31. I'm Not Hormonal, I'm Disabled

Now, it's not in my nature to get badly frustrated. Sure, things make me emotional, but not resentful. I don't get upset by the fact that I can't do things. I just feel amazed I'm getting better rapidly. These past few weeks I've been a bit of a mess nearly every day though. I haven't been sad. I've been deeply angry about the inefficiencies of the system.

I was feeling quite stressed by a particular incident last week,  as well as by some uni admin I was finding a bit challenging. I tried to tell someone in charge my concerns for another resident, but I ended up crying, which I found extremely embarrassing, given we weren't really close. I apologised for being upset, and she said, in a nice tone, "It's okay, you're a young girl dealing with hormones like anyone else." That almost shocked me to silence straight away. It was the kind of thing I'd expect a patronising man to say. I don't think anyone who knew me would describe me as hormonal. I probably mumbled something polite then let her give me a hug. Of course, I thought of all the sarcastic come-backs later. I didn't know it was hormonal to care for someone else. You can't hug away injustice. And I'm not a girl, I'm a woman.

I know the person is really nice though. Adults all slip into that way of talking about girls/young women. It's not individuals actively trying to belittle others, just a bit of a lazy way of thinking. I'm going well physically, practising walking a lot, and have just received the all clear for using the toilet by myself, but am feeling a bit harrowed.

Look at the funny mirror in the gym.

30. Are You French?

My first morning I was in the neuro rehab ward, they were obviously under-staffed that day, and very busy. They didn't get round to giving me a wash that morning before it was time for me to go to a group. This was called communication group, and I had been taken once before, whilst I was still in brain injury. This group would be a weekly fixture for me, the aim being to make my voice as loud and clear as possible. I didn't have any problems with voice fatigue, it was just quite slurred and mumbly.

Whilst it is common for voices to have to readjust to speaking after a traccy, there was more going on for me. My lung-power had completely taken a hit, as well as the cheek and mouth muscles on the left side of my face. With my tongue also becoming sluggish and inflexible, I needed a lot of practice at becoming clearer. I told Charlotte the speech therapist that it felt like I was shouting if I talked like that. She said I really wasn't. The increased muscle tension (tone) in the left side of my face also made it sound like I had an accent. I was asked if I was Scandinavian, Eastern European, German, Australian, Welsh, and most commonly, French. I've lost count of how many times I've been asked if I was French. Someone even asked when I came to this centre months later.

On that first day, the ward sister and the deputy sister bundled me into a sling and hoisted me into my chair so I wouldn't be late for the group. I said I didn't mind going without a wash. I was wearing pyjamas 24/7 anyway. The first time I went to the group, I had asked what we would be doing. I was told everyone was working on different aspects of their speech, and they sometimes talked about the news, or a topic, or did quizzes etc. I wasn't worried about my ability to contribute, as I was very used to talking in seminars at uni the last few years. In all my time in education, I've been the student holding myself back and waiting for others to volunteer information (which they usually don't), so yes, I was fine with groups.

I quickly realised the group was geared mainly towards those with memory problems. Everyone was 50 or 70+, apart from Katie, the young speech therapist leading the group. The questions asked were painfully basic, the sort you might ask 7 year old children learning another language. I found myself holding back not because I didn't have any answers, but because I had too many. Though part of me was indignant at the presumption to ask me such easy questions, another part knew full well that for me, it wasn't about what I knew, but how well I said it. This was about saying my answers as loudly and clearly as possible, not about the answer itself.

Despite understanding this, I still cracked. It was when Ethel over there suddenly piped up "picnic!" and I burst into laughter. It was a valid answer to the question, "what do you think of when you think of summer?". However, it came about 5 minute too late. I honestly don't know how speech therapists cope. How they even manage to mutter along reassuringly, "hmm yeah, this one's a bit hard," is inspiring, when everyone is sitting silently, stumped. While I was laughing, I was thinking manically, 'What are you doing, Liz? You can't laugh at people who've had a brain injury. Everyone has their own tragic story; this no laughing matter! And this group is important rehab for you... Pipe down and practise!' (story of my life). I was utterly mortified at myself, but luckily the speech therapists were used to me by then, and it wasn't obvious to the other patients why I had suddenly burst into hysterics.

