She gasped for breath as the waves of pain flowed over her with an unrelenting rhythm. Her lungs screamed as she tried to suck air in through her mouth, her nose was not up to the task. She saw the concerned looks in the faces of her nearest and dearest, indeed she had to shoo a couple of them out so they could not witness the distress she was in. She gulped down blackcurrant squash as often as she was able, her once favourite drink tasting like gall in her mouth. Still she drank it because she knew she had to get hydrated, and fast. She kept her eyes on the clock, and swallowed a couple of painkillers every four hours, desperate for something, anything to relieve the excruciating pain. She was no stranger to pain, had had more than her fair share of it in life, but this time it seemed more brutal, more invasive. Her chest and her back hurt, the side of her neck too. Her throat was sore, still she kept drinking, in between gasping for air. She longed for sleep, and dreaded it at the same time, she had a niggling suspicion that she might just forget to fight for breath whilst asleep, and then what? She did not want to go to hospital, one look at her and a bed would be provided. She preferred to ride the pain in the midst of those she loved and who loved her.
She sat in bed typing away. Her folks had gone out to restock her painkillers. She felt a lot better, was breathing through her nose again. Yes, her ribs and back felt as if she’d stumbled between two cage-fighters and been given a right kicking for her effrontery, but she was still here, still at home. The storm was over.
I know someone who went through much worse pain. He didn’t have to, he chose to, out of love.
This is the season set aside to remember him. He’s not a bunny, a yellow chick, or made of chocolate.