my bags are packed

Almost. This time tomorrow I will be languishing somewhere at Auckland International waiting to board the airship to Singapore and after ten hours in the air and a brief-ish stopover at Changhi, the amazingly carpeted airport of Singapore, I shall board an even bigger airship for another 13 hours to Frankfurt, where I will reclaim the hours that were stuck onto my day when I got here thanks to dateline crossing (check Jules Verne, 80 days around the world, for detail). I will be fed excessively and probably watch season 2 of The Pitt (I watched all of season 1 on the flights here.) and if all works according to plan, I will be wheelchaired to and from cabin entrances and arrival hall. If not, I'll hobble along on my big fat black moon boot and make everybody feel thankful for having two healthy legs.

Right now I am looking out through the window onto a bright clear and sunny Wellington morning, up onto the hill behind the houses across the streets. This has been my view for the past nine weeks for long stretches of the day. 

To some this could mean the empty tunnel of being ill, immobile, helpless. To me, it has been - among many other things and thoughts - a time to float, to rebuild bones and courage and confidence in my body's efforts. As always, a work in progress.  

I would not call it a challenge because I was treated like royalty with delicatessen, story telling and reading, impromptu shows, many hours of charades, long delightful walks down memory lanes, not to forget the excellent palanquin services to allow enjoyment of the rest of the house, the patio and the garden, trips to the seaside and outpatient appointments. This after all is an experience in restitution, ie healing, a return to healthy mobility is entirely possible. The thought alone makes me happy. I am not going to be chronically hopping with a moon boot, forever unable to bear weight on that foot and so on. For someone who has to confirm manageable survival from a chronic illness by blood tests every three months, this is an amazing prospect, one that made the weeks of waiting and sitting and resting pass without too much worry.

It's autumn here, the nights are cold, the mice are coming in from the garden and Louie the cat is patiently guarding the small crack between the freezer and the cupboard for his reward. He is ready, too.

The grandchild is leaving small love notes in various places, found one stuck under my teacup earlier today, another arrived in the shape of a paper airplane through the bathroom door as I brushed my teeth.  

The final discharge letter from the Wellington Hospital Orthopaedics Department, the one I will be handing over at the follow-up in Germany, starts with "Dear Sabine, it has been a pleasure to meet you and your daughter throughout your treatment here. We are happy to see you recovering as expected. . . "

 

 

  

 Just a thought:

Global warming is man-made, it is not a fatality, and it can also be curbed by human action. Its consequences can be mitigated to some extent through adaptation.
All of this requires political action. Nothing is inevitable.

stasis diminished

Slowly slowly I am moving out of weeks of stasis, taking unaided steps with the right leg in a tight CAM boot, 24/7 for the next six weeks at least, trying not to be fearful, trying to ban all thoughts of what could possibly go wrong now. The curse of living with a chronic disease makes it hard to trust my body and her healing powers, even when the xrays show how nicely my bones have fused.

 

Still attached to the crutches and the little walker and the knee scooter, week seven after the accident. It's exhausting. And the daily 100mg of aspirin DVT prophylaxis is waking up the ulcerative colitis. But honestly, that's the least of my worries.

I booked my flight home including wheelchair assistance, managed to speak to real people of both of the involved airlines, they all promised to deliver me relaxed and supported to the man waiting at arrival. I'll leave in 19 days. The grandchild cried when I confirmed it. 

Right now I want to wrap myself in cotton wool and hide, avoiding any risks that could throw all plans out of the window again.

What else happened? A week ago, we were woken up early in the black of night on a Monday morning at 3 am with heavy rain hammering the house. And by hammering I mean loud hammering, foundation shaking hammering. We checked the house, windows, roof, all safe and dry, peered outside, called our neighbours, a flood of torchlights, shouts and then the fire trucks, sirens, loudspeaker warnings, evacuations, cars piling up at the bottom of our quiet cul-de-sac, a neighbour carried on a rescue float on a river that normally is a quiet street where kids skate and do bicycle stunts. Much damage, unprecedented amounts of rain, even the NYT reported on it, several houses evacuated, workers everywhere, people arriving with sandwiches, soup and scones and big flasks of coffee all day, all week and they still do. I mind an evacuated old dog, read storybooks to bewildered children sitting around me, hand out snacks and marvel at Wellington's pragmatic neighbourhood response. Our house, over 100 years old, sits up high, there are 46 steep and old steps from the street to the front door (I have counted them several times by now as I was transported with my non weight bearing cast by the ambulance crews) and like most of our neighbours on this side of the street, the deluge did not affect us. The worst story so far from a couple who woke because the bed was filling up with water and when they ran to the baby's room the water was just about to wash over the cot completely. A second later, he said shivering, a second later. 

Unprecedented amount of rain. Flash floods, landslides.  You can see a cyclone, a hurricane on the satellite, you can prepare for it. But for these localised pockets of torrential downpour there are no models to provide specific warnings hours in advance. This is the shape of things to come. We had 70-110mm of rain in less than one hour, that is ten times the amount of a "normal" heavy downpour.  

What next, joked one neighbour yesterday, a plague of locust?