By the time communication group finished, it was lunch time for everyone else (but not me. The joys of being nil by mouth), then I asked if I could have a wash. No other communication group I went to was ever that geared towards word finding, or that surreal. I guess it was just strange being much closer in age to the young therapists, but part of a patient group made up of such radically different people of radically different ages. Most were physically able but had maybe suffered a fall, or a tumor, or were in wheelchairs, having right-sided weakness following a stroke. (The different halves of your brain control the different sides of your body, so left and right control their opposites. The left also controls language, the right controls pictures. My haemorrhage was in the right side of my brainstem, so my hemispheres weren't affected.) I was by far the most disabled. I didn't mind though; I knew I'd catch up, and at least I was unique.

Me and mum in my new room.

29. The Walk

This weekend I did my sponsored walk! I have been practising in the gym in the evenings with my family. This week, I had been using my walking frame to do small laps in the garden, so I knew I could go the distance. At the weekend, the plan wasn't to use my frame, but for me to be supported by my mum and dad, which I was fine with. I have just started practising walking with one person, the physio on my left side, so I knew two wouldn't be a problem.

My dad had already done this year's walk 3 times as he  helped organise it, and scouted out the route. It's in aid of WatSan, a small charity working in the North Kigezi and Kinkiizi districts of west Uganda, organised and run by local people, with a fund-raising team in England headed up by my dad's godparents. The Walk for Water happens every 2 years in England, (I've been in 4 out of 5), and has been mirrored locally in Uganda. Dad was actually doing the Walk's first recce when he received the news that I had been admitted to hospital. Being out of mobile range in rural Somerset, the message was batted around, until his godfather happened to stray into a wifi zone, and was able to pass the word on. They finished the walk as quickly as possible and one of his friends drove with him up to Sheffield.

Nine months later, to the day, I said I would walk 100 steps. At 8:00am-ish, the people who planned to walk 20 miles set off. There were tea-breaks, skillfully managed, every 5 miles, so we were able to meet up with the group, and both my mum and sister got to walk 5 miles each (they were mainly accompanying me). Dad led the whole thing. Our designated lunch spot was on the green of a local national trust property, whuch had some roads my dad said would be good for me to walk on. Once dad arrived at the house, we got started. We had all the walkers as an audience (and a few other random visitors to the house). The path was actually not ideal, as it sloped gently downwards, which I hadn't practised before, so I was a bit nervous.

I could tell something was wrong as soon as I started walking. Tense, my left ankle was really playing up and twisting inwards. Good job a physio wasn't watching, as they would have been squirming. I think going downhill was not helping. Despite wearing an ankle support, I ended up walking like I had a bit of a club-foot. The support probably stopped me from spraining my ankle which I was one of my concerns. I walked 120 steps in the end, across a handy line built into the road, and under the WatSan Walk for Water sign. It was very encouraging hearing cheers from the crowd, (most of whom didn't know me or know what I was doing). The property's café worker even took a photo for the national trust, it being put out this was the furthest I'd ever walked.

There were other parts of the weekend I enjoyed. We stayed in log cabins, (an adapted one), in an outward-bounds kind of camp. We got to hear about how WatSan works practically, on the ground. Two of the charity's organisers joined us from Uganda, and told us about how they are building water pumps and latrine blocks, and giving sanitation and hygiene lessons. Joanna and I won a quiz about water consumption. We'd love to say it's our intimate knowledge of our water habits in Europe Vs rural Africa, and not just brilliant educated guesses at multiple choice. We were told if we were to remember one fact, it was that the provision of supplying safe drinking water per head in rural Uganda was around £20 each (as opposed to thousands here in the UK). The cost is mainly due to the price of cement, and transporting it to remote locations. The weekend weather was amazing. It was a lovely walk, and about 50 people took part, children and grandparents included. In total, my family has raised about £1,000 in doing this walk, and the total target sponsorship is  £25,000.

