Yesterday I found a LOAD of emails sent to me/ Dani/ Melissa back in June and July. 

So many loving, encouraging, positive, caring thoughts expressed and sent. 
Obviously at that time I was in and out of consciousness, having heart attacks, on dialysis, having liver failure, was suffering drug induced hallucinations, having my lungs drained, and my family were being counselled for the most likely outcome – my death, or permanent brain damage. 
Plus, I had no phone, so I didn’t see the messages! In any case, a phone was too heavy to lift and I’d lost the manual dexterity to press the letter keys. I would communicate by trying to sort of whisper / enunciate my words ( which generally led to total confusion all round). Children seemed better able to interpret ( I think ) so my lovely Amber was chief translation officer. Then I tried writing my requests, and answers ,down. I know there are, somewhere, some pictures of ‘letters’ I wrote to Dani. They look like they’ve been written by a 5 yr old, with a bent pencil, in a mirror. 
At the time I remember thinking they were ok, but that was a mind trick being played by myself, on myself. And I fell for it. 
So where was I going with this diary entry?! Ok, that’s it, I was thanking sincerely all those that thought of me, possibly prayed for me, and, through their messages, made a difference. 
Something kept my Dani positive about my survival prospects, and I’m sure the texts and cards and emails contributed. 
She told me that after hearing from Quentin that I was very seriously hurt, she packed me, in her small luggage bag, ‘coming home clothes’ , mentally refusing to accept that I’d die there in Toulon. 
Her faith in me turned out to not be misplaced then….
As I lie here, bed bound, feeling sorry for myself,  I must keep telling myself that it could have been so very much worse. 

1 thought on “Perspective.

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