A few years ago, my sister was rushed from the ED clinic to the nearest hospital. Tubed all over, doctors and nurses desperately attempted to find veins that hadn't collapsed in order to save her from the effects of starvation.
Three and a half stone, barely conscious.
My paper souled parents, wrung out from the tortured grief, sat helpless at her bedside.
I don't recall much about that week, but I can't forget Dad's voice down the phone line, a dreadful effort at bravery from a man so broken.
"She's not expected to make it through the night".
Empty, I put the phone down and went to tell my youngest sister.
For that week, for all of us, life just stopped.
Another thing I can't forget, is that for long periods of time, all I could do was to lie, curled up very small, with Bear pressed in tight to my stomach, listening to Bebo Norman's CD, 'Between the Dreaming and the Coming True'.
I literally hung on to the lyrics of the songs on that album; lyrics that, at less hopeless times, I may have branded 'trite'.
Desperation changes the way we hear things. It changes how we hold things, and, which things we hold.
This week these words have echoed repeatedly through the desperate, aching tunnels of my mind.
"God my GodI cry outyour beloved needs you now".
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