God, grant me
The serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
The courage to change the things I can,
And the wisdom to know the difference.
It all happened in a matter of seconds. I had been greatly enjoying the great salty swell that sunny day on the west coast of Corsica, bobbing up and down between the 12 ft. waves. This requires successfully negotiating both the entry into the wild surf and, hopefully, a safe exit back onto the beach after the fun. It is all a matter of precise timing.
Having already been in the water twice that afternoon, I wanted to experience the thrill for a third time. My partner had forbidden her children from entering into the swelling cauldron. For my part, the drive for further enjoyment was very alluring. So she pleaded with me to take good care, we kissed, and in I went.
Deep down inside, the timing didn’t feel quite right. My stubbornness, however, kept me going.
Not for long.
Having missed my cue with the second or third wave, the next one came down on me like a tonne of bricks. I no longer had control of my movements, balance nor whereabouts. The ambience changed to that familiar from the old Jacque Cousteau films – that soothing underwater collage of sounds. Next came what felt like multiple summersaults followed by an almighty thud. The impact was first felt in my right shoulder, rendering my arm dead; then on the crown of my head and finally in my back. It was immediately clear that I was badly in need of help and, against deeply-ingrained inclinations, I called out for it, my good arm flailing in the air. Thankfully, my partner and the older of the two girls, assisted by several quick-witted by-standers, were able to drag me from the waters before the next waves claimed me irrevocably, dragging me to safety, up the steep incline of the warm sandy beach.
My perception seemed to split in two directions at that point; the mental and the physical. The first thought that came to me was that: „Clearly the Universe still has work for me to do.“ That lifted my spirits.
Physically, there was the almost overwhelming pain, cushioned somewhat by shock. My efforts to alleviate the pain by hunching my spine while on all fours could ultimately have been very costly, had my guardian angels not sheltered me so well from the worst possible outcomes of the impact. The team of medics, arriving within half an hour, immediately put a stop to my movements, explaining that immobility was key to my current and future well-being, at least until a clear picture of the damage to my body had been established.
An intense moment of surrender occurred while we were still on the sandy beach, made up of millions of tiny stones of many shapes and colours which I could now discern at close quarters. It was surrender in the sense of yielding willingly and completely simply to `what is´. On embracing this attitude, a wave of deep, tranquil peace filled every cell of my being, a sense not entirely unknown to me, yet new in its depth and intensity. It would be erroneous to confuse this with resignation, which I associate with moving away from some challenge due to fear or hopelessness. In fact, it felt like the opposite; a conscious decision to proceed, as if guided benevolently towards my destiny, in the faith that all was good and would continue to remain so.
The medics removed me to an ambulance some walking distance away, having carefully immobilised me on a stretcher which clipped onto the stand in the waiting vehicle. The man assigned to care for me in the back, a flight attendant by the name of Pierre Jean, who turned out to have a passion for surfing (the medics were part of a voluntary network), was in the process of hooking me up to a bottle of painkiller when I asked if it was morphine. When he confirmed this, I asked for a less addictive alternative, more suitable for an addict living in recovery. He gladly wired up a bottle of paracetamol and, for the next forty minutes or so, we had a warm-hearted, interesting conversation on the destruction currently being wrought by fentanyl in the United States. On arrival at the emergency ward of the hospital, we shared a smile, swopped numbers, and said we would keep in touch.
Luckily I had my phone, which allowed me to remain in contact with my partner as she battled her end of the administrative process to gain entry as a visitor. Mine was also to be complicated and drawn out. A physician who spoke good English laid out a plan for the evening. He would arrange for me to be X-rayed and would consult with expert colleagues before deciding which course to take. I was accordingly wheeled on my gurney from place to place and then returned to the waiting area for what appeared to be an eternity. Lying immobile on my back, as instructed, I could not see what was going on around me. Due to my inability to see anything but the ceiling directly above, it felt like being in a strange radio play. With my basic French, I picked up on the fear and frustrations of the various patients and the attempts at reassurance provided by the staff. The entire scene was characterised by, frustration, nervousness and fear. I was not up to trying to strike up any conversations, so simply meditated, bathing in Light, imagining it spreading to all those around me. This was the best I could do.
Close to midnight, my partner having given up hope of visiting me while reassuring me she would make it the following day, the physician returned to tell me he had reviewed the X-rays by video conference with a colleague on the mainland, and both had concluded that a conservative approach, without surgery, would be best. He emphasised the absolute necessity of me to lie on my back, not trying to move at all, until further instructions were issued.
Late in the night, a member of the nursing staff wheeled me through the hospital complex to an empty double room some floors above. The senior night nurse, Luigi, greeted me in broken English and began to elicit some basic information from me, such as full name, address, date of birth, age, etc. His intense smiling eyes reassured me that I was in good hands. He explained that it might take several days for me to be fitted with a torso brace, and that until then, it was imperative not to move under any conditions.
I lay there for six days, immobilised. My sleep pattern was disturbed so I lay awake for long hours of the night and dosed lightly throughout the days. These were punctuated by the daily routine of the ward (6.00 blood pressure, 7.00 breakfast, 9.00 bed-making and cat wash, etc, and the very welcome visits of my partner, who brought, in addition to her warmth and tenderness, goodies to eat, news of how the now-disturbed holiday was unfolding, and her warm smile.
As I lay awake at night, me ego incessantly enticed me to focus on the past (`woulda, coulda, shoulda´) and on the future (`will I ever be able to walk again, etc?´). My Inner Self responded each time by taking a few deep breaths, and consciously savouring the present moment while I silently recited my sacred mantra, over and over again. Everything I had learned over the past twenty years or so, had been preparing me for this situation.
My life was now in abeyance. The Universe was giving me a gift, as yet indiscernible. I mustered my courage, both willing to follow its call and excited about the prospect of what was about to unfold.
