My Hospital ‘minibreak’ to round off 2020
I have been quiet this winter - my 2020 ended in a crescendo of Covid. First there were 10 days of fatigue at home, self-isolating with Henry (aged 5, who valiantly sat by my side throughout...) and just as I thought I was getting better, (and did a round, for those who know what that is) the real fever struck. I toughed it out for 36 hours but ended up going to A&E on Boxing Day - and was home just in time for new year.
I dreaded going to hospital, and walking from the Uber to the entrance was a very, very slow process. However, as I climbed on to the bed/trolley, I felt the peace of total surrender to the system. I found myself talking to the deity within the hospital – something along the lines of ‘hello, oh powerful place of healing, thank you for letting my son be born safely here those years ago. If you could get me back to him, please. I will surrender whatever else you need from me.” In times of darkness, it was no surprise to be negotiating with God.
Hospital was a sensory assault – shining lights, pale ill people in gowns with a bit too much flesh on display, tubes, beepy machines – and a palpable sense of worry among the patients. After my chat with god, I spent some time wrapping myself in every healing energy I had ever heard of. Golden eggs, powerful water flows, bubbles, angels – I let my imagination really dwell on them, as I layered their force fields of goodness around me. The doctors and nurses had the oxygen and penicillin, I figured I would do whatever I could to help, and get myself well, home and out of this bed that someone sicker probably needed.
I was in a corridor, not a room so I couldn’t see any other patients, just staff coming and going. My lifelong delight in people-watching (some might call it nosiness) served me very well. In the fog of low oxygen levels, I enjoyed the many and varied accents of the staff. The gentle humour of the ambulance people teasing each other. Mostly, my sense was of relief – I had NOTHING to do, except lie here and breathe. Meditate maybe, and do what I was told. Be brave with the poking and the many ‘small pinches’. I was quickly processed and given oxygen, put on fluids and antibiotics and potassium. They had a standard protocol, the consultant said I would be out in a few days. Hallelujah for the medical experts and scientists who have worked all this out.
I sent Henry a goodnight message, trying to be cheerful and assuage his worries. He was with my brother and sister in law, cared for beautifully. His daily messages always contained the same phrases: ‘Hi Mum, it’it is s Henry, I like you and I know you like me. I know you will be ok and be home soon’. He looked ashen faced for the first day or two, but as the days went on, there was more laughing and silliness, and a bit more colour in both our cheeks.
This time last year I was in an Ayurvedic clinic in India. Vegetarian curry and sesame oil massages filled my time there. Litres of oil were involved. Darenth valley had a very different menu - Egg and cress sandwiches, hearty pies and mash were the fuel of my recovery here. I laughed that the one thing I forgot to pack was any kind of moisturiser – the Indian technicians would have been shocked that there was probably NOT ONE drop of sesame oil to be found in the whole place.
The rhythm of a hospital day became familiar – like a cruise ship there was always activity – just no singing karaoke or cocktails. Simple pleasures fill a bit of time, like when the sun made it all the way on to my bed for an hour or two. The reflection was something to watch, it brought out the royal blue of the NHS standard issue curtains and it felt so good on my skin...
As my oxygen levels normalised, (no ventilator for me, just a gentle pipe blowing and tickling my nostrils for 2 days) I was moved to a bed by a window (less machinery, wonderful views). My friend reminded me that I had booked a mini break by the beach for these days. This was my lockdown mini break – the only way you are allowed to be away from home in tier 4.
The whole thing in retrospect feels like a very important chance for rebirth. A reminder that staying home really is ok, needed and wise. And a shock reminder of how important it is to look after myself – the good habits that I have let slip over 2020 mean I am not as fit as I was a year ago. The people who were not going anywhere had multiple underlying conditions – diabetes, asthma, cancer.
Meditation was (and continues to be) a vital ingredient to my recovery. One doctor called it ‘remarkable’ that my inflammatory markers – whatever they are – had dropped from 400 to 100 in just a couple of nights. They were at 50 when I left, and the staff had really given me the time to get strong – their number one aim was to ensure no relapse and therefore no return. I was very grateful of the time to get strong and rest. At home, simple tasks were surprisingly effortful. Taking the right pills involved sitting down and double checking. After laundry, tea and another sit down.
As a meditation teacher, I blithely give out instruction, "when you are ill, meditate as much as is comfortable". However, it was not particularly comfortable to do so. I gently forced myself to meditate - and for 24 hours they were wild, hallucinating meditations, unlike any I had had before. Whenever I closed my eyes I saw shapes and forms and sci-fi movies projected on the back of my eyelids. If I squeezed my eyes tighter, the colours and shapes changed, but the visual 'noise' continued. I was witnessing my body at war with the virus. Live and in Technicolor.
My internal cinema reminded me of that long and unusual movie The Tree of Life with Brad Pitt. (It was written by a meditator film maker, and is pretty wild. It is something a bit different to watch on a long lock down evening....I would love to know what you think of it)
Even after 12 years of meditating, I really notice that during this time of ongoing recovery, I do not always feel like meditating and the meditation itself often feels weird and full of sensations. The practice has been vital for me, to keep me calm in the sensory overload of a room of 7 ill people with non-stop observations and care. I know meditation helped me pass the time with less frustration and stress. Every time a nurse talked of mediCation, I heard meditation. Like my own internal predictive text was reminding me, repeatedly, to sit and close my eyes.
And finally, this sounds morbid, but meditation is also a mini-death. In Sanskrit ‘Samadhi’ is a word for meditating, and death is sometimes called 'maha-samadhi' or the 'big meditation'. As we sit and think the mantra, we allow our body, our thoughts, our daily concerns to drop away from us. All of our bodily concerns are surrendered to the greater experience of being, am-ness, stillness, totality. I thought of death while I was on the ward, no question. My mother was my age when she died – and people were definitely dying in there, although I did not witness it.
When we meditate, we practise dying. I have come out of hospital, ready for rebirth and grateful for the simplest of things. I am also re-inspired to teach more people to meditate. If we think of meditation as a practice in body death, far from being frightening, this is our twice daily reminder to live the rest of our lives as fully as we can.
Stay home, stay well, and wash your hands! xxxxx
