12 Mar Cannula
I sit beside your punctured hand. Always so stoic in the grip of pain, it makes it hard to know how severe the sensation is. You avoid needles, often faint during blood tests. I know that this is a new edge for you. Still, you remain sanguine. I sit beside you reading. You are plugged into headphones. Your father is leafing through documents. We are all simultaneously recalibrating. “How serious is this? How long will this last? What are the implications?” We have handled medical emergencies abroad before. We are a flexible team. We know the ropes here. But riding on a bus in the middle of nowhere while sepsis began to crawl up your arm has shaken us. Now we have found a good hospital, doctors, and the relief of an IV drip. But we all saw death around a bend on the road, and it sent us a message. I see the vulnerability in the flesh of your hand. I feel the bond of family. We are navigating another rite of passage. Love is the only thing that seems to matter.