A Matter of Perspective

by Kellie (05/25/2011 00:13 am)

This week, I spent nearly a full day by Mum’s bedside in hospital. Her pain was neon intense, as unstoppable as a meteor, and anxiety framed her face more starkly than her sweat slick hair and oxygen tubing. At one point just before her CT scan she gripped my arm so tightly my hand turned purple, pulling me in, close enough that her tears scurried across to explore my face.

“I don’t feel right. It all feels so wrong. So wrong. What’s happening? Please, Kel. Don’t leave me!”

I pulled back a little, so she could see my face and read what I was saying amongst the staccato commands and jargon heavy language of the packed room.

“Mum, it’s the drugs.” She desperately shook her head in denial, wiping away more tears to see me continue. “Mum, I know it doesn’t make sense, but it’s the drugs they’ve given you. The way you feel, how your head feels, it’s normal-“

“- it CAN’T be normal!”

“It IS normal, a known, expected reaction, I promise.”

From somewhere under my arm the doctor agreed “Yes, it’s totally normal!” but Mum’s panicked eyes didn’t waver from my face.

“It’s okay Mum. Trust me.”

It’s all about perspective.

*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*

Perspective is fickle. It never stays conveniently still, like a statue or a mountain, but is more like the shadow gliding across the Sphinx’s face or the tumbling of rocks down a hidden gully. Perspective changes in dribs and drabs or a drenching. Perspective doesn’t seem inclined to give a warning with a polite pause or discreet cough, instead cheerfully announcing that not only has it stolen your previous view of the world, but it’s now going to toss you into unexpected, befuddling places and then it leaves you there, gaping, without a map or your wallet. Perspective is life’s enthusiastic, bewildering tour guide, ensuring you will never see the same thing, the same way, ever again.

*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*

Perspective changed repeatedly at the hospital. “She’s deaf” I’d say to the nurses, who would then move closer and let Mum hear their faces. “She’s a second year nursing student” Mum would gasp out in new corridors and treatment rooms, and the medical discussions would swirl and expand to include me, dressed peacock style in fluorescent, high visibility work wear and steel cap boots amid their pastel blues. Where, two years ago, I would have been upset and confused at the chaos and suffering Mum went through, I now understand the theory, the rationale behind the actions and can easily, confidently say “It’s okay Mum. Trust me.”

Only to have my own perspectives readjust when I realise that Mum – still twisted and haunted with anxiety – has relaxed as much as the pain allows. Relaxed not because of the encouragement or drug infusions given by the eminently more qualified and involved medical professionals caring for her, but because of the depth of confidence she has in me, and her absolute acceptance of my proffered “Trust me.”

*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*^#*

When I left Mum that night, she was almost fast asleep. Her eyes were puffy and red, exhausted from trying to watch so many conversations and catch hundreds of questions. Or maybe they were irritated from the heavy hitting pain killers and oxygen mask. Perhaps her eyelids were swelling to protect her from the harsh hospital lighting, giving her dreams a little shade to rest in. Maybe the answer is all of the above.

I think it’s all about perspective.

Has your perception about anything changed lately? What areas do you have more or less perspective about? Are there people you trust enough to believe, when your own perspective seems at odds with the world?

Continue reading at the original source →