A mind-blowing miracle.
An intelligent design.
A sharp piece of machinery.
A self-healing vessel.
A house for your soul.
A thing of beauty.
It’s your gift.
Fooled by its youthful resilience.
We forget it’s a gift.
We become so brazen.
We become invincible.
We take risks.
We pretend it’s not there.
We don’t listen to it.
We punish it.
Like it’s so easily fixed.
Like it’s ours to throw away.
The crazy thing is, it takes half a lifetime to realise it.
Sometimes a whole lifetime.
After the truth spirals wildly out of control.
After emotions lie toxic in our bellies.
After cells detonate into fury and rage.
After incidents and accidents.
After an imperfect life sneaks up behind you.
We are feeble.
Even after a close call.
The shock wears off.
You start walking, striding, skipping and dashing ahead.
And then you move with a brash swagger.
Never looking back at that disease that gripped you.
Surely, never again.
Surely, it was just bad luck.
Surely, lightning could not strike twice.
Not my body.
This is my body.
It healed itself from cancer.
It gave birth to two healthy babies.
It feeds them night and day.
It carries them, warms them, and protects them.
But it collapses under unimaginable burden.
It hangs between a balance of fragile and strong.
It has become a sad distorted mass.
It’s not respected or protected enough by those in my life.
This is my body.
Its value cannot be defined, measured or bought.
I will do anything in the world to heal it.
I will do anything in the world for just one more second.
One more second of seeing my children laugh and grow and sing.
Just one more second.
This is my body (or part of it). Self-portrait taken this morning, lying on the grass. A year ago today I was 20kgs lighter. This year my body went through a lot. Even more so than my previous 38 years. A week ago I finally got some help to heal my body. It might take awhile, but I’m on my way.
*Art image is The Bather by Pierre Auguste Renoir