Lately, starting around late September i have began to see and listen to the inside of my body. Imagine the kidneys pumping piss, my heart beating, pushing the blood and my brain resembling cottage cheese in a bloody gravy. Like brain masala served in Mumbai but mine alive. My lungs inhaling smoke, black and sticky like peas. Eye balls like elementary science dissection’s. Food moving through my system highlighted by Barry’s beetroot. And then there is breath. In and out and around and out. In and out and around and out.In and out and around and out. In and out and around and out. In and out and around and out. In and out and around and out.In and out and around and out.In and out and around and out.Thoughts of organs and their vital role in this.
“How are you today kidneys?”, ” Sorry, not time to talk, were busy!” They are the sweatshop of me, and my poor lungs. Greatful to be alive knowing everything is pulling together and working correctly. Even with the abuse. A good team, Pinky the fleshy machine.
The parasites living in my intestine are still there, still guests and still living from my body. Still inducing the diarrhea, the vomiting and the swelling of my abdomen. Controlling if i am hungry or not, tired or not, sick or not, in the bathroom or not. Tiny organisms controlling parts of my being, for sure a percentage. Diagnosis was given almost two weeks ago, antibiotics issued but i feel this tremendous guilt to take the medication for a number of reasons.
Whenever i have had unexpected guests around for dinner i have always been accommodating. I would put down and extra plate and serve smaller portions to make sure there was enough food to go around, especially when people are hungry. I like to feel like i am a good host and i like to treat my guests well. There has never been a time where i have said, ” leave my house or i will kill you ”
Being a strict vegetarian/vegan i feel all life has the right to live, hence why i don’t eat animals or animal products. I despise animal cruelty and the worlds passion for chomping on flesh. It’s just un-ethical and potentially disastrous to the planet, especially with the great choice we have in the west. I also have a great respect for Jainism. A religion that believes in non-violence and a strict vegetarian diet. Violence resulting in harmful karma, a set back if one is to achieve nirvana.
“Have you started your medication” i hear. No i have not as i am still contemplating what is right and what is wrong. My little India friends still alive in my tummy and i must make a choice when they will die…..Its all a bit much. What to do??
I am not seriously ill. Yes i have waves of sickness and sometimes smell like death, hungry early morning, vomit early evening but are these reasons to kill my little buddies, my mini, fleshy illegal immigrants, the final trace of India left inside of me. Creatures that are stopping me from overindulging, turning me off alcohol, keeping me well under nine stone and really, doing very little harm. To abort or not to abort. That is the question.
A view of freshly cut flowers an inch in-front of the sash window beyond the screen, early morning. May drizzle surrounding the exterior of the most beautiful of houses. Rain feeling novel as a reflect my current England, an England that looks elevated, like a Darjeeling rain cloud post monsoon. How far above sea level am i? Over one week since i returned from my self-induced exile from reality.Water running down pains suiting the elevated melancholy.Melancholic.
Over a week since loved ones met me at the station in Whitney Houston masks, glitter throwing, music pumping hug providing hilarity. Over a week since i spent a night in Accident and Emergency. A week of doctors, hospitals and tests. Finally being diagnosed with PVL- positive Staphylococcus Aureus and Giardia Lamblia – once again a host, infested, little beasts, all washed down with a bottle of blue WKD. No more maggots crawling from inside my knee.
Over a week since the circus came to town, tight ropeists and Dwarfs appearing in local shops between acts. I wonder how popular it has been due to a young boy being missing in the river. The circus not being the answer for a town in mourning. Lanterns glided off into the black distance with hope. Three days later his body was found.
Gliding around the streets in ski socks and vintage sandals, trotting on the ancient cobbles from house to house, from friend to friend. Short sharp bursts of creativity, open fires and complex salad preparations. Sitting by the misty river, the grand cathedral looming behind me. I am relived that people aren’t speaking backwards and special Agent Cooper isn’t here. Days in general feel a little Twin Peaks.
Off the beach, through the village and beyond, following a map drawn my the kind pharmacist. Over make shift bridges, past pigs and boys with sparkling ear rings. Perfectly tendered agriculture – tiny strips photosynthesizing in the mid afternoon light, by the sides of wooden homes, houses, ,shacks, below the concrete road. Uphill the Myanmar flag blowing proudly in the distance. A trotting lady heading to Buddha with flowers, the offer of a beer and tens of projected smiles. Min Gala Ba.Up hill, flag bound passing locals in wicker head wear, one walking, looking in such pain – perhaps post operative? The maps correct arrows followed and we arrive, me clutching my needle and fluid ready for my shot. Its been a long three months without it.
A hospital of some size, plonked in the middle of a field. No front doors as i head in and sit in the waiting room. I ask for a doctor. No uniforms, no identification badges, just people i assume to be medical professionals due to their geographical location. I look around.
Doors leading off the central space – Nurse, X-ray, Theater, Treatment. One lady living in the darkness connected to a drip. Her image in color but almost black and white. Another lady back in the reception area with her right eye half way down her face, in the middle of her cheek, but still so very beautiful. Tall and elegant in her glorious poise, clutching her baby, there for whatever reason.
A nurse? fills the syringe and hands it to a doctor? I am led to a bed in a small dark room feeling very un-nervous, due to the overall feeling of calm. A space which almost brings me to tears. What do people do here when they have cancer, road accidents, HIV?
No sirens, no ambulances, no clashing of trolley’s and no nurses with fat calf’s. A quite hospital with a sensation of rest, calm and peace but also a sense of limitation.
I sit on the bed, he points to an arm and i choose one. He grins, raises up the shot and he inserts. I always feel the fluid going straight into the muscle, pushing its way in. He withdraws, pushes on cotton wool and we smile. Done for another twelve weeks. I look to the floor splattered with blood or pan or blood? “Thank you so much”, i say, “Chezubeh”. I rise and walk into what i assume to be an office and ask how much. He points to a donation box. I insert four days wages in return for him inserting the fluid i was craving.
Again i thank all and head back through the field, down the concrete road past the proud flying flag. Past the lady in the bed, the mother and her child, past the pigs, over the make shift bridges. Past the boys with the sparkling ear rings and through the village, back toward my little room, amongst space, overlooking the sea on the beach.