A String of Pearls

Some days you wake up and you just know in your heart that today is going to be a fragile day. A day where things might shatter so easily because they all seem barely held together. I, myself, me... barely are my pearls strung together for the day before I feel tension in the string, and it's entirely possible that the string will snap and today all my pearls will fall to the ground and roll away, much to my distress. Loosen the string, lest it snap. Relax. Breathe deeply. Exhale. Repeat.

On days when fragility seems to overwhelm me I hide away. I am not fit for public consumption. Lest I turn a stomach, upset a mind or cause unhappiness in some way, I choose to be alone. Alone in the knowledge that this way I will hurt no one, this way no one will hurt me; this way the day will pass, and tomorrow will be a fresh start.

Today was a fragile day but I could not hide away. I had to meet people outside of home, I had to talk with strangers, I had to deal with life, full on in the face despite my wanting to be alone. Happily I managed it, but at a cost to myself. I hope I left everyone happy in my wake, but I am not happy. I am exhausted, drained, lifeless. I am also saddened. What saddens me I do not really know, but contact with people exhausted me today, and any surplus I had saved for a rainy day is thoroughly used up. I have nothing left to give, and nothing for myself, and that makes me resentful. I resent being resentful even. :)

Thankfully, tomorrow I do not need to face anyone outside of home/family. Thankfully, tomorrow I can gather my pearls and put them on, one by one in peace, by myself. A string of pearls reflecting who I am, representing my day, possibly even my life. Each pearl a jewel discovered through some struggle, some suffering, some pain. Each pearl precious in itself, and together a combination of many colours and shades, yet each perfectly round. A string of pearls I work on everyday, and on some days I make more progress than other days, yet each day I celebrate them. I remember them. I lovingly remind myself of them and of what they mean to me, and what I am to myself and to others, and I am comforted.

Thanks for reading.

Pav

Facing the Future Unforetold

Every now and then the thought comes to all of us...what if my life had been different? We wonder how our lives might be now had we taken a different path, or if events in our lives had happened differently. It's a very normal thing to think about, and isn't really full blown regret...maybe just a tinge of regret with remorse or a sense of sorrow at the past that has led to the present, and uncertainty about the future.

All of this can be magnified many times over for people who live with chronic illness, especially when illness and disability has visited them through no fault of their own. Then it is not so much the road not taken, or a decision made that turned bad or a matter of poor choices, but simply something that happened to them. Out of the blue, disease came upon them. It sneaked up and decided to pounce, and gobbled up a life. But rejoice, people say, that you are alive! Yes, you don't have cancer, be grateful!

And so the chronically ill remind themselves that they have so much to be grateful for, despite all that they have lost. The days, weeks, months, even years, eaten away by locusts, if you like... munched up by pain and trauma, turmoil and tears... pain so visceral and real that only someone else who has walked the same path of suffering can understand. Lost time that can never return. Time spent curled up in agony, hours spent trying to cope and make sense of what is essentially senseless... disease that comes out of nowhere and devours you bit by bit from the inside, leaving you hollowed out. Time that could have been better spent doing things more meaningful, investing in one's happiness, and the happiness of others, loved ones who depend on us, who need us, and yet for whom some days, we cannot be there. We are there physically, but trapped in a world of pain so acute, so sharp, so overwhelming that nothing else can penetrate our thoughts and feelings and we are numb to all around us.

But yes, we have plenty to be grateful for...for life and for love, and if we have these, then truly we are blessed. And so we swallow the pain, we bite back the tears, we pull ourselves up, we face the world, and in so doing we learn to forgive ourselves our shortcomings, our failures, our lack of being there for others, and we try to deal with the guilt. The guilt that damns us as we struggle on each day, the guilt that would pull us back into the quicksand of flooding thoughts that drown out the good in us and tells us we have failed. The guilt, that if left unchallenged would kill our soul and take away that last lingering hope within us, that perhaps something truly good and beautiful can come from our lives.