Ta-daa.

28. Guess The Name Of The Dog!

The routine settled in. Every shift, day and night, someone would come and check my blood pressure (and sats, and heart rate, and temperature). When asked daily, "Can I take your blood pressure?", I started trying to answer creatively. My favourite answer was "no." Because it's checked every 12 hours, and for some random reason, mine was checked around 6:30am and pm. Thankfully, I had usually woken up by that time in the morning (or else I was woken by the door to the room opening). I'll never forgive one health care assistant who came in at 5:45am. I was woken by her entering the room. It was still very dark outside. I thought, if I pretended to be asleep she would just take it, trying not to disturb me (it's been done before), but no, the joker shook me awake. This same lady gave me the remote to the hoist once and got me to push the up button whilst she did (or rather tried to do) a pull up, in an attempt to weigh herself. So, I wasn't even surprised at her waking me up at ungodly hours.

I tried to amuse myself. I lay in the hospital bed and made it go as high as it could go, and pretended I was the princess and the pea (pee). I counted how often my air bed inflated. (It's good for your skin when you're not moving, and helps avoid bed sores). I discovered that every 20 seconds it would reinflate for 7 seconds (very distracting, but I got used to it after a while). I named everything on the ceiling. (Good old Laurence the Light.) A Pets As Therapy dog came round once. It was allowed to lie on my bed with me (I did ask). While it was stepping on my PEG tube it was not so fun, but its stepping on my bladder was actually pretty useful. Iwas able to relieve myself promptly when it left!

Now it was November, the ward was plugging their Christmas raffle, raising money for recreational things. Though I told someone to put a bedpan of my wee in the raffle, there were actually things you might not mind winning, like food. There were also other things that you might not want to win, like a huge, garish toy dog. You had to guess its name to win it. Of course, I wanted to win it for a joke. One day, another young person and I were bored, so we were taken to the canteen to help a health care assistant hawk the ward's wares. I soon realised my voice really wasn't audible, so I started yelling (quietly), "Guess the name of the dog! Guess my name! Buy me! Give us your money! We want more TVs!" To my mortification, one man stopped and started talking to me normally. I explained I wasn't cognitively affected by my brain injury, just enjoyed the excuse to be weird.

They were ready to move me by 15th November. I was transferred down the corridor to the Specialist Neuro Rehabilitation Unit. A bed had become available, and now my traccy was out, I could go. On that day, I was being visited by a family friend, and he got the job of pushing me into the new ward, where we had to explain he was not my dad! On my way out, I was given a guard of honour; I was wheeled past the combined clapping power of the therapy and nursing teams. I felt like a footballer.

I had been stood up on my feet twice, but I couldn't sit up by myself, or balance whilst sat up, couldn't lift my head up for long, or raise up my knee or arm. I couldn't eat anything, but had started yogurt trials. When I got to my new bed, in another side room, one of the housekeepers asked if I'd like a tea or coffee. I said yes, but no.

(I didn't win the dog, by the way.)

Writing practise on my last day.

27. Walking Around

A tall walking frame (pulpit frame) was order for me and now it has arrived! (Okay, it's not just for me, but I'm using it at the moment.) With it, I've practised walking around the gym, and all the corridors, and to the bathroom from my bed (as opposed to using a commode). The plan is to up the amount of times in the day I can use it to get from a to b.

