April has been a busy month. Towards the end of March I was asked to offer my writing services to a book project recording the lives of some of the folk who live in our village - a very tiny selection but hopefully a somewhat representative one. In between a plethora of interviews, I have also embarked upon a new drug called Mycophenolate Mofetil (I had tried it before and it had been extremely unpleasant... this is what the doctors call ‘re-challenging a patient’... a bit like facing an old foe in a new duel). A gastroscope wound its way into the mix with a bunch of biopsies taken. That left me a little bruised and weary.
At Easter my feet found their way to our local church where I bumped into friends who were arranging the Easter flowers. I ended up helping with the main arrangement by the altar, and marvelling that ten years had passed since I was in hospital at Easter, 2009 - the three month long admission that marked me on deep, unfathomable levels. A decade ago I had a clear understanding of what was needed of me to live, or rather, to go on living. In some ways, the essentials haven't changed - two of which are named Perveen and Chotu, or Mum and Dad... but I am once again, worn to the bone. To the cells that deplete, and replete, and deplete, and on and on... until I cannot see anything but the forks and crossroads and ahead, all woods. But where the flowers are, there the light still is. Here, a bouquet of carnations, for you.