Yes, we have plenty to be grateful for each and every day. Each day anew. Each day afresh. Each day a chance to start over. Each day to thank God for life and love. To forgive ourselves our imperfect past, and to face the future unforetold... God grant us grace to face each day with Your strength, for we cannot, dare not, will not, contemplate doing it on our own. We would fail. And surely for that gift of grace alone, if not for anything else, I am grateful. Thank you, God. For life, and for love.

Thanks for reading.

Pav

Cocooned in a Coma

For some weeks now I have been thinking of my late father's passing. He passed away on 26th September 2009 at the age of 75, and as the first anniversary comes round I find myself thinking about him a lot more. Sometimes late at night I remember the events that led to his demise, the memories are so real and fresh they bring tears, and I feel myself awash with grief and sadness again.

My father, Harbhajan Singh Gill, went to get his pacemaker checked at the National Heart Institute in Kuala Lumpur on August 25th. He loved that place, and having retired as a senior civil servant, he especially loved the benefits he received and believed in the care as being top notch. He certainly wouldn't have settled for anything less. :) He had had a triple bypass done there too, and a pacemaker inserted, and used to joke with us about his "ticker" and how it would give up on him some day.

While waiting for his check up he actually had a heart attack of some kind and died. By the time this was discovered and he was revived, almost 10 minutes had elapsed, and so my father's brain, having been starved of oxygen, was effectively dead. Because the resuscitation team had their duty to perform, his heart was revived but he was in a comatose state. I found out about this 2 days later, when my father's second wife told my brother in KL, and he called me in Singapore, and my sister in Melbourne. We began our respective journeys to KL with very heavy hearts, unsure of what we would find.

My parents, having separated when I was very young, had never really gotten along, and I was raised practically singlehandedly by my mother. Over the years I had had several encounters with my father in which some healing had occurred, the kind of healing that a child requires when knowing that a parent is unable to love them, for whatever reasons...religious differences, acrimonious relationships, memories of the past, pride...whatever the reasons were, I received very little love from my father, but I knew deep down in my own heart that I loved him.

As I journeyed to KL I found myself wondering about whether my father would be able to communicate with me. Would I be able to speak with him, and square the past, or would he be slipping away and was the ultimate end, death, imminent? When I got to KL I went to see him, and discovered that he was well and truly cocooned in a coma. The kind of state of limbo where his body was being kept going by various machines but his brain was non-functional. What conversation could I hope to have with him then? It became a monologue of sorts.

It was also an emotional roller coaster of grief and sadness, feelings long welled up and hidden away came to the fore, and for the first couple of weeks my every moment by his bedside was one of tears. Heavy, fat tears that fell so fast I could not stop them, neither did I try, because deep down inside I knew that I had to let them out. Whatever little time I was given by the ICU staff, by the demands of other relatives and friends and the knowledge that I was, in essence, an outsider...whatever little time I had with him was time that I used to tell him I loved him, to thank him for the gift of life as my father, to bless him with peace, and to say "I forgive you, Pa, please forgive me."

My father remained in a coma for 32 days, passing away eventually on 26th September, the day after I left KL and returned to Singapore to be with my family. I watched him over 32 days deteriorate from a fairly muscular man to one that had hollowed cheeks and poor muscle tone, swollen hands and feet as his kidneys failed and an opportunistic bacterial infection took over. How sad to watch someone wither away. I wondered then if it is better to have someone go suddenly and then deal with the grief of that abrupt departure, or to watch someone go slowly, feeling tortured in the process, imagining that their loved one is also being tortured, wondering whether to hope for a quick end to suffering on all sides, or to soldier on bravely come what may, even if the comatose state were to last months and years.

The thought crossed my mind that perhaps in this last stage of his life I would be given the chance to look after him and be the doting daughter that circumstances had not allowed me to be. In some idealistic rosy eyed moment I imagined myself lovingly tending him through the last few years of his life in a coma...but then reality intruded, in the form of my sensible family members who told me I wasn't well enough to undertake such a job, and it wasn't for me to decide these things anyway. It was for my father's wife to decide on his care. And the questions about his care troubled us all a fair bit. The thought proved daunting for some, and rightly so. The task of looking after someone in that condition is not an easy one. In the end, it did not matter because my father passed away without leaving the ICU.

