A couple of weeks, another operation and countless of check-ups later: things are much better. TheDaughter has had all neccessary procedures and we‘ve had our last appointment at the hospital today. *insert dance* After going there every other day for three weeks it has become part of a routine that we‘ll gladly fill with something more pleasant. (Even though we quite enjoyed having to deal with all the eye-candy working there – hotties of all ages. She even asked me if „being a model is a job-description“ there).
And we dealt with all the inquisitive questions there. After developing some standard-replies, we were fine: She is on holiday here. She is living with me. She‘ll be flying home soon. (Outside of the hospital we were confronted by sharp analyses such as: What… you are NOT her mother? You look alike and your english is so good. Aha.)
Some nurses thought I was the mum who‘d send her daughter traveling without insurance and treated me like crap. As soon as I put them straight, I seemed to be The Holy Shit – which made me really mad at times. This was about a young girl who had to go through an emergency alone in a foreign country. No need to treat me like anything because you think you know the story.
I have had several meetings with the finance division and the last one (including daughter) solved it all: we simply left them with TheDad‘s name, adress and phone-no. He screwed up, let them pester him. (Admittedly, we had an evil laugh moment when we left the building).
TheDaughter looked wild for a while, swollen – with a huge plaster around her neck… even after all the drains were out. People (not just kids) stared at her when we walked down the road. Coincidentally, my dad had to have a medical procedure a few days later (all is well) and emerged with a similar plaster on his neck. Family comes in many forms I guess, haha.
We‘ve had several family dinners and my niece is smitten with her – now that she‘s entered school (a whole different heartbreak to attend the first day ceremonies… but we‘re not going there today) we‘re practising english a whole lot recently.
Besides that, we have made the most of it. Scoured flea-markets & art shows, visited castles (sand or ancient) and local wine-fests, took long walks, had breakfast all over town, had movie nights… complete with nailpolish and face-masks. Because I was behind on work a lot during that time (figures, as each hospital appointment involved a one hour wait) she co-habitated between the gay buddy and my place.
It‘s „funky“ (to say the least) to have conversations with your gay friend – a guy in his 50s – like this:
Me: After our roadtrip next weekend… is it OK if I bring her back on sunday, around seven?
Him: *giggles happily* How & when did that happen between us?
We have been able to trace her return ticket, so all is going well on this front. She‘ll be flying home next week and we have tons planned until then. Considering that what I hear from her „home“ is worrying, depressing, heart-breaking and sometimes pathetic and downright shocking, I decided not to write about it. Not my story to tell… but I can‘t deny it‘s weighing on me. After hearing some of those things I can’t help but to have a wee cry as soon as I come home. I always knew my life was happy and sheltered and I was lucky to have a great family. With 17, I lived in a happy bubble. I was already working a job…. but effectively I was still a kid that had no idea of the real gut-kicks of life.
And sometimes it‘s hard to put myself into her shoes, because…. uuhm, where do I start?
For now though, I do what I learned to do:
Breathe in and breathe out.
Let all those feelings sit beside me on the couch and be.