It’s the start of the summer holidays here in Holland and I was just reading in my paper how everyone is getting ready to go to various sunny places in Europe and onwards. The sun trail has begun, cars are being loaded, trolleys snapped shut, sun lotion located.
And where am I in all this?
My summer is so different from this scenario while all I long for is to follow the sun trail and see the Mediterranean shimmer.
My summer is so different.
It is covered in illness, pain, filled with mortality questions. I rage inwardly at my lot. Even if I could escape it all, if I could dangle my feet in the blue, blue sea and have the sun kiss the top of my head, I wouldn’t be following that trail for I wouldn’t have the money. All the money is tied up in the process of illness and its outcome.
“Life is no stroll through a field,” Boris Pasternak’s alter ego Yuri Zhivago writes in his poem Hamlet.
No need to tell me that. I know. Life is harsh, raw, unfair with just here and there a rainbow streak of mercy to it. All may be sacred but all is not necessarily kind or good. All the do-good-and-good-will-be-done-to-you philosophy is just a bunch of fake crap. Not that you should slacken or give up. Just don’t expect life to turn out the way you painted it. God’s world is not “your wish is my command.”
Something is frozen inside of me, waiting for the sword of Damocles coming down any day now. I sit at my computer and wait, I lie in my bed and wait, I eat and wait. Waiting, immovable waiting.
But still I go. The thing that keeps me going is called desire. Buddha knew all about it.
It is the longing for the dream to materialise. In this case it is the return to health and the promise of a chance for life. And in that same longing lies encapsulated the shimmering blue Mediterranean, a new book written, a grandchild playing.
I need to lay down my burden somewhere so I do it here. Share it with you who cannot see me but can perhaps sense me. I am a woman in pain. I am not strong but still I go.
And I go because…
I do not have another option. Hope is life and life is hope. I am part of all that connects me to hope. These strings keep me upright, prevent my downfall.
She will live, she must live!
My summer car holds just a modest bag with clean pyjamas, a fruit salad, a rose from the garden, some fresh mint leaves for my son-in-law. My car is my mobile home that loyally covers the 100-kilometre distance between me and my hope in the hospital.
I can go without so much luxury but I cannot go without my child!
Wishing you all a lovely holiday!
Hannah
Hannah:
I spent one summer like that. It was more than 20 years ago and I was engaged to a local policeman. Unfortunately he’d had several heart attacks and was finally placed on a transplant list. I went part time at work so I could drive him back and forth to the hospital in Philadelphia. Whenever he was admitted, I stayed near the hospital in a small, inexpensive hotel; the room had no air conditioning and I had to share a bath. This part of my story doesn’t have a happy ending. I pray that yours does and you will have many happy summers. However, I was married to a wonderful man two weeks ago. Life does come around; it just takes time.
Blessings to you and yours,
Mitzi
Wow, Hannah, Beautifully written.
This is your true story? I’m sorry for your lot.
You seem to have such a good outlook when I read your TWEETS
Bravo to you for your Courage!
Karen
Oh, Hann. I feel your pain.
Hugs.
You are right that seasons come and go, and summer is but one brief season. I wish for you and your family a happy outcome.
xoxo
eden
Blessings and thoughts to you and your daughter, Hannah. I read once: “The decision to have a child is the decision to have your heart walking outside your body forever.” It’s so much more true than those who haven’t any kids realize.
