The Spaces Between

I’ve been known to sneak a peek at the last page of the book midway through reading it. To decide on my pudding just after I’ve chosen a starter. Not necessarily to skip to an end as such but just to have a little view as to how A might get to B.

We know now that RD is not fairing so well. His kidneymoon is over and I’m not even sure they’re on speaking terms. We know transplant is imminent, and yet in the time it took for a coin to flip, now not so imminent as he needs a period of dialysis to improve the homeostasis of all his blood levels. And here is where we are looked at square in the eye and asked what we want to do. Haematological or peritoneal? Live or deceased donor? 

What do we want to do?

Run. Stop time. Anything but decide.

I want to know how it will be. How it will go. Show me my boy in a year. Please show me my boy in a year. I can’t bear to think of the alternative and yet it chews at my bones daily at the moment.

I didn’t know, until I saw her almost slip on a staircase, that my knees could feel love.

Eva Wiseman, Observer Magazine, 06 March 2016.

The anxiety I feel at the moment feels like bruised fingernails. A dull, pointless, ache. A sickness like the first sleepover as a child. Homesick. That home is the safe space we once inhabited when RD was stable. And it feels a long way away.

It’s this space between we exist in right now. Somewhere between a desire to live and to grieve. Trying to open up to the possibility that all is completely outwith our control, and yet still tasked with the monumental grownupedness of ‘what we want to do’. 

I can only apologise if some functioning fails me right now. Hour to hour I veer between the energy to go for a run, clean the house and do some gardening to suddenly then stripped of the ability to even respond to a simple text message.

I keep holding RD close, as close as he will allow for as long as he will allow. Trying to transmit my urge for him to be okay down my arms and into my hands and into his boney yet swollen body. And, it’s probably his dwindling energy reserves, but I feel him give into that for longer. Stilling for that brief second longer before trying to scrabble around to escape or pressing my mouth to make me sing. A space within a space that makes things that bit more bearable. 

  

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