Time drifts in recovery. Another week, another month passes; the seasons shift again. I set arbitrary goals: I will be better by the time the cherry tree has blossomed, by the time the skylark pours its song into the sky, by the time the strawberries in the garden ripen … Then: by the time the sun reaches its zenith, by the time the wheat field is harvested, by the time the swifts leave.
But now they are mostly gone, and the pain is still here. And each milestone passed brings frustration and dismay. It will just take time, said the surgeon. What, more of it? How much more do you want? It’s all I have. I’m not minded to give you any more.
Patience, though, is something I have become skilled at, these last few years.
At first, I walked and walked, trying to undo the pain that was almost my undoing. Endless loops in the forest. Walk it out, walk it off. Not enough. I would feel it building at the margins, crowding my thoughts, threatening to breach the fragile ramparts I have constructed. I needed a way to reset, to trick my mind into forgetting, if only for a short time.
Come to the river, Mark said.
No. It’s too cold. I’m too sore.
You can just sit on the bank. It will be good to get out of the house, he said.
So I went, and we walked for a short while with the hills and the meadows and the river for company, and it was good to get out of the house, right enough. And then, soon, where the river jinks, an unlikely infinity pool. He and the dog went in, larked about for a while, as I sat on the bank. But the pain sat with me, too. Murmuring in my ear, demanding attention. Always more attention.
One day, I went in with them. It was too hot to walk; there were wildfires nearby. It was the only thing resembling exercise I had any energy for.
And I felt good afterwards, clean and calm and cool. And the pain had sat on the bank, watching me, from a distance.
Oh.
Then the next day. And the one after that. Fires still raging up in the hills, fields still parched, the river barely a puddle. The pain watched me intently, from the bank.
Then a cold day. Heavy rain overnight. A fickle wind, mizzly. Mark away. An indoors day; not a river day.
But now something else is asking for attention, calmly, insistently, when it can get a word in edgeways.
Do it, the new voice says. Not because you want to, but because you don’t. Because it’s a way to regain some control over your body, every part of which is saying, But you hate cold water, and you’re terrible at swimming. Suck it up, loser. Get in. Get out of your own head.
So I go to the river, alone.
I undress quickly before I can change my mind. Old bathing suit, ragged stitching. No one around to notice or care, and besides, it’s the least of my concerns.
I stumble over rocks and slip into water darker than my thoughts, and everything sharpens. White noise drowns out the gasp of breath and the reel on a loop in my head. A stonechat chinks, perched on the worn-out bones of a pine tree. Silvery, shimmery light. Damselflies flick and dart like strokes of iridescent ink. Sweet meadow smells: yarrow, heather, clover, harebells, eyebright, buttercups. Fresh ozone.
The water is hard and soft, solid and diffuse, and now it is demanding my full attention. I let it consume the thoughts that have consumed me. Let it surge past, take everything with it, wash me clean.
Here, in the river, my newly-acquired patience is irrelevant. Everything is fast and slow at once: the hectic rush over boulders and the slack eddies, the swifts that wheel and screech and the heron flapping languidly. Time seems to have multiple dimensions. I might spend no more than ten minutes in this peaty water, yet it anchors my entire day.
My pale skin looks golden beneath the flow, as if reflecting embers. And I’m not so cold now, after all – perhaps I could stay in a little longer. It’s so nice, the weightlessness. But now my teeth are chattering, and my jaw is tight, like before all the surgeries, and that’s not good, so I stumble back out over the rocks and clamber up the bank to my discarded clothes. Fingers fumble with layers of fabric. I can’t get my arms through my sleeves; socks stick to damp soles; my oversized jacket goes unzipped. The spaced-out feeling lasts long after I get home. Mug of tea, hot water bottle, wool blanket – in the middle of summer, for heaven’s sake!
And then, almost imperceptibly, a little longer each day immersed in the infinity pool, a little more dextrous when I put on my clothes again, a little less bone-deep-cold. And I realise: I am adapting. I am learning new pathways, unlearning old ones. I can undo.
Maybe I can heal.
But now there is a new milestone, one with greater urgency. Because I’m not sure how long my resolve will last when the days darken, and the wind drives needles of sleet into my eyes, and the river begins to crystallise at its edges.
And in the meantime, I occupy the liminal space between where I was and where I am trying to get to.
Lead image: Linn of Tummel © Adrian Mag