In retrospect: A Letter to Myself.

In retrospect, we are always much smarter. We tried. We fell… Give it a few more years. Deep healing takes time. A letter to myself of 9 years ago.

In retrospect, we are always much smarter. We tried. We fell. We got up. We learned (we also often forgot). Our children are older. Life becomes easier. Or not.  In retrospect…you’ll see. But give it a few more years. Deep healing takes time.

In retrospect, I would have gone to visit myself in the hospital, when no one was sitting by my side. I would have told myself, you, what I now know. I would have tried to ease the pain, both physical and emotional, with the tools I have acquired since. In retrospect, I feel I have so much to say to myself, the myself of over nine years ago, before the physical recovery, during the physical recovery, a mother to three very young ones, kept apart from them for a long time. Myself, that is you.

Deep healing takes time.

It feels so far away. On the far horizon of yesterday. Calculated by the length of linear time. The distance of recovery. The distance of getting used to my limitations. To my body. Now, accepting it as it is. A distance of inner silence, allowing observation. Looking at you at that time, and wondering. Wondering if I, who is you, could have managed things differently if we knew what we know now.

In retrospect, in returning to those moments, hours, and days of intolerable pain. Dependent on painkillers, morphine, any combination the nurses and doctors agreed on. Where was I? What was I experiencing? And what was happening in my parallel worlds? With my family? My daughters at home? The yearning for a routine and normality that was never to return. What happened in those moments of deep sadness. Unspeakable and indescribable for all that was lost. What happened there at all layers of my being? And what words can I share with you, who is me, now? And would they help you?

Would you like me to sing to you? Would you like me to share words of encouragement? Yes, it is you, I am asking—you, who is me, over nine years ago. Can I be, as I often am, very direct, non-apologetic, and tell you, myself, the honest truth of what’s going on? Physically, mentally, spiritually? What is going on in the way I see it, which may fit your sense of things, and also might not? Should I list all of the activities that would facilitate your, my, recovery? Pushing us to get them done as if there is no other way? Or maybe I should try just to hold my, your, hand quietly? Just be? No judgment? No analysis of the situation? No suggestions? No expectations? Sit, not try to make you smile when I know you do not feel like it. Not try to go into deep conversations about life, when you are in a better mood. Just sit and accept. Not say a word. Can I do that in retrospect?

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