I know being in a coma isn't quite a "chronic" condition in the sense that say, diabetes, or Crohn's disease or SLE is...but I wonder what it's like to be cocooned in a coma for months and years, seemingly perpetually asleep, and never in hope of awakening. Being transformed over time, slowly deteriorating into a state of being the living dead before the heart gives out and one is released into death, and the life hereafter as one believes. What is it really like to be in a coma? I hope never to find out.

While the doctors told us that brain function tests showed no brain activity, and they told us he couldn't feel anything, I never really believed that. While they couldn't quite say with certainty whether he heard us or not, they told us he could not respond. I never really believed that he couldn't hear us, and as for response, once while I read to him his eyes opened and he looked right at me...I have to say it gave me a fright! This was also explained away, but I didn't believe it. I didn't want to believe that it was pointless, I guess.

In some selfish way I am grateful for the 32 days that my father spent in a coma, because it gave all of us in the family time to come to terms with his impending death. I was able to be by his bedside, and I spoke to him, I sang to him, and I read to him, believing that he could hear me. Perhaps his auditory senses weren't functioning because his brain was gone, but I believe that there is more to man than just the physical. I believe there is the soul/spirit man too. That part that lives on when the physical body is gone. I like to think that part of him was listening. I like to think that part of him responded. I like to think it all meant something to him. And yes, it meant a lot to me. Perhaps it was all something I conjured up because I needed to believe that he knew how much I cared for him. But I don't think that in itself is wrong. People who say "you did it for yourself" miss the point...yes, I needed it too. Possibly a bit more than my dying father did, because I continue to live, and the living need hope, and healing, love and peace, a little more than those who leave this world.

I do hope and pray that my father received all of that from me as I watched over him. I do hope he is in a happy place. I pray for that. I do remember him with sadness, and grief, and longing, and pain, and the gamut of emotions that make us human. I am working towards remembering him with joy. In the early days after he went into a coma, and after his passing, the question that plagued me was "Pa, did you love me?" Months later, as I prepare for a simple memorial for his first anniversary on 26th September, I find myself asking "Did I love you, Pa?" and as I move from one question to the other, I am finding further closure and healing as the answers are "Yes" and "Yes". Yes, he loved me, and I loved him. I can let the memories of the past rest in peace, I can live in peace, and Pa, wherever you are, peace and love to you too.

Thanks for reading,

Pav

A Stroke of Bad Luck

Last night, as my husband and I were entering the lift to our apartment, we found ourselves with some of our fellow residents. A family of 4 was with us, and my husband began a conversation with them. Yes, we're the sort of folks who like to talk to our neighbours, and fortunately our neighbours don't seem to mind. Not too sure what choice they have stuck in there with us but it's just our way of being civilized. Much nicer than staring into space avoiding eye contact.

This family was one that I remembered from the time we'd first moved into our apartment 15 years ago. We left and lived elsewhere for about 6 years before returning here, and have found that while some people have moved on, there are still some others who have remained in the condominium, and so they are our familiar faces, and the friendly ones who recognize us and who are happy to chat with us.

As my husband chatted I looked at the family, and smiled politely. The mother was doing the talking, and the daughter responded to questions, but the man and his son were quiet. Toward the end of our brief conversation, during which time I became animated upon discovering that the daughter was studying English Literature, the father looked at me and in that moment of eye contact between us, I learnt something new about him.

His eyes were red rimmed and watery, and his gaze was weak, and as I looked at him I took in the shriveled right hand that was visible to me, and the support that his son gave him...and it dawned on me that he had had a stroke. Somewhere in the interval between the time we left our condo, and the time we returned, the man that I remembered as being a lovely, chirpy, energetic, sweet man had undergone a transformation so severe that he would never be the same again.

