Yesterday morning, I woke up angry and annoyed. I had no idea why I was so irritated, but I stayed in a bad mood almost all day – until in the evening, I started watching the lovely TV series Call the Midwife. It wasn’t just cute babies and kind midwifes that shifted my mood though.
I started watching the newest season eight even though I had skipped the previous season seven. When it turned out that one of the midwifes had died during season seven, I was surprised and went on Google to find out the cause of her death. Apparently, Barbara the midwife, had died because of a blood poisoning. Reading this gave me a very funny feeling because I have had a blood poisoning twice: before my first gastrointestinal surgery and after the second surgery.
It is strange to realise that every now and then – that people can actually die of these conditions I’ve been through in the past. I’ve had surgeries, blood poisonings, collapsed lungs, severe dehydration and malnutrition… All this in only a few years’ time.
Before my first operation, which I had on a few days’ notice, the situation was this: I had been diagnosed with ulcerative colitis six months earlier, had lost 20 kilos, was trying new medication and then, like out of nowhere, caught salmonella sepsis. I had just come back home from a hospital stay when I got high fever at night and returned to the ER. The following morning, I felt like I was floating in mist and heard people speak as if their voices were coming from far distance. When the doctor came to meet me, she looked so worried. They were all amazed I had gotten salmonella sepsis (in Finland, seriously!), but when I heard the news, I didn’t even feel surprised. In some strange way, I had surrendered to what was going on – stuff that I couldn’t control kept happening to me, and while I had no intention to give up, I didn’t really resist it either.
One of the doctors told me, “Nobody here will give you more medications [to treat colitis]. We would only kill you with them.” She said this because the medications I had had during those six to seven months, had gotten my immune system dangerously low. So I had an operation to remove my large intestine and to create an ileostomy. When I had the operation, I was still receiving many different antibiotics intravenously to treat the blood poisoning. And sometimes, I really wonder, how an earth did I survive all that? Even the recovering proceeded well and I was able to go home a week after the surgery.
When I think about the past few years, and know things could’ve gone differently – that is, I could’ve died – I feel strongly that for some reason, it hasn’t been my time to go yet. That is when I remember what a miracle it is to wake up alive. What a miracle life itself is – the life in you and me and in nature all around!
I was talking about death with a good friend of mine some time ago, and she said something that stuck to my mind. My friend was thinking about what we say when a young person dies; we say they were too young to die, that they left this Earth too early. But what if we’re all here for the right amount of time, whether we live to be one or one hundred years old?
Anyways, recognising the miracle of life in yourself can help you feel gratitude and awe, and put things in the right perspective. What matters is to honour life, love a lot and live in a way that is true and joyful to you. We know in our hearts what our biggest dreams are, or at least what the next step to take on our path is, so why not start taking those steps while still here on this Earth?
All this thinking (resulting from watching half an episode of Call the Midwife…) brought a poem to my mind. I wrote it about a year ago, and even though the words felt slightly extravagant to me, this is how it came out and I didn’t want to change it.
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Life is a miracle
Remember that, Child of the World
In the midst of fears
opens the flower of beauty and wonders
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With love,
Iiris Linnea
