I remember the nurses standing around when i was in labor with my son and waiting for an unexpected c-section. Talking about their families and weekend. I remember thinking how many realities were going on simutaneously, evn in the same room.
I worked in two hospitals at the beginning of my career as a social worker. We had a saying :" social workers do it in the field" any way I digress. Being a social worker was very lonely. The nurses had eachother to lunch with and after their shifts they would go out for drinks. They had what we called then "black humor". It was the way they survived all the pain and suffering they witnessed every day.
I remember the inappropriateness of them joking among themselves in ear shot of the patients and their families. It made my blood curl.
It's such a good thing that you get Sophie in for treatment before pneumonia set in. One more thing you are becoming expert at. I am also so very glad to hear that the hospital is treating you as the educated and informed and experienced mother/caretaker/specialist of your daughter that you are. How kind of that doctor to say what he said to you.
I've been following along and am in awe of your ability to write so beautifully through these trials. I've spent the last few months in hospital/nursing home hell with my declining father and this alternate life has rendered me mute. The writing has stopped, even though there's so much to say. You write: "Things are blurry, I have lots of thoughts, my ass is kicked, and I have at once not a bit of nuance in my judgements of things (perhaps woefully without nuance, a wonderful turn of phrase, according to a wise and beloved friend) and a welcome and hard-earned ability to dissociate from the horrors of the hospital and, yes, the world." Yes, lots of thoughts, but how do you spin this gold in the throes of horror? I wish you and Sophie a hearty dose of peace, a hard-earned, gentle chapter. May you both find it. 💚
A glorious colour, purple. When I was a child, the nuns told us a combination of the colours yellow and purple signified an unhappy childhood. Not sure about this, but I still enjoy the association. Especially here now reading about the sadness and ugliness of the world against your endless loving care of Sophie.
Lucky you, too. soon to have 20/20 vision in both eyes. Oh to see again with the clarity of childhood.
This is a beautiful stream of consciousness piece of writing, and the way you circle back to the purple metaphor at the end, you are certainly not without nuance. May the nuance and the purple soften the edges, because the world is terrifyingly hard. Sending love to you all and happy birthday to your youngest, your glorious Taurus man.
I am shattered by the remark of the doctor who is amazed by your care of Sophie. Shattered that you could bring him/her to tears. It tells me so much, too much almost, about your devotion and exhaustion, and fierce determination (and maybe that of this one doctor as well). The years of this. And also what the doctor must see in patients whose care is less than. Less than what is needed and less than what is even humane.
I am repeating the Metta Prayer for you and S and the boys and the nurses and the doctor who might cry. Pat Sophie's kind hands and know you are loved, E...by virtue of you letting us come close through your words. xoxos
May you and Sophie be well, soon. Look at you with your 20/20 vision in one soon to be two, eyes! Oh, the wonderful things you’ll see (and tell us all about, hopefully).
I remember the nurses standing around when i was in labor with my son and waiting for an unexpected c-section. Talking about their families and weekend. I remember thinking how many realities were going on simutaneously, evn in the same room.
I'm one of those nurses, the nurse that makes jokes, hoping to lighten the mood, but also the nurse who will cry with you. I have lots of feelings:)
I'm glad that your surgery went well and that they're doing both eyes, one more thing ticked off the As We Age List.
I hope Sophie recovers quickly. There are so many more things I want to say but I can't. You taught me this mantra.
May all beings have happiness and the cause of happiness.
May they be free of suffering and the cause of suffering.
May they never be disassociated from the supreme happiness which is without suffering.
May they remain in the boundless equanimity, free from both attachment to close ones and rejection of others.
Sending hugs and love to you and Sophie.
I worked in two hospitals at the beginning of my career as a social worker. We had a saying :" social workers do it in the field" any way I digress. Being a social worker was very lonely. The nurses had eachother to lunch with and after their shifts they would go out for drinks. They had what we called then "black humor". It was the way they survived all the pain and suffering they witnessed every day.
I remember the inappropriateness of them joking among themselves in ear shot of the patients and their families. It made my blood curl.
Blithely is underused. Your writing is outlined in light.
It's such a good thing that you get Sophie in for treatment before pneumonia set in. One more thing you are becoming expert at. I am also so very glad to hear that the hospital is treating you as the educated and informed and experienced mother/caretaker/specialist of your daughter that you are. How kind of that doctor to say what he said to you.
I've been following along and am in awe of your ability to write so beautifully through these trials. I've spent the last few months in hospital/nursing home hell with my declining father and this alternate life has rendered me mute. The writing has stopped, even though there's so much to say. You write: "Things are blurry, I have lots of thoughts, my ass is kicked, and I have at once not a bit of nuance in my judgements of things (perhaps woefully without nuance, a wonderful turn of phrase, according to a wise and beloved friend) and a welcome and hard-earned ability to dissociate from the horrors of the hospital and, yes, the world." Yes, lots of thoughts, but how do you spin this gold in the throes of horror? I wish you and Sophie a hearty dose of peace, a hard-earned, gentle chapter. May you both find it. 💚
A glorious colour, purple. When I was a child, the nuns told us a combination of the colours yellow and purple signified an unhappy childhood. Not sure about this, but I still enjoy the association. Especially here now reading about the sadness and ugliness of the world against your endless loving care of Sophie.
Lucky you, too. soon to have 20/20 vision in both eyes. Oh to see again with the clarity of childhood.
Oh Elizabeth.
Don't cry or I will, too.
This is a beautiful stream of consciousness piece of writing, and the way you circle back to the purple metaphor at the end, you are certainly not without nuance. May the nuance and the purple soften the edges, because the world is terrifyingly hard. Sending love to you all and happy birthday to your youngest, your glorious Taurus man.
I am shattered by the remark of the doctor who is amazed by your care of Sophie. Shattered that you could bring him/her to tears. It tells me so much, too much almost, about your devotion and exhaustion, and fierce determination (and maybe that of this one doctor as well). The years of this. And also what the doctor must see in patients whose care is less than. Less than what is needed and less than what is even humane.
I am shattered.
Oh Sophie. Oh Elizabeth. Wallace Stevens was right. Sending love.
Your purple, your ongoing story, have me beaming blessings to you. 💜💜💜
I am repeating the Metta Prayer for you and S and the boys and the nurses and the doctor who might cry. Pat Sophie's kind hands and know you are loved, E...by virtue of you letting us come close through your words. xoxos
We'll all cry now. Or hack someone's head off. Or both.
I love what Pixie wrote. Hope you’re both home very soon. Much love.
Xoxo
Barbara
Awed. As always.
May you and Sophie be well, soon. Look at you with your 20/20 vision in one soon to be two, eyes! Oh, the wonderful things you’ll see (and tell us all about, hopefully).