That however, involves training the staff who aren't used to that sort it responsibility. We've already got cracking showing some of them what to do. There're a few with excellent physio assistant potential! We're going to keep the frame in my room, and then can use it more and more to traverse from bed to bathroom, bedroom to (communal) kitchen etc. Then, when I sit in the downstairs lounge, I'll sit on a normal chair, and ask a staff member if they can take me for a walk. I feel like a dog.

Unfortunately, I broke my spotless record of no accidents by ending up on the floor this week. I was tuning to sit myself in a different chair and slowly lost my balance, wheeling around to end up with my bum on the floor. I got some scrapes on my leg from the floor, as I tipped the wheelchair over, but otherwise I sat on the floor, feeling very foolish. Of course, the physio was not a happy bunny, but I was then able to kneel and step up into standing by holding onto the chair, which I managed fine. I see it as an event that was going to happen sooner or later, and one I can learn from. As Batman's dad says, "Why do we fall? So we can learn to pick ourselves back up." Whenever a nurse saw me after that, they would all ask if I was okay. It was a bit humiliating to have to keep repeating I was completely fine.

Last weekend, I also visited my friend Evie's degree show at Nottingham Trent University. This involved getting around an old maze of a building that had little lifts up small sets of stairs dotted around the place. Luckily, Evie had a security man called Carl on speed dial, and he showed us the way. After seeing her graphics display, we found one of the main lifts was not working. Although dad threatened to bump my wheelchair down the shallow staircase, thankfully we summoned Carl again. He worked out a slalom course of half-lifts for us to get out. Evie got in as many "Thank you Carl"s as possible.

This week, I went to De Montfort University's degree show, as our friend Lala lectures in photography there. That was in a tower block building with lifts going up the 10 floors, including some lovely bits of stair case. Of course, everyone was using the lifts. If you are a wheelchair user, you just have to leave it if the lift is too full - full of people who could be using the stairs. Under no time pressure, I was perfectly happy to wait,  but it did throw problems of accessibility into sharp relief. I'd love to walk those stairs.

Looks like a little starfighter spaceship from Star Wars.

26. The Worst Thing To Wake Up To

Now, I'm gonna talk candidly about bedpans and incontinence. I didn't really know what either was until I experienced them. I honestly had bedpans and Victorian bedwarmers confused. A modern day bedpan is like a plastic spade or dustpan, or large ping pong bat, which disposable cardboard liners are fitted into. It's put under you by you rolling onto one side, or even by you bridging your back. I thought being incontinent was peeing all over the place, cackling, completely off your rocker. Whilst technically this can be true, it simply means you can't tell when you need to pee and poo, and so go without warning. You can be stone-cold sober. I didn't even realise what I experienced was completely normal for a brain injury, and that there was a name for it.

In the following paragraphs I'll share honestly the most disgusting experiences of my life, as people deserve to know the truth about brain injuries. I also find them quite amusing stories. Forgive me if I slightly relish in the telling. Please, stop reading now if this is too distasteful a topic, if you have too vivid an imagination, or if this triggers something. It's almost triggering for me, and I can't quite believe I'm telling the internet this, but my half-a-year-ago self would have wanted it. I remember her bemoaning how everyone wanted to know how she was doing, but her reality wasn't really the kind of thing you can just drop into conversation. "Oh yes, she's had terrible trouble pooing!" No. She joked she was going to start the 'Poo and Pee Blog', or the 'Bog Blog'. I know this sounds a little obsessive, but it was really the most notable thing happening to me at the time. I lay in bed. I couldn't walk. I couldn't eat. But I could poo, and I could wee. Humour at my own expense was utilised, as it always is, to brush over my complete mortification.

The first time I weeed in a bedpan, I was very chuffed, and vocal about it. My dad said I was the same when I first used a potty. I just couldn't take it seriously. In daytime, I could always tell when I needed to go, and was having immense trouble actually doing it. I wouldn't wet myself randomly. Only whilst I slept. Or when someone made me laugh and I would over-shoot the bedpan and wee all over the bed. (Men can use cardboard bottles; women aren't so lucky.) Bedpans aren't the comfiest of things, and always left a red mark around my bottom, but I did get used to them. It was always a relief to see one, as then I could actually relieve myself. Better than the alternative of wetting the bed.

