came to sit with me, bought me lunch, kept my spirits up when I felt low.
The doctors who repackaged my wide open scar every day were supportive and kept up constant chatter while I looked in horror at my insides on show!
And while it would be an exaggeration to say the process was a good one or that I’m glad it happened, if it had to happen, I had the best possible experience of it.
And now, right now, where I am in my life at this minute, I can’t remember ever feeling this great. Things are just lovely. I don’t have the anxiety of the teenage and early 20′s years. I don’t have the indecision of university years. I don’t have to always ask myself ‘what I’m going to do with My Life.’
And things are nice now. Very nice. I cook. I bake. I eat. I write. I read.
Two years ago, I thought I’d be angry forever over what happened to me. But I’m not. I’m just very happy and chilled out.