Dear Imaginary Reader, dear Moses of 20 years ahead
If you were to glance through the last few posts you may notice the several-month-wide gap between the last post in 2010 and the first in 2011. Forgive me for skipping the record for so long, and resuming only with my first frivolous exaltations in March and boy-crush in May. It was not the best of times.
My journey began towards the end of October, when my father’s ill health meant that he had to be transferred here to London for treatment. The poor soul was in such bad shape that he needed 24 hour attention, and I eventually had to move into his hospital room, leaving behind my job and life. Mind you the decision to move both him and me full time into the hospital came after weeks of blood spattering disease and escalation of an already horrible metastasis. I became hardened like a boulder in the face of crippling gale force winds, but even the mightiest of rocks erodes in the face of nature. I began to exhibit the first signs of trouble.
In early November, I had my first anxiety attack. It was a horrible experience, matched only by the horror of not understanding what was happening to me; why I could not breathe and why my body was going into convulsions. I was prescribed some mild beta blockers and hope that it was a freak occurrence that was probably due to stress.
By the end of November the doctors were doing all they could to put my father back on a plane to Cairo so that he could die peacefully with his family. My family were incapable of visiting London as my sister’s ex-husband had filed a abduction case in London and Paris claiming she took the child to Cairo against his will. Her visit would have meant police, court and further delays.
And so one day towards the beginning of December my father and I concealed his battered body in his now baggy clothes and I pushed his wheelchair as nonchalantly as I could across Heathrow to the door of the airplane bound for Cairo. We hoped nobody would realise how ill he was, as in such cases the airline traditionally recoils at undue responsibility forbids you to board. The charade was no easy task. There were bags of blood and urine strapped to his leg that needed to be emptied on an hourly basis. There were chills and sweats that hit him regularly as he lay prostrate throughout the five-hour flight. Somehow, we landed in Cairo without event and we delivered him to his new hospital room. I was spent. I returned to London two days later, assuming that the alleviation of responsibility would give me some peace.
It didn’t. Whilst before I had a 24-hour endeavour, a project, to keep my mind off of how I was really feeling, now I had to go back to my normal life and I found it impossible. My health deteriorated. I was not able to get out of bed for days. I needed powerful medication to sleep. Worst of all, I was beginning to have dreams and day-dreams about blood, about my blood, about razor blades and wrists. One weekend, my psychiatrist and psychologist tried intervene and send a team to my apartment to get me to move into a retreat.
By now it was the end of January, and just as I was considering the offer to go into full-time treatment the revolution began in Cairo. My father had so far survived in Cairo, but public services, even the airport at times, were suspended for at least a week. It was becoming increasingly impossible to keep him in care there, and my sister risked everything and boarded a plane with him back to London. She was arrested at the airport and her passport confiscated. I moved him into the intensive care unit at the London Clinic, the doctors there were sure he would not survive more than a couple of days. He slipped in and out of consciousness only enough to glance at us through his tired, filmy and deteriorated eyes.
I forgot about my treatment and went back into autopilot. I watched as my country descended into chaos and bravery, uncertainty and faith. I wanted every part of it, and yet all I could do was sit beside this hospital bed and stare blankly into the images of Tahrir Square on the television screen, my finger resting nervously on the court documents from my sister’s case, which was to be heard only in a few days.
In vague parallel to the revolution, we lost the first case in court, but won the appeal. It was added pressure at a harrowing time. When my father became slightly more aware of his surroundings, my sister had been exonerated, Mubarak had stepped down and the country was in a state of shock and celebration. I often wondered how he felt about that, if it mattered to his feeble mind at the time.
As ever he survived the episode in London, and we arranged the documents for an air ambulance to escort him to Cairo. My sister, now free of her chains, sat with him on the plane while I stayed behind in London. He lasted until the 3rd of May. My illness, though not entirely gone, lasted will into mid-July.
Mother Teresa once said that she knew God would never put her through something her soul could not bear, but that she also wished He didn’t trust her so much. I have never understood that thought more than I do today. But I made it through, so much is an affirmation. I experienced hell in the true sense of the word as God intended, not some fiery inferno the simpletons will have you believe but a true darkness of the mind and soul. And I climbed out of it.
It has taken a long time for me to be able to share this, but I believe this is necessary for me to move on. I believe I have seen the worst of times and I have been assured of my power to outlive. I may have lost the two anchors of my life, my parents, but if anything the events of these past 13 months have taught me is that we all need to build more anchors, surround ourselves by unconditional love and invest in those around us equally.
We have nothing if we do not have each other.
