I was astounded by her condition/progress yesterday. She is conscious, alert even. She is weary, and drugged to the hilt. But, hey! Her legs work, her arms work, her brain works. Her sardonic attitude is intact. And we were Day 2. I am in touch with other people (nearly wrote patients, but would not want you to think Kirsten only patient, so neither are these others). I realise there are hurdles. Good days; shite days.
I was without courage, and had to ask to go along with Kirsten's father for support. And maybe that helped her, too. As I stroked her forehead, human brains being wierd, I flashed back to that Monday morning at Royal North Shore just over 32 years ago. A 4 hour old girl lay in the 'cot' across the room, I rang the buzzer, and asked the nurse what to do next. Aren't I supposed to feed her, or something. How do I do that?
I had always thought that Kirsten communicated a lot with one eyebrow, that cocks, and one corner of her mouth, that kinks. It wasn't until yesterday that I realised that these were simply outward manifestations. No no, I am not going all religious on you. But, she actually communicates via her eyes, the doorway to the soul. The eyes cocked and kinked yesterday.
She said at one stage that she had overheard a conversation between the nurses, and that her BP was low. They hadn't said it was low, they had simply vocalised the numbers. That machine is on Kirsten's right and that side is a bit fuzzy; and, anyway it is just slightly behind her. So we asked Nurse M who told us chapter and verse, I won't go into details, that is covered on 'Marsupial Mum". This is an opinion piece. I'm not a journalist, I'm a broadcaster.
I will nip over to MUH again in half an hour, then back to Double Bay to play with AJ whilst Darren nips over. I want to read to Kirsten from 'Pastures of the Blue Crane' by Hesba Brinsmead, but it is on her shelf at DB. So, tomorrow for that one. Kirsten's nom-de-plume is 'blue crane' which you can see on her Flikr account of photos via the images of AJ at the bottom of Marsupial Mum. The copy is very tatty and worn. I bet there is a date inside the cover; it was important to her teenage-self. For mine, however, let me close with the first verse of Yeats' 'A Prayer for my Daughter'. I have always treasured verse three: it speaks directly to the title of this post. However, come on this Yeatsian journey with me beginning at the very beginning:
|Once more the storm is howling, and half hid
Under this cradle-hood and coverlid
My child sleeps on. There is no obstacle
But Gregory's wood and one bare hill
Whereby the haystack - and roof-levelling wind,
Bred on the Atlantic, can be stayed;
And for an hour I have walked and prayed
Because of the great gloom that is in my mind.