Shedding

6 years ago this week, I stood in the nursing unit of Brook Army Medical Hospital, talking to the Colonel who had performed my mom's latest surgery.   Some days, I don't know how I managed the updates,.to be so thorough and yet blasé.

'Peggy was heavily sedated this weekend whilst her body tries to fight of the most recent round of infections. There are a few pin sites from the erector set they took off of her left leg that are under intense scrutiny. Her upper right femur is open (wrapped, obviously, except when they are bathing her with an intense 5% solution), which is a weird thing to see; "Hey Mama, remember that time you could see my shin? Well guess what?! I got to see inside your thigh! BAZENGA!" And other fun conversations yet to be had on Burn 

She went back in for more surgery today where the team removed tissue down to muscle from over her hip and right thigh down to her stump because of fungus. She also has another infection in her blood. She is showing signs of pulmonary aedema and she is fully ventilated and they are adding an additional apparatus to the mix. The recurring bacterial infection is proving particularly stubborn and is becoming more and more of a quick change artist. Thr quote of the day comes from her lead surgeon "It is fair to say your mother is the sickest person in the DoD medical system." To which I replied "That's my mama: Go big or go home."

I will try to post as the days progress and I have a chance to speak with the full team. My dad is almost to OH and will be heading back to Texas most likely tomorrow.  

As always, thank you for your kind thoughts, prayers and words. I am going to go get some ice cream and play with the BD.'

We made the decision to shut down her life support and take her off of the ventilator 3 days later.  I remember dressing room that morning, listening to Rickie Lee Jones' 'Horses' on repeat.  Carefully applying lipstick because it was San Antonio.  Choosing not to wear mascara because I knew I would cry.  I remember my body was turning pendulous with the pregnancy of my son, knowing he would survive the birth.  I remember the grain fo the breakfast table and the waffles shaped like Texas, the British accented elevator guide announcing the floors, a daily reminder that this was not my reality but a layover. 

I remember the exact moment that she left the room, the relief, joy and devestation I felt 

Three years after that, I was unravelling Literally coming unhinged. I could feel the separations occuring.. It waited for no one and I would stand in quiet terror, watching the fragmentation. Postnatal depression and CPTSD had come for me hard. 

I still don't know how I did it, put the brakes on and shifted myself back from the edge of an abyss so thick and deep, when it was so close.  I don't know how I put together a strategy, sorted out medication, organised so much therapy I couldn't even stand to hear my own voice except I couldn't stop talking.  

I knew I was coming out the other side when there a week where I couldn't stop crying. An entire week, sitting through play workshops, talking to builders, driving the kids to school. That's how I knew I was on my way back.  It's how I know I am on my way back, different, changed and yet always myself. Always myself and teeming with gratitude and love to everyone and everything that stood on hand to support and carry me. The friends who cleaned my room, who held my hand, who took me for walks, who heard me when I asked for help even though it was barely a whisper. 

And now, I am not on the other side because grief doesn't end, it just gets different.  But I feel like I am steadily moving through 'surviving' to 'thriving' and that gives me such hope.  What ever comes next, I am ready to receive, available for miracles of all shapes and sizes.