Today, I’m writing over at my dear friend Hannah’s blog, Breathe Deep. It’s a story that took a long time for me to be able to write, but it felt good to write it.
And for the first time in twenty-two years, she found a reason to plead for herself. Her blood, her gelatinous lungs breathing in and out. It was quick and suddenly she saw her hand – red and plump like Mickey Mouse’s – and she thought Oh my gosh, I am getting old. Look at these veins, and she hurriedly covered the purple spidery arm with a sweater.
You can only ignore for so long. The next morning the blood still pooled, the arm still hung heavy and without its customary strength, and she decided a doctor would know. If only to tell her nothing was wrong, go back to your little life of serving coffee and greasy eggs and feeling self-important. You are not so great as to be seriously ill. But that was a mistake because one place after the other, the ultrasound with its beat-beating and the reduction of her insides to a white-gray image from Mars. “Clot,” they said.
It’s one of the those stories that had to start in the third person and grow more personal from there. To keep reading, head over here.
Come back Friday to read Hannah’s guest post about her own version of in-between living.
3 Replies to “My Hands are Dying”
Such good writing, Catherine. I remember when you told me about this, and it wasn’t sure how to respond, when you seemed ok, but not ok. I’m so glad you have been able to process it through your writing. 🙂 not an easy thing to face, this someday dying business, even if we are Christians. You write it eloquently.
Thanks, Jen. I know, it was such a strange thing to talk about, especially when I was oscillating between okay (both mentally and physically) and not okay (mostly mentally). Thanks for reading and being there for me.