Stormy days

The storm raged for hours, rain lashing against the windows, wind fierce and loud, us safe inside, tucked up in bed.  In the morning the landscape had changed. The fields were flooded, the rivers unstoppable; pouring muddy water out to sea, there were trees down and the bins had blown down the road. Further up the glen a new landslide closed a section of the road making it impassable and cutting off a community.  How things can change in an instant; scary, unsettling.  And yet this wasn’t our only storm this week; the other metaphorically ripped through our lives and left us bewildered in the aftermath, anxious, exhausted and sorrowful.

Looking out from bed I watch a few sweet Long Tailed Tits in the little Birch, raindrops clinging to the branches like jewels. But this is not our room, not our tree.  This is the view from a hospital bed where we spent three nights with our littlest.  The doctor says we caught it early and I still can’t believe how ignorant I am.  Type One Diabetes.  Out of nowhere. How did she get it?  Why did she get it?  How can we make her better?  Questions going round and round and the information not quite seeping in.  I’m in shock, I can’t sleep or think. 

The doctors recommend jelly tots, coke and biscuits, they talk about reading the back of packets to work out insulin doses and having some ham for a snack.  I stare blankly at them, not mentioning she’s never had jelly tots or coke, we make our own food and biscuits and she’s vegetarian.  The doctor said I’d have been the first person in history if I’d been able to prevent her getting it, there is no reason, no cause, no answer.  I wonder would I have sheltered her, kept her at home away from everyone and everything to avoid it? My precious girl.

The day before hospital

When I have a couple of hours sleep, I tell the dietician we make most of our food from scratch and tend not to offer sweets or processed food, she recommends strawberries and blueberries and I wince at the thought of buying summer fruit in the dead of winter.  She explains how to work out ratios and count the carbs, packaged food, regimented diet can help, I recoil at this alien way of eating, utterly against my principles or what I consider the joy of food. I cry, it’s so unfair.  I weep for her little life changed forever; I grieve for the way it was.  I sob, wiping the tears away before she notices. 

Tryin gto nourish myself post hospital

The needles come in plastic cases, packets and packets of single use plastic now in our lives after years of cutting them out.  Synthetically produced drugs going straight into her tiny little thighs four times a day, an essential with no alternative.  I am still in shock, I can’t believe this is the new way for us.  After 3 days of hospital we get home, I’m wobbly with nerves, like the first night with a new baby.  Can we keep her safe?  I set alarms through the night and she cries with us.

I need air, I need nature. I leave late morning after the storm to see the damage for myself. I’m surprised by how quickly it’s calmed. The sheep are squeezed to the dry corners of the fields and there’s a pair of Yellow Wagtail playing in the stream that was the road. The mountain is hidden, completely covered in a thick cloud, it’s weird how disconcerting that can be, disorientating. The sun is out and there’s gorse in flower; hope, hope, hope.  They say the storm hasn’t finished and there’s more to come and I wonder how much more the land can take.

Amidst the chaos I wasn’t sure if I should cancel a girls night I had planned, I didn’t want to let anyone down.  My mum gave me one of those looks only a mum can give and I knew I wasn’t thinking straight.  How could I even contemplate hosting, never mind leaving my little girl when we have so much to learn.  A communal text to all these women gave me exactly what I needed in their replies; an outpouring of love, comfort in their words, their kindness and concern, a feeling I had an extra safety net because I know I won’t always be able to stay up on these ropes.  Just like the love from my family they’ll help us navigate this new way, an unseen strength and courage.  I wonder how things will be next week, will the bedrock be settled, reinforced? 

My sentimental nature meant I had prepared a speech for the night and when I read back on it I felt comfort in my own words, though they seemed as if they were written by someone else long ago, in a different life.  I want to share it with all of you dear readers, my friends, especially if you need to hear it, like I did.

The Original best friends, me and mummy

Firstly, I feel so privileged and lucky to know so many wonderful and inspiring people.  Some of you I know very well and some of you I’d like to know better.  You are here because you are my support network, I trust you, I could call on any one of you for guidance or help and that is a truly magical thing worth celebrating.  Many of you have already caught me when I’ve been falling; whether that be meeting for a quiet pint, a weekly swim or even by sharing a beautiful little snapshot of your life as I flick through my phone, thank you. 

The second thing I want to say and apologies if it gets emotional; I think it’s important to address the gravity of the living through the past five years.  In those years many of us experienced grief, trauma and loss, maybe a shift to a new way of life.  We haven’t forgotten, we see you and I feel it’s so vital to hold space for those feelings, recognising the rawness of pain, and letting you know that we are all here for each other, always, and that you are never, ever alone. 

I picked a poem to match the evening.

Friend

by Gwendolyne Brooks

Walking with you 
shuts off shivering.
Here we are.
Here we are.

I am with you to share and to bear and to care.

This is warm.
I want you happy, I want you warm.

Your Friend for our forever is what I am.
Your Friend in thorough thankfulness.

It is the evening of our love.
Evening is hale and whole. 
Evening shall not go out. 
Evening is comforting flame.
Evening is comforting flame.