A stroke is a terrible thing that can befall anyone, young or old. Somehow, blood supply to the brain is interrupted or disturbed and brain function suffers. Sometimes the damage to the brain is so severe that the person can die. Often, the damage leaves a person disabled to some degree. Some can walk, and eat, and speak a little after therapy, many can barely manage basic functions. While the stroke itself is fairly brief, it's consequences are long lasting and permanent. Persons with strokes face permanent disability, and must then live trapped in damaged bodies that require the help and care of others to some degree. Independence, something so prized by us all, goes out the window, and the stroke victim must rely on others for a range of things, depending on the severity of the stroke. Personal dignity and space need to be reinterpreted to allow for the intervention of doctors, nurses, therapists, and family members who will assist to help make life livable, hard as that may be to imagine.

Uncle, as I call him, could walk with some help, he looked like he could function a fair bit on his own, but in the look that we exchanged, I realized that he could not connect verbally with me. Perhaps he might have said something eventually, but he could not participate in the conversation at that point, he could not share his views, or comment on someone else's. Whatever was meant to have passed between us remained unsaid, lost in the ether where thoughts unvoiced and hopes unheard linger, never to emerge.

We reached our floor, and wished everyone a good weekend and happy National Day and exited the lift. Because the wife was the vocal one, our attention was drawn to her, and as the doors closed it was her face that I saw. She seemed tired. Her daughter had looked tired too. It was a tired family. And yet, there was a spark of something about them. They had come home together as a family from somewhere...I'm not sure where, but they had driven home, and Uncle had been with them, and even though they looked tired they were together.

That togetherness struck me. In the face of adversity, especially the adversity of illness, families either gel together, or fall apart. Illness makes or breaks them. There's nothing quite like chronic illness to bring the substance of a family to the fore. In the cauldron of suffering, pain, tears and frustration, the essence of each individual is tested and purified, and the dross rises up. The selfishness, the irritability, the anger...everything that shows up the lack of love within each of us is drawn out of us. Do we skim it away each day and begin anew the task of sacrificial love, or do we drown in the dross and find ourselves paralyzed by our weaknesses? This then is the challenge of life with imperfection staring us in the face. Imperfection in others, and imperfection in ourselves.

Uncle and his family have their act together, at least it seemed so to me. A stroke of bad luck befell them, but I think they will pull through. I do hope that my next encounter with him will be different. I hope that we will have a little more time together. I hope to hold his hand and look him in the eye and in that glance say "Hello". I hope to have the grace and compassion to know if it's better to leave him alone. I hope and pray that Uncle's remaining years bring him more joy than sadness, and that in the end, he will know that whatever his body has become, his was a life worth living.

Thanks for reading.

Pav

My Soul Sang, My Spirit Soared

Yesterday was the best Saturday I have had in ages. After almost a year's absence I made it back to the St Francis Xavier Choir (SFx Choir) at St Ignatius Church. It's a choir of folks from the Philippines; men and women who work in Singapore, and who have amazing gifts, talents and a love for music and singing. They opened their hearts to me early last year and I joined them for a few sessions of singing at Mass on Saturdays, preceded by a session of choir practice each time.

The last time I sang with them was 22nd August 2009. Just 5 days after that I received news that my father was in a coma following a heart attack in Kuala Lumpur. I spend the next few weeks commuting between KL and Singapore, until he passed away on 26th September. The grief and pain I felt was so deep, that I couldn't bring myself to sing for a long time, and I barely made it to church, because I kept crying and the memories of growing up without a father, and living through divorce meant that there was a lot of healing that I had to go through. I told myself I needed time to heal, and after a few months I felt my soul had healed, but then my physical body fell apart.

After weeks of not being able to eat and a few hospital stays I finally had surgery, the details of which are described elsewhere in my blog. All through this time I didn't sing in the Choir neither did I really make it to church regularly. I hardly went because I was so tired. Leaving home was an effort, talking with people drained me, and I hardly sang. It's hard to sing when you don't eat. It's hard to sing when you're in pain. It's hard to sing of God's love and mercy when you're battling depression. Tears were never far from me, and while the pain of my father's passing faded into the background, the grief I felt at my own situation came to the fore...and so one pain replaced another. And again I told myself that I needed time to heal, and so I determined to let that time pass, and I knew in my heart that when I was well I would know it.

