I took this photograph two Saturdays ago. It was a cold, blustery day and I'd been full of hope: The Husband was supposed to have been extubated. It was not to be. It was a bad day for him and for me. It was the beginning of another bad week which saw him being sedated again because of another infection. It made me confront the medical team about what the future really held. I was not only terrified for what the future holds but I was more frightened about what The Husband was going through. If there was no future.
Somehow, during that time, I took this photograph of one of our aloes. They only flower at this time of the year. It was at sunset. When The Husband would have usually been stomping around the garden, turning the irrigation system on and off, and generally just doing what he likes doing. He often calls me to look at the light. He'd have done that that evening. I took that photograph to show him.
I have subsequently shown him both photographs. He smiled brightly.
Although tomorrow he begins day 22 in ICU, he seems to be more than holding his own. He cannot speak. Instead of a tube, he now has a tracheostomy as well as the nasogastric tube. That said, there have been the odd phrases I've followed. My lip reading, especially of lips misshapen from three weeks of a strap keeping his mouth open and a tube down his throat, is worse than awful. I do know he wants to come home and I do know he's looking forward to home cooking. When he can eat. Again. When he can walk. Again.
Returning to my mining of the medical people. The radical surgery, I knew, removed a tumour. What I didn't know - and nor did The Husband - was what that really meant. He was intubated put into an induced coma before the lab results came back. I knew that what was happening to him was his worst nightmare, and I had to know whether I was doing the right thing in enabling. Facilitating. Allowing it. It would not have been what he wanted. I knew that.
Anyway, the three telephone conversations told me - and subsequently The Husband - that they'd taken all the cancer. That getting rid of the infections and most importantly, breathing on his own, he'll have a full recovery. It'll take time. He must just breathe. Just. Breathe.
This is a very truncated version of what really began more than a month ago. It seems like a life time ago. It seems like yesterday. My life has grown and shrunk in that time. It's grown because I've discovered a wealth of love and care - in the village, from my lifelong friends that are near and far flung, and from this bunch of virtual friends - some of whom are like more supportive than family.
I am still frightened of tomorrow. I'm still scared of my hope. I take each day as I can and am grateful for every little improvement. Especially when I see it in his eyes.
I cannot thank you all enough for the love and support. It's sustenance for the soul and I treasure it. And each one of you.
Until next time
Fiona
The Sandbag House
McGregor, South Africa
Photo: Selma
Post script
If this post might seem familiar, it's because I'm doing two things:
- re-vamping old recipes. As I do this, I am adding them in a file format that you can download and print. If you download recipes, buy me a coffee. Or better yet, a glass of wine....?
- and "re-capturing" nearly two years' worth of posts.
- From Wordpress, I use the Exxp Wordpress plugin. If this rocks your socks, click here or on on the image below to sign up.
- Join Hive using this link and then join us in the Silver Bloggers' community.
Original artwork:
- lastly, graphics are created using partly my own photographs, images available freely available on
and Canva.