In intensive care, the toileting problem was solved by a cathata, and putting a square napkin-like absorbent pad under you, which can be whipped away when soiled. When I realised what 'opening your bowels' meant, I found it very funny. In brain injury, they used incontinence pads (like big sanitary towels) and ultra stretchy, ultra thin disposable hospital pants a.k.a granny pants. I had to get used to these as my first days in them were intolerably itchy. On one occasion, I was put in an adult diaper, which was the height of shame, but also gave me peace of mind. Even though mum had bought me cheap pyjamas that could be easily washed or replaced, I hated the idea of ruining trousers. I found wetting the bed more embarrassing than wearing a nappy.

I remember being tenderly woken up to "Liz, the bed is wet, we're gonna change it." Then finding out I had pooed as well. It was completely run-of-the-mill for the staff, but not for me. This happened quite a few times. I would always be very theatrical in my cries of, "Oh no!", but I was dying inside. And these were such weird relationships. Chatting away to the person cleaning your bum. Having a nice conversation, then mooning the person as they ease away a large pan of pee. One of the health care assistants had been in the year above me at school. We would laugh about the old times and then I would ask her to leave me to wee.

The worst time, (are you ready for this), was once I woke up in the night and I wasn't sure why. My hand travelled between my legs and felt something soft and slushy. I drew my hand up through the sheets, and sleepily sniffed it. Some crazy intuition saved me from taking a little lick, which I can just picture myself doing. It was poo. I have never hit the buzzer so hard in my life. It was like that meme. Some staff came and turned on the light. I had streaked poo all up my front, all over the bedrail, and the buzzer. It was a miracle I hadn't got it on my face. They completely washed me right then at 4:30am. This happened to me the next night too, then never again. Scarred for life.

The next week, I swung the other way and ended up not pooing for 9 days. By this point I had been given loads of laxatives, but wasn't in any physical discomfort. I was terrified I was gonna blow in a public place, or in front of a visitor. When it finally came, my family were there in the evening. I had been fretting a lot about my bowels in front of them, so they knew what was going down. This was extreme constipation, and painful. I was being very overdramatic, like I was giving birth. It was just as my family were just to go home for the night, and my mum didn't want to leave when I was gasping like a fish. "Leave me," I croaked, "It's only pooing. I won't die." This labour, happened for 20 minutes, no joke, and was basically really small, compact poos that had formed a blockage. Then came the result of laxatives; a stream of slush. 9 days worth emptied me out. I felt like a volcano. Amazingly, this was all caught in my incontinence pad. The nurse who saved me from this eternal embarrassement congratulated me on the birth. She said it was twins. Maybe triplets. I promptly gave them names I didn't really like. It was a wee bit shit really.

"Hello, welcome to my blog. The poo and pee blog."

25. I Need Drugs

I didn't have the best time this week. On Monday, the nurses ran out of a drug I take, and they were only able to get more on Wednesday evening. The drug is a muscle relaxant. Amongst other things, it is given for spasms, which thankfully I don't have. Well, I have a never been off the drug since I was started on it in September, so I didn't know exactly how it helped me. I know now. My muscles didn't suddenly become tense or jerky. I didn't feel any different. I just couldn't fall asleep. You know when you're just getting comfy, and then your skin prickles, and you just have to itch it? That was me all night. On Monday night I was a bit upset about something anyway, so I wrote off the sleepless night as just one of those things. Once one thing stresses you, it's like everything that you can normally pacify comes out to play.