Yesterday I returned to the Choir. During the rehearsal we sang a few songs I was unfamiliar with, but the beauty of this Choir is that people like me : a rusty soprano past her prime, an absentee getting her life back on track, being chronically ill and constantly overwhelmed by life...someone like me can just come in and be transported to another realm. I felt like my very soul sang and my spirit soared, on the wings of eagles. I, a little eaglet, soared on the wings of giant eagles, the Choir members who welcomed me back into their group, and somehow my voice managed to come out and the parts that I felt were wobbly for me somehow just blended in...I don't know how or when it happened but it simply did.

During the practice I found myself in tears when we sang a beautiful song : Take and Receive. Surreptitiously wiping tears and dabbing my nose, and fobbing off the potential Drama Mama scene of my having a complete emotional collapse and wailing my guts out took some self control. :) The words of the song moved me deeply. Here they are :

TAKE AND RECEIVE

Take and receive, O Lord my liberty

Take all my will, my mind, my memory;

All things I hold and all I own are Thine,

Thine was the gift, to Thee I all resign.

Do Thou direct and govern all and sway,

Do what Thou wilt command and I obey:

Only Thy grace, Thy love on me bestow,

These make me rich, all else will I forego.

What a truly lovely song. It touched me on so many levels. My battlefield is my mind, and to some extent my memory. I tend to dwell on sadness and melancholy is never far...Sometimes my memory seems to vanish altogether, or at the very least I remember sad things...when surely my life has so much goodness and loveliness and blessings that should make me happy. And so this song reminded me to give all of who I am to God. And tears came to me when I sang the verse.

I cry easily. This is certainly true. Sometimes it doesn't take much to get me going. A scene of suffering and starvation on tv, or reading about the loss of a child, or feeling frustration...tears come quickly. Unbidden, and often unhidden. But that's just me. I am easily moved and overly sensitive. Yesterday I managed to get my tears under control, but I knew that very moment was special for me. And that feeling of it being special stayed with me throughout Mass.

Special because I had finally made my way back to the Choir, special because the wonderful Choir members were so welcoming and loving despite my having been far less loving in the past, special because I felt God's presence in the singing, and in the Mass, special because He touched my inner being. My soul, my spirit...when I left I felt renewed. Only God can do that. I felt humbled and also privileged, that in one special day, yesterday, God met with me and spoke to me, and I with Him. And He used the Choir as His Voice.

Thanks for reading :)

Pav

An Extraordinary Escape

If you live with any chronic illness that gives you pain and keeps you home on occasion, or in hospital for extended periods of time...plan to get away. Create a plan to escape somewhere. If you're bed bound, and hooked up to wires and tubes, try to go for a short walk around your hospital ward, and lengthen the distance each day. If you're in a flare up, and feverish, or in the case of Crohn's, having abdominal pain and are afraid to leave home for long...plan something short. Walk down to the shops, find out where the toilets are, and get going, even if it's slow steps. If you're in remission, plan a trip over a weekend or longer, with a loved one, or even alone...but get away from home, from work, from the limits of your world which impinge on you when you are ill. Plan an extraordinary escape, expand your horizons!

While in hospital 4 months ago awaiting my first bowel resection, appendectomy and gall bladder removal, I fantasized about the things I wanted to do when I was better. I made a wishlist of sorts. I wanted to eat a simple meal at my favourite Indian restaurant. I wanted to SCUBA dive again. I wanted to visit Rome with my husband again. I wanted to get back to my PhD and get out to meeting with colleagues and friends again.

It seemed so selfish...a list of "I wants", and I felt a little childish, but it gave me hope. Hope that some day soon I would actually get out of hospital and do the things "I wanted" to do. If you don't want anything, you aren't very likely to achieve anything...and as someone who lives with chronic illness, it's the hope that keeps the me going. The hope that soon, maybe next week, maybe next month, maybe next year, I WILL do the things I want to do. All this is in addition, or over and above, the things I must do, the obligatory things that one cannot run away from. These are the duties that one does, that are also enjoyed, but somehow not as much as the items on a wish list.

