16 February 2013

9.02.2012 - Fire and Snow

Reader, I confess that I confessed I would be more candid in my written accounts. I'm not sure how to really start this particular post, as it was meant for the 9th of February and it's of a very personal nature.

9th February has some significance to me as of last year. It was a bright, crisp winter morning and the snow was still clinging to the side of pavements and patches of grass, more ice than fluffy flakes of cold, white wonder. I drove to hospital with an elevated joy and arrived there to see the clinic near empty. I was seen by the consultant ON time (we're talking about the NHS here, so there was the first miracle of the day). My appointment lasted a mere few minutes; all I had to tell him was that I was no longer on medication. No longer on any form of allopathic medicine. I was going along on herbal remedies alone, something the medical world all tell you is useless once they've diagnosed you with an 'incurable' condition. As if their failed attempts to cure (not manage, which is all they can do, at best) means no one else can possibly succeed. (Please note, reader, I write only from my own experience, so my conclusions are of a personal nature, though they appear to be couched in a generalisation).

My consultant has supported my move into exploring natural remedies, seeing as immuno-suppressants had  me fighting for my life - but he does not hold any faith in it. That's fine by me because at least he can admit that, after what had happened to me, it was remarkable that I was doing so well. I had smiled madly at this, biting my lip to stop myself from adding 'All without drugs, doctor!'

I would never say that to my consultant, he' s too nice. I would to my old consultant,  he was heartless.
GIF courtesy of http://wheninlondontown.tumblr.com/
It is a small wonder and a quiet triumph that is without pomp or screams of delight. When I first went through being diagnosed a few years back, I remember the ride home from Roding Hospital and just being so utterly devastated. I cried in loud wails. The car pulled up our driveway and I didn't even want to move. It was midsummer and the end of life as I knew it. If anyone had told me then, that in less than five years, I would be well and healthy and off drugs, enjoying life with real poignancy and zest for that organic spark inside of us, I would have not even been able to conceive of that notion, process those thoughts, the sentiments behind them, anything. It would have all been consumed in a terrible void.

So when I returned back home last year from hospital, with Robert McKee's 'Story' in hand, the woudrous realisation came upon me. It was not instant or gripping, it was just an assured conviction, with a constant warmth, in the same way the midwinter sun shone that day on the drive outside the family home. What did dawn on me more suddenly was the reflection, the 'turnaround' of that moment - here I was standing in the drive on a snowy, crisp morning in midwinter, filled with an inexpressible sense of achievement, peace and something deeper than faith; an assurance that a river might have in its one sole mission to reach the sea, come what may. A few mere years ago, this same girl had stood in the driveway in hot midsummer with empty devastation. That day mum and dad had been with me but I had been as good as alone, alone, alone, forsaken by life. Now, I stood solitarily but completely consumed by life, amongst everything. By the gods, is this what they talked about when you glimpse bliss? I was there. Twas good, twas real good. And it was so, so calming.

That day was magically rounded off by seeing Kina Grannis play at The Union Chapel. And it snowed once the concert was over and my sister and I made our way back home. Another beautiful turnaround  - ice - the opposite of the over-fired, inflammatory nature that had manifested inside of me.

Sublime. I love that word. And I had experienced it.


Kina Grannis - Message from Your Heart

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