November began in the hospital, a major surgery I wasn't at all sure I'd survive. They said it was routine but I wasn't convinced anyone could cut open my stomach without killing me. And it was Halloween after all, when the veil between living and dead is said to be at its thinnest ...
Surprised, I woke up. My body in chaos, missing a piece. Completely dependent on strangers for my continued survival. It was strange and not typical, the deep trust I felt.
Pain, sometimes unbearable, came and went. I got used to that little hospital room, impersonal and comforting at the same time. Cared for, and alone, at the same time. I liked the metal rails of the hospital bed, so strong and good to hold on to for support, so cool a relief in pain. I listened to the loud beeping that rang through the ward whenever someone pressed a call button. I felt horribly wounded, and safe. Love poured in through my phone.
I was in the maternity ward, not having a baby but having my womb removed. At the other end of the corridor, tiny babies cried. At my end, an old woman cried.
I had an odd insight - I may have been born in this very same building, on an April evening long ago. My mother happy after a miscarriage the previous year, my father receiving a mischievous wink from me the first time he held me.
This time, grey daylight descended quickly into dark November evenings, like a blanket when you're desperate for sleep.
At the end of nearly a week, I was discharged and expected to be independent again. My exhausted soul was still dependent. Still aching for the fierce, protective love of a father.
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