NEEDLES & OLIVES 3

FINAL CHAPTER

1.

When your life is taken away from your hands, and put in another's control, your mind trips.

What is this? 

Who are they and why do they get to tell me what I can and cannot do right now? 

Why am I attached to cables?

Then tears.

Why me? 

The most egotistical of all the stages of grief. 

Denial. It can't be me. It can't be me again. My doctor is spectacular! SK! Certified COVID warrior who brought the damned from the brink. Brought himself from the brink. A physician who healed himself. The city's most respected pulmonologist. He is fixing me. So why am I here? 

Anger! I told so-and-so to not cough in my direction. I really didn't want to travel for work because of the current COVID sub-variant. Why do people show up at work with infections? Look at this now!

2.

More denial and acceptance.

Oh, it's just pneumonia. No biggie for my lung master physician. 

But lungs exist in different bodies, that are in different stages of deterioration, as we're born to die. Medics worked on me and worked fast. Standard. There was assurance that I'd be good to go in 5 days. Joy!

Five days came and my lungs were sort of chilling, like two angry pink toddlers, just sulking! Inflamed. Too risky. 

I didn't even fight about going home. I resigned myself to being on the patient welcoming committee again. 

This is an annual event now. 

The hospital is a hurry-up-and-wait environment. It's a rush to get you connected to the matrix, get you on their new digital system, inject you with meds to stabilise your body. The 101 questions, and the odd "Aseda? What kind of surname is that?" Like, "Ma'am not right now, hey." Then the authorizations because medical aid is tired of fraud, so they have to physically send someone to make sure that you are in fact dying before they let you enjoy an R8000/night bed with shoddy catering. 

All Is done. I'm wheeled into high care. And wait. 

I mean, WAIT.

3. 

First night!

My child is at home alone! Horror! 

Okay, Goog, keep it calm. He's 17, and there's the trusty companion, Lola the pitbull. Plus fantastic neighbours and friends who will make sure he eats. All of that happened, gratefully. 

There were many a takeaway meal from friends. Something a teen appreciates on any given day, but especially when he couldn't be bothered to cook, from sheer worry about his only parent being severely ill. 

This is surely causing core memories for his life. 

4.

Mind gremlins. 

Why are my sisters not at my bedside? Where's my mom? Dad? Oh, dad doesn't leave the house except for work, so whatever. But my core people, my pillars of support, I could use their physical presence right now. 

Then tears.

For perspective, one sister has an infant who is quite sick at the moment. 

The other sister has 2 toddlers and 3 tween girls who must go to school every day. How, oh how are they supposed to travel 60-odd km at the drop of a hat? Unreasonable of me. So I felt guilty for expecting it. 

Plus, they were genuinely devastated. We're sisters who love each other fiercely. 

Mom came. Standard! That's a mother hen!

5.

I am constantly learning that love being such a broad term means it will be displayed in different ways, by people who possess different genetic makeups. 

The truth is that being in the care of strangers while everyone you know is living on, has a way of brutally humbling your sense of auto-control. You are not as in charge as you think. You are in drab, standard-issue garments, devoid of fastidious beauty routines and unscheduled lounging in your home. 

I started telling loved ones and companions that I was in hospital. I was scared to tell some because I know how worrisome it is to hear. But I did, anyway. 

The various responses were fascinating. From the persons who know my core personality (read: mentally unwell) the death jokes started rolling in, much to my delight. 

I must mention at this point that I'm not afraid to die. I'm terrified of leaving my bright-eyed boy without a parent. 

Back to the death glow jokes and the going out in a spectacular way. I'm not prepared to die on a bed, gagging for air, although it seems like that's what's rolling out here. 

Remember my funeral pyre will be filled with popcorn, this is the plan. Dinner and a show. Okay, no dinner. 

Some responses were muted, generic and reassuring that I would come out of here. Standard, non-pretentious. Just "Hey, I'm sorry, etc." 

At this point, I'd like to admit that as much as I don't want people to fuss over me openly, I would appreciate it if everyone got so worried that they started tearing their garments and throwing ash on themselves, just like in the Bible. Those Israelites sure put on a show when they heard bad news. 

But alas, this is 2023. Clothes are expensive, there's no ash lying around and a mental ward is not far off from anyone who would have reacted that way. 

My favourite thing was a friend who came almost immediately. Brought food and left because had prior arrangements. My first glimpse of outside people. Made me tear up. 

Friends contacted my son to make sure they cook for him, buy him takeaways, as mentioned and encourage him. 

I got a Teddy bear. At first, that was creepy, but through the days, I've gone on to love that gesture and I won't forget it. Too bad Lola is going to destroy it immediately when I get home. 

Special mention to my colleague who brought me Purity Baby Food! By far the best gift ever. My favourite stuff. Deal with it. 

There are certain folk who are new to my life. I felt the worst for them because while I'm appreciative of their concern, they are not ready for the level of drama that wells from me involuntarily when I'm sick. 

I'm unfortunately shedding people, for emotional safety. 

6.

Work. 

Sigh.

Everyone who knows me knows that I'm married to my work. I love what we accomplish. The pressure is right up there with holding back castor oil side effects.

Resisting the urge to respond to any emails has been difficult. I have failed, but not spectacularly. Hire the right people. That is all I can say. 

Then there's the fear that I may have to be let go because I spend more time being sick than working at 100% capacity. Now I feel like I need to resign before I'm let go. The new team is great, I've set them up. They will be okay without me. 

How I will pay bills is neither here nor there. I want to see my son to 25 years old. Nothing is promised, but if I can do my part to survive, I'll give it a shot. 

When you struggle for breath physically, emotionally, and spiritually, but you're accustomed to waiting your turn to ask for help, you damage yourself and prolong your healing process. I am learning to ask for help.

It's not pride that stops me. It's fear of being a burden and a nuisance. We all have a level of this in us.

I will try to be kinder to others and to myself. 

I'm leaving today. I'm going home. I'm thankful to the medical stuff, and all that jazz. 

They need to fix the custard and jelly. It's not the same as the past two years that I've been here. 

- 

NEEDLES and OLIVES was written while I was at Olivedale Clinic. The needless refer to the constant injections and drawing of blood. Olives are meant to draw thoughts of peace, delicacy and similar adjectives. It's a true contrast of what I've experienced in my journey here.