![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
I know that this isn’t quite what I promised when I wrote my last post, but upon further thought, I realised that my idea for the last post in my series might be kind of difficult for me to achieve from a hospital bed, as I’ll be needing some scholarly resources from home which I can’t easily get. I’m trying to be optimistic that I’ll manage to do ALL THE BLOGS! But anyway, these thoughts here just struck me as more urgent. I actually wrote them last night, around midnight, as soon as they hit me. I thought it better that way. I tried to fight the urge, but it would not be silenced. So, here you go:
(By the way, I really recommend you listen to the music mentioned at the bottom of this post to get the full effect of the feeling I was having.)
A few times now, as you may recall, I have talked about the Kill Bill films, mainly focusing on one particular scene in Volume 1, namely the bit where she visits Hattori Hanzo and gazes upon his collection of swords. But, tonight, in a thrilling turn of events, I would like to talk instead about an episode from Volume 2, this one being the part where the Bride is buried alive.
What happened was that I was re-watching this film, while waiting for my latest antibiotic dose to finish, (my arm had to be completely immobile for the two hours it takes) and it came to the part with the ‘Texas funeral’, and a thought suddenly hit me: being in hospital is a lot like this.
I know that sounds kind of melodramatic, but it bears comparison, really. Think of this: I, like Beatrix Kiddo, am trapped in a situation over which I have no control. Seriously, for the short-term future, I have a tube coming out of my head which means I cannot move from my bed most of the time. Then, I reacted in the same way that she did, at first. That is to say, I cried and freaked out. But, afterwards, I realised that I have the determination, tools and skills to fight my way out of here. I determinedly squirmed the knife out of my boot, and I set to cutting at the figurative rope on my hands, and I have started punching my way to freedom.
All of these comparisons are merely psychological, but useful nonetheless. Whenever I manage to adjust my table with only one hand or pour myself some juice likewise, that is me cutting the rope, doing the little tasks which make the big one of preparing for my next, and hopefully final, surgery possible. Every day I spend hooked to this tube, every sample that they take, that’s one punch closer to freedom.
To everyone who is helping me through this and those don't realise how they have helped in the past, I say, “I’m coming.”
(By the way, I really recommend you listen to the music mentioned at the bottom of this post to get the full effect of the feeling I was having.)
A few times now, as you may recall, I have talked about the Kill Bill films, mainly focusing on one particular scene in Volume 1, namely the bit where she visits Hattori Hanzo and gazes upon his collection of swords. But, tonight, in a thrilling turn of events, I would like to talk instead about an episode from Volume 2, this one being the part where the Bride is buried alive.
What happened was that I was re-watching this film, while waiting for my latest antibiotic dose to finish, (my arm had to be completely immobile for the two hours it takes) and it came to the part with the ‘Texas funeral’, and a thought suddenly hit me: being in hospital is a lot like this.
I know that sounds kind of melodramatic, but it bears comparison, really. Think of this: I, like Beatrix Kiddo, am trapped in a situation over which I have no control. Seriously, for the short-term future, I have a tube coming out of my head which means I cannot move from my bed most of the time. Then, I reacted in the same way that she did, at first. That is to say, I cried and freaked out. But, afterwards, I realised that I have the determination, tools and skills to fight my way out of here. I determinedly squirmed the knife out of my boot, and I set to cutting at the figurative rope on my hands, and I have started punching my way to freedom.
All of these comparisons are merely psychological, but useful nonetheless. Whenever I manage to adjust my table with only one hand or pour myself some juice likewise, that is me cutting the rope, doing the little tasks which make the big one of preparing for my next, and hopefully final, surgery possible. Every day I spend hooked to this tube, every sample that they take, that’s one punch closer to freedom.
To everyone who is helping me through this and those don't realise how they have helped in the past, I say, “I’m coming.”
