Today I read a couple
of pieces around the transplant story. One about the night of an anxiety
attack and one about our emergency bag. It feels like
no time has elapsed when I revisit memories from that era. Like there is no
linear quality to time after all – not in the sense of distance, of being able
to walk further and further away from memories and the feelings they invoke.
Time is a bunch of lily pads on gently moving water, like early spring. I land
on one leaf and am once again in the
dark, alone with my fear, separated from Shan by the gulf of her pain and my
anxiety. The memories are still in my body and I have felt that subtle
acceleration of my breathing over and over as I reread my journal and let my
mind drift from one lily pad to another. Was that scene from Vancouver or here?
Before the transplant or after? Chemo in Victoria or Vancouver? Doctor Toze?
Connor? Protcor? Wass? Sing? Rahti? Power? Sheppard? Where am I now? And what
should I be doing? Saying? Feeling? Avoiding? Disguising? Misdirecting?
Translating? Downplaying? Organizing? Clarifying? Where is Shan and what does
she need from me now? Company? Food? Reassurance? Transportation? Medicine?
Reminding? Monitoring? Distracting? Soothing?
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