A gentle rain is falling softly and I’m looking out from the back veranda at what has been for so long an endless stretch of dry, parched ground void of any plants or grass. Now it is a sea of dark, damp earth with islands of bright green grass and wild herbs slowly but surely getting bigger as they inch towards each other. I hope that one day it will all be green again, the soil restored, the land healed, recovered, and vibrant.

I hope the same for myself. No, I don’t want to be green, but I will love to be healthy, recovered, and vibrant. That is my dearest wish in spite of everything life has hurled at me over the past year.

I had hoped that would begin at Christmas, but instead, I caught an uncommon virus that robbed me of my voice for most of the past 6 weeks and gave me blinding headaches, nausea, and caused me to randomly tip over thanks to inflammation of the inner ear. After finally getting through the hospitalization, cancer, surgery, and recovery of last year, the arrival of this virus was a kick in the gut. Combined with severe drought, the threat of bush fires, and all the difficulties those events entailed, it has been a rough time.

In the past, I would’ve downplayed how hard it has been, quickly shifting to all the good things I’ve learned through it. But not now. Hard is hard, pain is pain, and when life is difficult there is no sense in pretending otherwise. It’s right and good to be sad about sad things, to be discouraged and frustrated and overwhelmed. I know I won’t stay that way. I know that after the weep and the whinge and the woe-is-me-ness, I will take a deep breath (or ten) and feel better and braver. My courage will return, I’ll find light in my darkness, and I’ll be able to make something beautiful in the midst of the awful.

And I am.

The virus is a weird one. My doc told me it is nasty and lasts a long time but that it ebbs and flows until it finally ebbs away completely. Somehow, this helped me. Knowing that I would have a few good hours or even a good day now and then made all the difference because I could plan happy things for those good moments, little adventures that would comfort and delight me and make all the bad stretches easier to bear.

Since those moments have been scarce and unpredictable I wanted to make the most of them, so I wrote a list of things I love best that didn’t require any talking. At the very tip-top was being outside – forest, mountains, water – and that is what I planned for. When the good moments came, I was ready.

• I put my hiking gear within easy reach.
• I kept my car filled with petrol so it was always ready for last-minute adventures.
• I researched hiking trails in our region and made a list of options according to my strength levels.

• • Not Much – sit on a bench in the rainforest.
  • A Little – 15-minute walk to a mountain stream.
  • Pretty Darn Good – 1-hour trek through the bush.

Being voiceless and ill for so long can be terribly lonely and isolating, but getting out in nature, taking pictures of beautiful places, feeling strength return to a body that has been through the wars, makes a huge difference. Even a few minutes can yank me back from the brink of self-pity and grief and remind me of all that is good and wonderful and worth fighting for.

Bit by bit I’m getting better. 8 months ago I was stuck in a hospital bed unable to stand, walk, or even sit up by myself. 6 months ago I had my head cut open to remove cancer. A few weeks ago I stopped falling over and regained my balance. Last week I did my first solo hike in the mountains. 4 days ago I got my voice back, albeit a bit raspy and creaky. I’m deeply grateful for this progress and look forward to the day my head incision finally heals, my muscles are strong, and the last vestiges of this virus disappear.

In the meantime, I continue to embrace a quiet life.

Even though my voice has returned, the doc said to use it as little as possible so it can heal completely. I cherish silence in ways I never did before. After the initial frustration and discomfort of not being able to communicate verbally, I now enjoy our very quiet days of naps and book-reading, bird-watching and drives in the country. I’ve heard all sorts of new stories from Bear since he’s the only one who’s been able to talk, and it’s rather nice to hear him tell me all the details of his day and the projects he’s tackling and dreaming about. I’m getting pretty good at charades-style communication, much to Bear’s amusement and total confusion and I’m thankful to lovely friends who don’t mind doing non-verbal things with me like going to the movies, reading together, and going for walks.

We are deeply grateful to friends far and near who have supported us so kindly and faithfully over this past year. We are eternally grateful for the money you’ve sent to help keep our farm going while we hope and wait for the rains to come and end this horrible drought. You have comforted and cheered us through your emails, texts, and care packages, given us hope when we were hanging on for dear life, and shown us what true love and friendship look like. When I look back on this incredibly difficult year, it is your love and care that I remember most clearly.