Back to the land of the living

Almost against myself, I'm travelling back to the land of the living. This body is an amazing thing! It seems to have a mind of its own, set on healing itself. And as soon as the first steps are made, everything starts to move uphill. The blues dissolve like thunder clouds and the skies are blue once again. I can see the horizon!

Alone

I stand alone. I have the feeling that if I keep telling people that I don't feel well, they will be fed up with me and turn away. And I see it will be a long, long struggle. Everybody else seems to handle physical infirmity well. Gung ho attitude! And I see only trouble ahead. It has been a huge disappointment to me that I should be so feeble-minded. And too weak to pretend. 

Something special

I was taken down to the operating block, comfortably dozy. They had wrapped me in warmed green sheets and I was feeling quite content and at peace.

An older lady, about 65, appeared by my bedside. She was wearing surgical greens and had some kind of cap, a bit like a bath cap, that covered her hair. She looked faintly Nordic in her appearance: bright blue eyes, tanned, as if from spending most of her time outdoors, lots of wrinkles, and the kindest, most comforting smile. 

She took my hand in both of hers and held them. I thought: how very very kind of her, to take a moment to reassure the person in such manner. She said: "Hello, I am your anesthesist."

After that, I don't remember a thing, only that my last though had been that it is a bit unusual, she's quite old but I'm happy that it will be her taking care of me.

Next day we were swapping stories of our experiences with my room-mate and I asked her, what about the wonderful anesthesist that we had? She said no, hers had been a young man. 

I was still curious, so I proceeded to ask several nurses, also older, if they knew the anesthesists and in particular, if they knew an older lady doctor like that.

And what do you think? 

All of them said that there was no such person. And, shaking their heads, they said that I had probably dreamt it all.

But I know that I didn't dream, and that my anesthesist had, in fact, been an angel. 

A friend came to visit and when I told ger the story, she asked me if I remembered in which language the woman had spoken. English? Letzeburgesh? French? Estonian? 

No, I was certain: none of the above. My friend said that for her, that was the biggest proof that something not out if this world had happened ... that there was no actual language that I could spot.

Bardo

This is the only way to describe it. I have died but not quite. The life that I used to know, my little dreams and joys, all gone. Rendered null and void by this thing that happened, this physical misery. It has shadowed everything and I half hope to wake up and discover that it was all a dream. A bad one.