On Tuesday night, I was lying awake, then called the nurse at midnight. It had dawned on me, I was probably having side effects from abruptly stopping the medication. She was really nice, but confimed my fears. She gave me a hot chocolate and some chocolate bars. I managed to get about 3 hours sleep, but it was not restful. I was incredibly tired, but not sleepy. I wasn't even anxious or overthinking anything. I knew I just had to wait it out. There was a reason.

By Wednesday afternoon, I was curled up in an armchair, feeling hollow and very fragile. I don't need to get all superlative describing it. You know how it feels. I was annoyed when I was told they had run out; I wasn't apologised to, or told I would have symptoms. Something was said about the GP not prescribing enough of the drug. Nobody explained exactly what had happened. It's not the nurses fault, it is the GP who does the prescriptions, but I can't help but feeling a bit let down. 

The nurse on Wednesday hadn't been around the previous two days. He told me he'd get it sorted, whatever happened with the prescription. He went and got the drug and it was started again by Wednesday evening. I'm relieved I didn't have worse symptoms, but hate the fact that I feel a bit betrayed, and that I need drugs.

On a more positive note, the residents got to help re-plant the big plant tubs out the front of the centre. The physio was on her day off, so we did it in the gym. I flicked soil everywhere, but had fun. I promised not to blab about the mess, and it was cleaned up fine. I broke that promise the next day. I had warned them not to trust me.

Nothing to see here.

24. The Lying, The Witch and The Wheelchair

Late October, and I was buzzing because I could turn my head. (Once, I did call someone to turn my head for me, panicked I had lost the skill, but I had just slept at a stiff angle.) I was fully able to move my right arm and leg, but they were shaking all over the place (Ataxic). The first time I asked to brush my teeth, (all that yogurt worried me), I carefully brushed, so alert to the fact my hand could easily jerk and stab myself in the gums. I lifted up a cup of water to rinse with, very aware I was not to drink any, slowly took it up to my mouth, tilted it, and promptly poured the whole thing down my front. The nurse and I couldn't stop laughing. I was sitting up in bed, having just been washed, with clean clothes. Of course, everything had to be changed again.

There was a team of 3 physios and 3 occupational therapists (plus some students) that visited me everyday (not all at once). This became twice a day for the physios when I showed good improvement on my left side. They kept coming back, and overnight I could move a shoulder, a thigh, an elbow. They would look a lot at my arm and leg whilst I was lying down. The two types of therapists overlapped sessions with me, so I practiced my sitting balance with both, as well as pushing my arm forward. My least favourite activity (besides enforced connect 4, a classic therapy game, where I was routinely thrashed), was being encouraged to move my fingers and thumb. I would get lots of support, as if from a football commentator, as we both then stared at my imaginary thumbs up. It felt a bit awkward, all this hype for something that clearly wasn't happening. I could never be sure if they were lying to  me when they said they saw a twitch. I still can't do it now, so don't even ask.

Since intensive care, I'd been sat out for about 1-2 hours a day. I increased this to 3 and then 4. So proud. It actually used to really hurt my left bum cheek, so became painful the longer I sat. I timed it so I would be sat out just before my family or friends came. That would distract me. I was taken on walks around the hospital or we would sit outside in the ward's tiny seating area overlooking the staff car park (exciting stuff). I had some really nice visits from friends there. When I didn't have visitors, I asked to be sat at the threshold of my room, overlooking the ward. I guess it's a kind of company.  It was boring, but I couldn't read because my eyes were still bouncey, and I couldn't hold a book anyway. I didn't want to watch TV or films, to be honest, I was concentrating too much on not looking uncomfortable. It was an endurance test; I knew it would only get better the more I sat out.

On Halloween, as I was being made ready in the morning, I told the health care assistant I wanted a costume. She gleefully got a sheet, cut eyeholes and made it ragged. I don't know who was more thrilled. I was put in my wheelchair (a big, supportive, reclined kind of thing), she put the sheet on me and off we went down the corridor. We zoomed along, with her cackling like a witch, trilling "booOoO" at everyone we saw. I did a much lower and quieter 'boo.' Think of a really really quiet foghorn under a sheet. Hey, at least I wasn't the recognisable one. We went into the hospital shop then back to intensive care, and I said 'trick or treat' to everyone, but no one gave us any sweets. Well, I couldn't eat anyway.