The non-obligatory wish list is the part that feeds the soul, filled with activities we choose to do because they mean something significant to us and are things we don't ordinarily do. They signify the unusual, the unique, the special, the extraordinary, the fanciful, the imaginative, the creative...the things that we do from time to time to break the monotony of the needful.

And so it was with a bounce in my step and a thrill in my heart that I marched off to Rome with my husband in late May for 8 nights. His workload suddenly cleared, and he knew that I had been dreaming of going back to Rome, having last visited in 2005. Plans were quickly made, and we had a very special time revisiting old haunts, discovering new treasures, and just getting away by ourselves without the kids. Having been through a lot earlier this year the time away was important for me as a milestone for my own recovery and journey with chronic illness and I felt overjoyed that I could make it really come true.

For the two of us the time away as a couple was magical, and romantic and simply so special. We rediscovered our love for each other...not that it had ever gone away, but perhaps it had been overshadowed by busy work schedules, long hospital stays, surgery, recovery, the needs of the children, the needs of the urgent triumphing over the needs of the important... and so we made time for the truly important in our marriage...the two of us.

At the end of the day, I like to think that no matter where we had gone, just the time together would have have been wonderful. I was blessed to be able to get away to Rome. The beauty of Rome for me is in her museums and the very sense of antiquity that permeates the entire city. Also, as a Catholic, praying in the chapels in St Peter's Basilica and attending Mass there moved me to tears. I sobbed tears of gratitude for the success of my surgery, I thanked God for all the many, many, good things He has blessed me with, and I also thanked Him for the bad...for some reason I felt that I had to say that. Thank you God for the bad, for all things that have happened to me, for the incurable Crohn's, for the painful and traumatic surgery, for my father's passing, for the pains and sorrows of the past - I thanked God for them all even as I thanked Him for my wonderful husband and my four lovely children.

I felt a peace in my soul. Perhaps I could have said those words and had that moment right here in my living room, but for some reason being there, in that special place in that special time with my special someone...it happened then, and it was...well, special. Words cannot quite describe it adequately. I won't soon forget it though. As I move on to other adventures, I will remember my prayer and the sense I had of an encounter. I am glad I had a visit to Rome on my wishlist.

The next item on my wishlist will involve another journey, but probably somewhere close by. Now to dream of my next SCUBA dive...when and where...and when I do get in the water, and when I am transported to the underwater world that I love so much I will know that I am living my life the way I want to...peppering the mundane with an extraordinary escape.

Thanks for reading!

Pav

The Support of Similar Suffering

Last Saturday, 22nd May, the Inflammatory Bowel Disease (IBD) Support Group met at a hospital here and I managed to attend despite a rather busy weekend. I am so glad that I made it, because once again, I am reminded of the support that one can obtain from people who suffer in a similar manner.

Patients with Crohn's Disease and Ulcerative Colitis meet once every few months, usually in a hospital setting, organised by one of the Nurse Clinicians who is dedicated to assisting patients gain support from one another. At this last meeting we had a dietician talk about diet during flare ups, and during remission, and making sure patients obtain sufficient nutrition despite their intestinal and digestive problems. A psychiatrist spoke about coping with IBD, and touched on the role of the psychiatrist in helping IBD patients.

While the talks are always useful and informative, and the Q and A sessions lively, the best part of the meeting for me is always the opportunity to meet other patients in the same boat. I saw familiar faces from previous meetings, including one lady who's had 11 surgeries, and I made new friends, including folks who have just moved to Singapore, a young lady who hasn't been definitely diagnosed as yet, and a young man doing his reservist stint in the army.

So varied is the insidious reach of IBD that people from all walks of life can be affected by it. At each meeting I encounter new patients, and I sometimes wonder how they personally cope with this illness that wrecks a life and causes so much pain and makes the simple task of eating a meal a dreadful nightmare on many occasions for so many.

This same question fuels my part time PhD. How do patients in Singapore live with IBD? How does it affect them? How do they cope with it? And how can we help them? Through in-depth interviews with patients I hope to answer some of these questions, discover more questions, and perhaps provide some answers and insight to anyone who is interested.

