Gosh,
what a whirlwind the last two weeks have been. In the month and a half since I
have written, I had filled my days similarly with weeding and fly swatting and
paddle boarding and kayaking and hiking and trying to nap in 38 degree heat.
There were a few major changes to note: we did a fair bit more beer drinking in
March! Our staff has nearly doubled, with only a small handful of new comers
and a whole whack of returning wwoofers here now for paid work. I remained the
only volunteer wwoofer (having lost Backy to a rare type of grass allergy),
which was tougher than even my first month here (something about having had the
second helping hand and then losing it), but I remained appreciative and I
continued my efforts to contribute to the staff as a whole in a positive way.
And
then things took a sudden turn. It was as if my time here in Australia was
simply too good to me, that my final
2 weeks here in the country had to balance that out. I am a true believer in
balance and harmony and symmetry, so for this, I can understand the workings of
the universe. Of course, I am stating this now…
1 week ago when I was lying in the hospital bed for the 5th day
in a row, with absolutely nothing to do and no one by my side, with medical
bills climbing into the tens of thousands, with worried opposite time zone
parents and best friends… I wasn’t exactly as clear-minded and understanding
and forgiving.
I was
rushed into the hospital at 3:30 in the morning on April 2nd, in the
most pain I have ever felt in my entire life. My eyes had been irritating me
the entire day and as the pain had been escalating, I woke up with a start in
searing, mind-numbing pain raiding through my entire head and face. The next
handful of hours are a blur to me (literally, mentally). In fact, the
whole first 2 days in the hospital are hard to remember; a haze of injected hormones
and constant morphine and complete darkness.
The
doctors threw fancy names of dangerous bacteria around my hospital room, and my
team of seven spoke strategies in foreign medical tongue. They worried (out
loud) about cataracts, about ulcers, about surgery, about permanent damage. After
sending my contact lenses off to Perth to be tested, it was determined that a
nasty bug had grown in my case (which sits in my 45+ degree heat mid-day,
everyday), and then lodged itself deep into both of my corneas when I wore my
lenses for a few hours the previous night. Bilateral corneal abrasions with
possible pseudomonas infection of both eyes. This last detail was the scariest,
and the cause for lots of discussion about flying me out to Perth where the
specialists were working on my case via all sorts of telecommunication
mediums. Though in the end that was not necessary, the threat of it proved
to be incredibly beneficial to the beginning of my true recovery, as the start
of every recovery should always stem from the same place: gratitude. I did not
have to fly to Perth. My condition must have been improving well enough to
determine that. I was on the mend. I was going to be okay. My vision would
eventually return. Thank goodness.
And
then it was easy to see all of the things there were to be grateful for. In the
very end, I am simply grateful for the passing of those days, for the little
things in each of them that still kept me optimistic and smiling – and there
were in fact things every day to be
grateful for and to still smile about: namely, the nurses. Every single one of
them who made me smile or laugh, the male ones assuring me ‘you’re really not
missing much, I’m not that good looking anyway!’, the anecdotes about their
children who also still travel with a teddy bear (though none of them were
nearly 25...), or how more than one of them mentioned to me that as the person
who might be in the most distress in this ward (during my first few days at
least), I had used my call button the least, and how admirable that is (though
I think they might tell this to everyone). How painful it was just to lay there
and watch each and every nurse's face as they administered my eye drops hourly
for 72 hours (never mind the pain of those hot searing bullets hitting my raw
swollen eyeballs, but how much it hurt THEM to imagine how much they were
hurting me), their constant apologies though they are only doing their jobs!
They truly made my stay in the ward as comfortable as possible.
And
then there was my EcoBeach family and the efforts they made to show how much
they care: the most beautiful bouquet of roses and lilies delivered to my
hospital room, the portable wifi device my manager brought so that I could
contact my family for free, the delivery of my iPod so that at least I could tune
out in the playlists from that beautiful boy back in NSW which comforted me for
the hours and hours of it being impossible to do absolutely anything else but
lie and listen. I am so grateful for these people.
It was
tough being away from my family during a long holiday weekend, as it always is.
