THE MYSTERY OF THE ORIGIN OF SEPSIS

Four days in a blue box and then suddenly, huge windows overlooking fields of gold, a giant chessboard and the brief sounds of children playing.

I have been admitted again. For the third time this year - and the manyth fever spike. The Mystery of the Origin of Sepsis continues to baffle. Is it Infection or is it The Lupus? The awful perennial question. For the doctors it is a problem that must be solved to avoid over treatment. For me, although I have an equally honed detective instinct, the clues all occur in the same body. The same mind must control the same fears and maintain a ninja like balance.

In the blue box with no windows - let us call it MDU or Medical Decisions Unit - lives Rosie. Rosie's husband Dave was brought into hospital and since he is her carer, Rosie was admitted at the same time. For much of each day and each night, Rosie keeps her coat on and her handbag tucked neatly into the crook of her elbow, ready to leave. Not a word in her strings of sentences makes relevant sense, but must surely make perfect sense in the world she inhabits all by herself. T'was quite alarming having Rosie peer round my curtains like a friendly bat looking for her mate. It was only on the last night when another patient with dementia arrived, one with a particularly nasty tongue, that Rosie's comparative sweetness shone through. A lost little bat, in the entirely wrong cave.

And then I was wheeled away to be transferred here to Hepatology. I waved royally to my fellow inmates as Greg The Porter deftly manoeuvred my bed past them - you lucky duck, said Brenda, turning green, thinking I was heading home (although how I could leave, bed et al...). It was my opposite neighbour's 78th birthday and she was teary hugging me goodbye. We make friends fast in the blue boxes...

Margaret wasn't allowed flowers in MDU, not even birthday roses... but here in Hepatology, my cousin Imran, dressed in an excellently cut suit jacket, brought me Chicky Chocky Speckled Eggs and a delicate bouquet of pink and white posies. They'll have to wrestle the posies away from me...

MASKE (NIGHT OF THE BLOOD MOON)

I went to the place where the wild things are
last night, on the trail of the blood moon;
I followed stardust and scalpel stones
to the place beside the runes.

I held my palms, out,
for all the readers to see,
to make what they could of the threads that bind me
behind the smudging
     and the tearing
     and the rearranging
of my soul.

The blood moon passed over
I was bathed in blood
I paid in pain of a different sort
from a different source;

from the place where the wild things are
to the place where the unspeakables are
to the place where the silent are
remembering.

© Shaista Tayabali, 2014

Phyllis Galembo, professor of fine art at Albany University in New York, celebrates the ritual of masquerade in her portrait photography from Nigeria, Haiti, Zambia, Sierra Leone, Ghana, Burkina Faso and Benin. The carnival characters are rooted in African religion and spirituality, and among the materials plundered are lizard excrement, sugar syrup, tar, coal dust, leaves, cowry shells, sisal. 
Over at the dverse poets pub, the poets have thrown open the floor to interpretation.
I've been wanting to write something about the blood moon, and passover, so last night, I did… 

Found: A Lost Letter

Today is April 1st, 2011, celebrated around the world by jokes, pranks and general good humour that can go wrong. But what about mysterious happenings? I have the strangest story for you.

Low grade fevers returned a while ago, so yesterday found me at Addenbrooke's Hospital, having a blood test. Outside, I traipsed along with Mum on the way to the car. "Look at that beautiful plant!" says Mum. So I did. And it was, delicate, beautiful, so I stopped, to have a sniff. Mum walked on. Something in the earth beneath the shrub caught my eye. A letter, folded, bright green ink shining through. I looked around, self-consciously, and then (how could I resist a hand-written letter?!), I picked it up, unfolded it, and began to read. It was the final part, signed 'Glen xxx'. A quote by Pema Chödrön, the Buddhist nun, surprised and thrilled me.
"A good writer, Pema Chodron, says about meditation, "Let it be easy." Hmm. Then there's the earthquake, tidal wave etc. Don't know how I'll be able to engage with those who experienced that yet, but I lit a lot of candles yesterday. Always one for you."

I caught up with Mum. "What should I do? Hand it in? But to who?" We were standing near the entrance to Accident & Emergency. Who, in A&E, could possibly have the time or interest? Pondering this, I found my eye drawn again, to the foot of a big jeep parked two cars away from ours. A folded letter, handwritten, green ink shining through!! I looked into the eyes of the driver. He seemed oblivious. I knelt, and carefully curled my fingers around... part one.

"March 25.

Dear Amanda, I got back from Laos last night. I did have a really great time. First time in a tropical country. I stayed with a teacher in a village for 4 nights (no running water - mosquito nets - palm trees - and bizarrely a huge karaoke machine blowing out George Michael in the pouring rain). When I got back to Vientiane..."

Dear Glen, dear Amanda, I have your lost letter, and if by some mysterious interconnectedness you read this, know that I have kept, and will always try to keep, your letter safe. It rained on and off yesterday, yet not a drop of ink smudged. I looked around for you, either of you; I kept thinking someone would snatch the letter out of my hands with a fierce "That's mine, thankyou very much!" but nobody did...