My PhD keeps threatening to be derailed...last year was so difficult for me with my father's illness and subsequent passing, and then towards the end of the year I became quite ill, culminating in surgery earlier this year. I have thought of giving up a few times... but each time I meet new patients with IBD I feel encouraged to go on because I admire their courage in the face of great difficulty.

I know firsthand the difficulties they face, some of which are severe, and others more moderate or even mild...but all of them must face challenges, must make adjustments, must grieve the loss of their health, must accept the incurable, must live with often debilitating side effects from medications, must learn to love themselves and continue living life to the fullest...while they still can.

After the Support Group meeting I went to a wake. A very close friend's father had passed away earlier in the day. I paid my respects to the family, and planned to attend the funeral the next evening. I made it there with my husband, and we watched as "Uncle" was sent on his final journey. The Hindu funeral is filled with many symbolically laden moments, and as the earthen pot was shattered, and Uncle's link with this earthly world broken, I felt the loud sound resonate within me...farewell to Uncle, and yes, before I know it, farewell to me too.

Some day I too will cross over into the spiritual world, some day all of us will make that journey. I listened to the eulogies by relatives, and I realized that Uncle had lived his life to the fullest as only he knew how to, and would always be remembered as someone who was a fighter.

Some day someone may stand to recount my days in a eulogy, and hopefully someone will say that no matter what life threw my way, I managed to survive it. No matter what IBD did to me, I managed to survive it. Perhaps more than just survive, perhaps I actually lived. Really lived.

Before we know it, we'll be gone, like the petals of a fragile flower perishing in the heat of the noonday sun. But before they perish they are radiant, they give beauty, they have a fragrance of sweetness that permeates the very air...they are a blessing. Seek the support of those with similar sufferings.. whatever those sufferings may be...so we can bless our fellow brethren, and be blessed in return. Live, love, laugh. And yes, cry. It's all part of being alive.

Thanks for reading,

Pav

Andrew Johnston - 'Make Me A Channel Of Your Peace' NEW Studio Performance

My Anthem : Bon Jovi - "It's My Life"

I Remember, Yet I Choose Also to Forget

Inspired by "Remembrance is a form of meeting, Forgetfulness is a form of freedom" : from "Sand and Foam" by Khalil Gibran, and events in my life.

Words were said that hurt me deeply, words I didn't deserve,

Words that burnt into my mind, and burnt away my love.

I was sad, and broken hearted, and my heart was grasped by pain,
I did not know how to break free, though I tried again and again.

As time passed I thought my pain would lessen and I could forgive,
But it took so long, time seemed to crawl and I barely managed to live.

And then this pain faded away as another took its place,
A more urgent need, a pressing pain clamouring for space.

I gave it rein, and let it work its way into my heart,
I dealt with death and the past as my father did depart.

I chose to put my prior pain aside and open up my soul,
I hoped to deal with the past and slowly become whole.

It seemed to happen, in smallish starts I felt my pain diminish,
And yet the healing and restoration never really finished.

My heart still broken, my soul burdened, my body felt defeat,
I spiralled down into a state of not being able to eat.

As days passed by I had fewer options and finally just the one,
And so it was that for me the unthinkable was done.

I lay on the table asleep with parts of me cut away and seized,
They removed the parts in me that were useless and diseased.

And yet I knew my heart and soul, my very inner being,
Also had parts that needed pruning and mending and healing.

As I mended you came to me, your hand reached out to mine,
I felt the love and the care, I knew we would be fine.

There was no need for words and lengthy recriminations,
I felt the love, forgiveness flowed, without explanations.

A burden fell away from me, I felt freedom anew,
All heaviness was gone, my heart felt like it flew.

And from that day we began again, you and I, my friend,
And so I hope to continue until the very end.

Words caused my heart to break, and pain flooded in,
Silence then mended it back again and joy dwells within.

I chose to forgive, I released my hurt and pain,
And in so doing I have found my friend again.

My prayer is that all will be well and friendship eternal be,
Despite the troubles and the woes of life for you and for me.

Pavitar Kaur Gill
21/04/10