“Women are never so strong as after their defeat.”
~ Alexandre Dumas
I admit it. Yesterday, for a moment (or perhaps a little longer) I wondered how I would pick myself up and keep going.
My doctor wants me to continue with another full course of the horror drugs which had me counting the days and hours til I was done with them.
Six more weeks.
And this shall then be followed by more drugs which I’d previously not got on well with, in different combination.
Oh. My. Goodness.
So – drugs. I needed to buy more drugs. Yesterday, after my doctor’s appointment, Ben dropped me out the front of a shopping mall because it was crowded and he needed to park the car a great distance away. I am not up to walking far right now, and my progress is a snail’s pace. I wasn’t even half way to my destination – the pharmacy – when he had caught me up. I cried a little when he did. He had already been to the pharmacy and was doubling back to look for me. “God, you worry me,” he said, his face so sad and filled with compassion. He took my arm and steered me on my way.
After we’d dropped in my fistful of scripts and bought some supplies for our few days in Brisbane we headed back outside, where Ben left me in the shade of the front entrance while he went to fetch the car.
I felt fragile; so tired and weak, as I wondered how I was going to do this thing.
And then, out of nowhere I was enveloped in the biggest of hugs. A client, who is also a dear friend, had spied me as she sat in a cafe. Behind her other friends and her partner followed, all of them with hugs and kind words.
Their love lifted me up.
At home I changed into my pyjamas, ready to lie down and rest. As I took off a bracelet and placed it in a bag, something fell out at my feet. A little medallion.
I picked it up and turned it over in my hands. And began to laugh.
A few days ago I was talking to my sister about our family tree. ‘Did you know we have a Saint in the family?’ she asked. Of course, I didn’t. As we talked I googled her: Saint Margaret, the Patron Saint of Scotland. ‘You can get her prayer card,’ Simone said. ‘But I don’t know if she has a medal…’
Not being Catholic neither of us knew much about this whole Saint thing at all.
We both then agreed that it would be handy to have a Patron Saint. I googled Patron Saints for the rest of that afternoon, quickly becoming overwhelmed, and finding no-one that really jumped out at me.
The medallion that fell out at my feet?
I found it on the ground outside a pie shop in a little town called Childers about four years ago. It was worn and grubby, and I had no idea what it was, but I slipped it in my pocket and brought it home, where it’s lain forgotten ever since.
It’s actually a Saint Peregrine Medal. Saint Peregrine is the Patron Saint of serious illness, cancer, AIDS and so on.
I said a little prayer, and I’ve placed that battered medal on a chain around my neck. It seemed like the right thing to do. It makes me feel that somehow, everything will turn out just fine.
So, out of a difficult day I received more Blessings than I’d ever expected. Isn’t life the most wonderful adventure?