If you were to glance through the last few posts you may notice the several-month-wide gap between the last post in 2010 and the first in 2011. Forgive me for skipping the record for so long, and resuming only with my first frivolous exaltations in March and boy-crush in May. It was not the best of times.
My journey began towards the end of October, when my father’s ill health meant that he had to be transferred here to London for treatment. The poor soul was in such bad shape that he needed 24 hour attention, and I eventually had to move into his hospital room, leaving behind my job and life. Mind you the decision to move both him and me full time into the hospital came after weeks of blood spattering disease and escalation of an already horrible metastasis. I became hardened like a boulder in the face of crippling gale force winds, but even the mightiest of rocks erodes in the face of nature. I began to exhibit the first signs of trouble.
In early November, I had my first anxiety attack. It was a horrible experience, matched only by the horror of not understanding what was happening to me; why I could not breathe and why my body was going into convulsions. I was prescribed some mild beta blockers and hope that it was a freak occurrence that was probably due to stress.
By the end of November the doctors were doing all they could to put my father back on a plane to Cairo so that he could die peacefully with his family. My family were incapable of visiting London as my sister’s ex-husband had filed a abduction case in London and Paris claiming she took the child to Cairo against his will. Her visit would have meant police, court and further delays.
And so one day towards the beginning of December my father and I concealed his battered body in his now baggy clothes and I pushed his wheelchair as nonchalantly as I could across Heathrow to the door of the airplane bound for Cairo. We hoped nobody would realise how ill he was, as in such cases the airline traditionally recoils at undue responsibility forbids you to board. The charade was no easy task. There were bags of blood and urine strapped to his leg that needed to be emptied on an hourly basis. There were chills and sweats that hit him regularly as he lay prostrate throughout the five-hour flight. Somehow, we landed in Cairo without event and we delivered him to his new hospital room. I was spent. I returned to London two days later, assuming that the alleviation of responsibility would give me some peace.
It didn’t. Whilst before I had a 24-hour endeavour, a project, to keep my mind off of how I was really feeling, now I had to go back to my normal life and I found it impossible. My health deteriorated. I was not able to get out of bed for days. I needed powerful medication to sleep. Worst of all, I was beginning to have dreams and day-dreams about blood, about my blood, about razor blades and wrists. One weekend, my psychiatrist and psychologist tried intervene and send a team to my apartment to get me to move into a retreat.
By now it was the end of January, and just as I was considering the offer to go into full-time treatment the revolution began in Cairo. My father had so far survived in Cairo, but public services, even the airport at times, were suspended for at least a week. It was becoming increasingly impossible to keep him in care there, and my sister risked everything and boarded a plane with him back to London. She was arrested at the airport and her passport confiscated. I moved him into the intensive care unit at the London Clinic, the doctors there were sure he would not survive more than a couple of days. He slipped in and out of consciousness only enough to glance at us through his tired, filmy and deteriorated eyes.
I forgot about my treatment and went back into autopilot. I watched as my country descended into chaos and bravery, uncertainty and faith. I wanted every part of it, and yet all I could do was sit beside this hospital bed and stare blankly into the images of Tahrir Square on the television screen, my finger resting nervously on the court documents from my sister’s case, which was to be heard only in a few days.
In vague parallel to the revolution, we lost the first case in court, but won the appeal. It was added pressure at a harrowing time. When my father became slightly more aware of his surroundings, my sister had been exonerated, Mubarak had stepped down and the country was in a state of shock and celebration. I often wondered how he felt about that, if it mattered to his feeble mind at the time.
As ever he survived the episode in London, and we arranged the documents for an air ambulance to escort him to Cairo. My sister, now free of her chains, sat with him on the plane while I stayed behind in London. He lasted until the 3rd of May. My illness, though not entirely gone, lasted will into mid-July.
Mother Teresa once said that she knew God would never put her through something her soul could not bear, but that she also wished He didn’t trust her so much. I have never understood that thought more than I do today. But I made it through, so much is an affirmation. I experienced hell in the true sense of the word as God intended, not some fiery inferno the simpletons will have you believe but a true darkness of the mind and soul. And I climbed out of it.
It has taken a long time for me to be able to share this, but I believe this is necessary for me to move on. I believe I have seen the worst of times and I have been assured of my power to outlive. I may have lost the two anchors of my life, my parents, but if anything the events of these past 13 months have taught me is that we all need to build more anchors, surround ourselves by unconditional love and invest in those around us equally.
We have nothing if we do not have each other.
I've been checking your blog on daily basis in hope of a new post , I am sorry for your loss, sending you as many positive thoughts as possible.
ReplyDeletehugs
Thank you very much
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