‘Victor’ (Art)

Of all people, it was my younger brother who warned me of the highs and lows. He hadn't even been around during what is now being referred to as the 'critical period', but he turned out to be right about this, this duality of healing. Actually, as the process of regaining strength unfolded, I came to think about these swings less in terms of high and low and more in terms of hot and cold – of the curative powers of morning sunlight versus the debilitating supremacy of chill winds clawing through the cracks of a winter bedroom.

In the immediate aftermath, I lay on a hard cot for a long, long time, fighting claustrophobia in my inability to change position under the tyranny of slicing pain and sticky bandages. I drank little and ate less, worried as I was about how to make my way to the toilet. The neighbours, undoubtedly joyful to still be alive and together, chose those early days to purchase goat after goat, each of which would wail plaintively, questioningly, for days on end, confused at their immediate situation but certain of their ultimate fate. My own wails were less plaintive than angry, furious even. But my confusion was just as broad – recollections jumbled and plans in disarray.