This year has been nuts. It started so well, waking up in London... actually, we very nearly missed the flight, so maybe not such a hot start. Direct to Kerry for a few days in good company, relaxed, pleasant. My girlfriend was home, we were making a new start together, this year was going to be the establishment of domestic bliss.
That illusion was shattered pretty swiftly, leaving me heartbroken. But with the help of close friends and family, I bounced back over a few weeks. Two months later I felt ready to meet her again, exchange some of the items we'd left in each other's possession. I remember afterwards realising that she harboured more resentment over the break-up than I did.
In the meantime an old friend re-appeared in my life, and it's fantastic to have her about. There were gigs to which to go, friends with whom to eat and drink, spins to be cycled, strangers to befriend. Life rolled on, inevitably. Ireland failed at the Six Nations. My race results were mixed, still missing that outright win. It snowed in March. I got a new housemate. No highlights, no lowlights. Just life, rolling onwards.
Then two of my very best friends got engaged. Delighted for them, our busy schedules prevented a celebration for two weeks. Two other good friends returned from eight months abroad. I won a prestigious trophy, first time I've ever managed such a feat. I meet one of my returned friends in the pub on the Tuesday after Easter, and we caught up, talking about old times and his impending wedding, for which I am best man.
That same day, another close friend, for whom I had been best man last August, suffered a freak event when a blood vessel in his back burst. It clotted around his spine as he headed to the hospital. Gradually his legs went from weak to numb. An ambulance rushed him across the city to emergency surgery. The clot was removed, along with one of his vertebrae. But when he came around, he was paralysed from the chest down. He had movement in his hands and arms, but the doctors weren't sure if he would ever walk again. Time, it would take time. A week, they said.
A week later, nothing had changed. We lost hope, prepared for the worst. His wife was amazingly pragmatic and stable. Ten weeks then, we were told, it could take a long, long time before improvement showed. It was a small bit of hope, not enough really. On top of this, we could not visit due to a flu outbreak in the hospital.
Then another week passed, and he discovered one night he could move his knee slightly. Scarcely believing it, he held off telling anyone until the morning, so that he could be sure of it. Involuntary twitching followed. We were suddenly optimistic. The visiting ban was being lifted too, joy and delight filled us all.
Then this week. His father suffered a minor stroke. And an outbreak of the vomiting bug has closed the hospital to visitors once more. The road to recovery will be a long one, a year to eighteen months, if he ever gets there, but we have to be there for him all the way. No more whiskey.
That illusion was shattered pretty swiftly, leaving me heartbroken. But with the help of close friends and family, I bounced back over a few weeks. Two months later I felt ready to meet her again, exchange some of the items we'd left in each other's possession. I remember afterwards realising that she harboured more resentment over the break-up than I did.
In the meantime an old friend re-appeared in my life, and it's fantastic to have her about. There were gigs to which to go, friends with whom to eat and drink, spins to be cycled, strangers to befriend. Life rolled on, inevitably. Ireland failed at the Six Nations. My race results were mixed, still missing that outright win. It snowed in March. I got a new housemate. No highlights, no lowlights. Just life, rolling onwards.
Then two of my very best friends got engaged. Delighted for them, our busy schedules prevented a celebration for two weeks. Two other good friends returned from eight months abroad. I won a prestigious trophy, first time I've ever managed such a feat. I meet one of my returned friends in the pub on the Tuesday after Easter, and we caught up, talking about old times and his impending wedding, for which I am best man.
That same day, another close friend, for whom I had been best man last August, suffered a freak event when a blood vessel in his back burst. It clotted around his spine as he headed to the hospital. Gradually his legs went from weak to numb. An ambulance rushed him across the city to emergency surgery. The clot was removed, along with one of his vertebrae. But when he came around, he was paralysed from the chest down. He had movement in his hands and arms, but the doctors weren't sure if he would ever walk again. Time, it would take time. A week, they said.
A week later, nothing had changed. We lost hope, prepared for the worst. His wife was amazingly pragmatic and stable. Ten weeks then, we were told, it could take a long, long time before improvement showed. It was a small bit of hope, not enough really. On top of this, we could not visit due to a flu outbreak in the hospital.
Then another week passed, and he discovered one night he could move his knee slightly. Scarcely believing it, he held off telling anyone until the morning, so that he could be sure of it. Involuntary twitching followed. We were suddenly optimistic. The visiting ban was being lifted too, joy and delight filled us all.
Then this week. His father suffered a minor stroke. And an outbreak of the vomiting bug has closed the hospital to visitors once more. The road to recovery will be a long one, a year to eighteen months, if he ever gets there, but we have to be there for him all the way. No more whiskey.
No comments:
Post a Comment