It was tough knowing exactly where they would be and who they would be visiting
and what they would be eating and the company of extended family and friends
that would surround them, getting caught up on everything to smile about. It
was tough not waking up to cute little Easter baskets full of treats that my
mother, bless her, has been putting together since before I was born. It was
tough missing out on the drive to London, which always guarantees a road trip sing-along with my daddy. It was
tough not being able to take advantage of the long weekend where the nightlife
streets would be full of out of towners returning for their family obligations,
faces only seen a handful of times throughout the year, getting silly with my
very favourites. Or using the extra time off to travel out of town to see my
best friend and her beautiful family to celebrate the conclusion of lent with
an inappropriate amount of Bulk Barn goodies.
Those
things were tough, all on their own. Being locked up in the hospital
thousands of miles away with no end or immediate relief in sight (no pun intended)
only added to my creeping homesickness.
The
hardest part about it all though, was not being able to write when I was
bursting with words of frustration and anxiety and uncertainty, as well as
gratitude and good fortune that I so badly wanted to express. My eyes couldn’t
focus on a screen or on a piece of paper 2 inches in front of me. My words
circled, trapped, around my mind for 5 days. Even during those days I already
knew that all of this was such an enlightening experience, and all I wanted to
do was capture it: the loss of a sense so vital, how life changes so
drastically if even just for a few days; how I will never experience days like
these ever again (I pray); how to see the silver linings even when you
physically can’t see anything at all around you. So instead, I resorted to the voice-recording
feature on my phone, and I took advantage of the empty, semi-private hospital
room and I talked myself through brief descriptions of my experience,
“[…] Four different kinds of
drops, administered every single hour for the past 72+ hours. Can you calculate
how little sleep that is? And when you're so exhausted and so drained from the
constant throbbing pain that you're not hungry so you're not eating and you’re
stiff from not moving… But somehow you are still in good spirits. The pain has gotten
better in the past 5 days, or perhaps they have just finally perfected my
cocktail of pills. Either way I am so grateful. But nothing compares to the
fear I feel at the pit of my stomach still every time I put my glasses on and
fail to see clearly. It is such a scary feeling. After almost two decades of
wearing glasses and being so familiar with the blur of not having them on, and
then for that blur to NOT disappear with the common solution? It's terrifying
in a way that you would have to experience to understand. I know it will come
back to me though. I have to know that. I have to truly believe it and have
faith that the universe still has many, many decades ahead for me to SEE this
great big beautiful world. I have to stay positive. I have to stay patient.
Isn't this what the whole 3 months here has essentially been teaching me?
Patience…”
It
helped, to form the sentences, but nothing was changing the fact that my world,
in many senses of the word, was blurry. And if I can admit to the darkest hour
of my stay there, it was the fleeting (but vicious) realization that the only
thing I’ve ever really wanted to do with my life, for the rest of my life, is
to see this big, beautiful world. And for the first time in my life, in a way
so real and so threatening that I have never known before, the possibility of
that was at risk.
Again,
no pun intended – it was truly eye opening. Not that I haven’t always lived my
life in complete and utter dedication to the allure and magic that I know this
world has to offer, but if there ever were any doubts in the ways that I have
chosen to wander through this gorgeous life, in my disregard for the ordinary,
for the nine-to-five, for the stability and predictability of ever having a
‘home life,’ then these small handful of unnerving days cured me of them. I
knew, even then and there: this is where I’m meant to be. Regardless of the
added stress and fear of dealing with insurance and surviving this alone, I am
exactly where I am supposed to be, and this is happening at the exact moment
that will benefit me the most.
Suddenly,
I am in love with my life here in Western Australia, grateful for all that it
has given me and for the people it has brought into my life, but
simultaneously, I am ecstatic that my new life in Thailand is literally right
around the corner, just 10 days away at the time (less than 5 now!), knowing
this was all part of the universe’s way of nudging me forward, onward into a
new setting in a new life to build a brand new story with a renewed sense of
gratitude, with a braver, stronger demeanor, with fresh eyes.
No comments:
Post a Comment