It happened in October
That in-between month when the air is cool and golden, and everything feels like it’s holding its breath. I’d been feeling sick for days, a pain growing in my belly that didn’t feel right. I went to my doctor, the ER, more waiting rooms than I can count… I was sent home over and over. My appendix burst in the waiting room after 7 hours of gripping my wheelchair in pain. (This is healthcare in Alberta).
The days that followed were endless. Six days in a cold hospital bed, wrapped in layers of thin blankets, hooked up to IVs and monitors. Nausea that wouldn’t quit, waves of it draining me. I thought I’d feel better once I got home, that healing would be a straight line. But my body, once so familiar, had become a little unknown. It’s never quite been the same since.
It’s strange how something like that changes you — not just physically, but deeper. My digestion is delicate now. Sometimes, a flicker of that old pain brings back the fear, a reminder that my body can still surprise me.
Even now, a year later, I still feel some pain and have to be careful with food. Patience isn’t automatic — it’s a daily practice, asking me to slow down, notice, and sometimes just wait. And yet, there’s hope in that practice: respecting my body’s limits, listening to its signals, and creating gently alongside it, even when the path forward isn’t straight.
So if you are in the midst of healing, know that you’re proof of what it means to keep going — tender, changed, still trying beneath the October sky.