Hennoh.x
Thanks everyone for reading and commenting. It helps to share my burden. xxx
I wipe away my tears, but I rejoice that you are so strong. You say you are not strong, but I do not know anyone else who is as strong as you are. I am so pleased that your gifted pen is able to express yourself the way you do, unburdening your pain and your agony. I wonder if you realise just how much good it is doing you just to do this, even if none of your friends answers your plea. I wonder if you realise just how cathartic your writings are. Keep doing it, Hannah. It may not heal you entirely but it will keep madness away. You have read my book, Count to Ten. You know that what I went through was almost identical to what you are enduring now. You also know that in the end goodness and justice prevailed. Andrew recovered. I recovered. Your beautiful Joy will recover and so will you. Keep being strong, my darling friend, and know that I am beside you. xxx
God bless You and those who you love and all your hopes. my very dear Hannah
Oh Hannah. Not just your daughter but your mother’s dilemma too. My mother is the same age and apart from her leg in a brace and plaster (due to a stupid accident-not her fault) she is better than she has been for ages. Bizarre. She is normally active, hyperactive even. Gardening, yoga, swimming…Now she cannot stand or walk for 3 months but there is every chance she will make a full recovery, despite her osteoporosis. She is worried about her muscles going to jelly and having the confidence to walk again. But she has somehow taken on the mindset to enjoy being looked after. Her husband for more 60 years is suddenly having to learn and do the simplest tasks! Her fault, she admits. She did everything for the man of the house. Yep, my dad, is of that generation. Not all like that I know. But with your mum’s dementia, she cannot be there for you whilst you wait and wait for your daughter to have good news. You are truly stuck between a rock and a hard place! Can we, your friends, offer any help? We are sharing your pain (remotely). Just know that we are here for you, Hannah. And if ever you find that moment when you need ( for your health’s sake) to come and smile at the med, I can see it from my window, you are welcome here anytime, even for 1 night. Fly Amsterdam to Nice? Anyway, courage, mon amie.
Helen xxx
This too shall pass. Prayers.
Hannah
So beautifully written. May Jehovah grant you the strength to continue, the help to sustain, the love to comfort and the mercy to bring about a happy outcome. May the future bring you all good things.
I had summers like that as well…when my sister was still alive and my dad. They took turns (when I was lucky) of being in and out of the hospital. My sister was a 1 and a 1/2 trip. So alot of times it was praying and waiting for a call. My dad had Emphazima…so he would be well for awhile and then back in. Mom had her moments too. She fell a couple of times. There was a time when both mom and dad were in different hospitals…thank goodness mom was only in for a day or two. Yes I remember it well. Time waits for no one…and we see the seasons come and go. I am glad your family is so supportive. You do have us here:) you can alway bend our ears…I am always around if you need to talk.
Oh, Hannah. This is beautifully written and painfully honest. Sometimes, well, it is all just so much to bear. And I am sorry for the hard times you are experiencing, truly. You say, “hope is life and life is hope.” And you couldn’t be more accurate. Without it, there really is nothing. You are an inspiration that even in the midst of an anything but sunny time, you still keep carrying on.
I will fling all my happy thoughts, all my good karma, and all my well wishes into the world for you, Hannah.
~Lisa
Thank you for your passionate, raw piece, Hannah. Part of all that is hope, yes. And I understand too, that life just isn’t fair, isn’t always going to be OK, that awful things happen to people when it’s not their fault. Sometimes it really is important to just honestly admit that, as you have, to be allowed to feel that without, even though it’s often just not allowed, and only “positive” responses are allowed. You’re feeling and expressing the range, the contradictions, within the human emotions. I cried all through it. Huge love to you, Hannah.
I have spent many years like this. I feel for you. It is a difficult path. When I do feel good, I enjoy those days. Wishing you blessings of peace and health and happiness.
My darling Hannah, I feel for you. I really do. When this black time is behind you, you must come and stay here with me. The sun might not shine (it is England after all), but it is beautiful and I would love your company xxx
When we run , or even walk, through rough ground, the only way to do it is to look ahead. Perform the daily functions, the stuff you must do, while your eyes focus somewhere ahead. Focus on your feet and you will stumble.
Like all this sort of verbiage, easier to say than do, perhaps.
You already have a dream of sea and sun, of grandchildren and easy laughter, so unknowing you are in this mode to some extent. This is not blind faith, ripe for a fall. It is pulling from the reservoir of happiness that is there, over the hill.
Tears for you. Sometimes life is truly rotten.
Touching and beautifully written Hannah. You and your family are in my thoughts every day. I truly hope that once all of this is over, once recovery is complete, you will all be able to look back on the events of 2012 and smile. For you fought, your won, and you are all stronger and closer as a result.
I am always around if you need me!
Hannah, this is beautifully written and I’m thinking of you at such a difficult time.
Dear Hannah, you and Joy are always in my prayers. I know the loving care and mercy of God surround you. Cling onto Him, dear. He’ll always be there to help and to heal.
A beautiful piece of writing, Hannah. Chin up! x