There was a Halloween tea party later that afternoon, being run by the neuro rehab ward, brain injury's sister ward. I said I'd go, though it did mean going in my chair twice that day, which would be a first for me. One of the physios took me down, and obviously I was wearing my sheet. I got stage fright though when we got there, and whipped it off my head when we arrived. It was in a small dayroom, and there were quite a few families there, including several babies. I did not trust myself anywhere near them. There was tea and cakes, which I told the housekeeper I couldn't have, but I brought back a cake for the health care assistant who took me out earlier (because she asked). I asked to go back to brain injury pretty soon after that (I was the most disabled person there, and I felt shy). I fell asleep as soon as I was back in bed. I guess you could say I gave up the ghost.

Boo.

23. The H Word Again

I feel the urge to write about humility again, as I feel it is something everyone with an audience should reflect on. Growing up in a church, I was always aware of the concept of pride, and not the kind of pride as taking pride in your work, or being proud of your self for an achievement, but big, bad, ugly Pride. The smug, always-right, self-congratulating, never saying sorry kind of pride. The self-righteous whine of 'what about me?' and 'now it's my turn!' Grabbing help and then blocking out others' contributions from your mind. The quiet voice purring 'I'm the best', stroking your ego. Despite growing up knowing this is a 'sin', no one ever really explained Pride, or its alternatives, to me. I identify these alternatives as humility, but also abnegation and self-deprication. We know humility is the desired attitude, but what actually sets it apart?

Abnegation is self-denial. It is working unceasingly and expecting nothing back, and upon being praised rejecting it, bouncing it off you and saying 'it was nothing'. It is making yourself nothing, saying sorry to the world for existing. It is being tired but never complaing, wanting something but never going for it, never putting yourself forward or standing up for yourself. Meekly accepting everything that comes and absorbing the hit. Religious people often think this is humility.

Self-depreciation is to criticise yourself. To work and when praised, say, 'oh, it's not that good. So-and-so did most of it. I did nothing.' It's to joke about yourself, putting yourself down, 'I'm fat, I'm ugly, I'm hopeless.' I can self-depricate right now, saying who am I to try and say something wise? It's being critical of everything you've ever made, beating yourself up for everything you ever did, afraid to speak up 'cause you'll get it wrong. 'Oh it won't be that good, I won't even try.' Too many people live like this.

Humility is not thinking less of yourself, but thinking of yourself less. It is doing the work no one wants to do, in secret so you're doing it for no one's attention, and if someone does praise you, to acknowledge the praise, but not prance about with it. It is not living for attention, but paying attention to others. It's accepting your situation, knowing that if this can happen to others, it can happen to you. Why me, well, why not me? When things are going wrong, to find your strength within that, as you know that ultimately nothing is in your control anyway. To allow yourself to be dependant, and be grateful for everything. To not let people walk all over you, but to challenge decisions in an impersonal, measured way. To put others' needs first, but also sticking to your limits, and discerning the difference between what people want, and what they need. To put yourself forward, as you're not worried about what other people think, or about amassing glory for yourself. To listen, allowing yourself to learn.

So how do I responded when I know literally hundreds of people are helping me, thinking of me and praying about me? I could take Pride in that, joke about it hubristicly, live for attention, braying my success. I could take aid for granted and go on, expecting others to wait on me, wallowing in self-pity, 'why did this happen to me?' I could become a holier-than-thou martyr who takes one for the team, suffering in saint-like silence, sermonising stoicism. Or, I could take heart in the privilege I've experienced and the people I've met, thankful for what I've been given, knowing it's not just by my own power.

Playing with some cones.