Relax - You're About to be Intubated

by Marie Kimber (Australia)

I didn't expect to find France

I zip up my jacket as the wind from the Northwest strengthens and blows a strand of hair across my reddening nose. I trudge along the rocky path, wishing I'd taken gloves out of my pack the last time we rested. A jolt of pain, like a red hot poker, surges through my left foot. I stumble and grit my teeth as tears well in my eyes. Hazy mist spills tiny, cold droplets on my face as I strain to see ahead. I pray for a light, some sign of life, a hot shower, a warm bed. Daylight is fading, but despite my partner's repeated declarations, there is still no sign of the village 'just a little further.' They say everyone who walks the Camino de Santiago has a reason. Many are on a pilgrimage hoping to find themselves, others preferring to stay lost. In the words of renowned theologian, Richard Niebuhr, "Pilgrims are persons in motion, passing through territories not their own .... a goal to which only the spirit's compass points the way." I'm here hoping to find my spirit's compass, which lost its way last year as I suffered Guillain Barre Syndrome. Memories of the Intensive Care ward are never far away. When, not able to turn over in bed, gasping for breath and vomiting something that resembled the secretion from a squashed snail, the Doctor said, "Relax, you're about to be intubated,” it was music to my terrified ears. Seven weeks of total paralysis followed as a confused autoimmune system mistakenly attacked the protective covering on my nerves. As I subsequently persisted in learning to stand, and ultimately walk again, during a further two months in rehabilitation, dreams of walking the Camino seemed utterly unattainable. Or were they? It was now September the following year. My partner, Peter, who had been my rock throughout 3 months of hospitalization, had flown with me from Australia with a plan of walking for 2 weeks. With the sun trying to break through an overcast sky, we headed off from Le Puy en Velay in the southwest of France. Over the ensuing days, images in guide books that had long fascinated me came to life. All had been going well. My over sensitive, nerve-damaged feet were tolerating the days of hiking, and I was starting to accept the horrible illness had not destroyed my soul. Until now. Today I was hurting and frustrated. Again I stumble. This time balance evades me, and I throw out my hand to break my fall. The rough edge of a rock grazes my wrist as the sudden impact launches my pack forward on my neck. I'm done. Tears form instantly and spill onto my cheeks. The wisp of hair sticks to the wetness as I collect my thoughts and assess the pain points. "Oh my God, are you OK?" I'm startled by a distinctive American accent. "Let me help you up," the voice offers. Where did he come from, I wonder? Instinctively, I reach for his hand, only to feel the soft, loose fabric of his right sleeve swaying emptily at his side. "That one won't help ya, grab this one," he responds, with his outstretched gloved left hand. In one strong action, he hoists me up and introduces himself as Roger. Dusting myself off sheepishly, I look back at him. His upturned collar shields the cold from his weathered neck, and I sense he's not new to the Camino. I'm already aware of his upper body handicap, but I didn't expect to see the additional impediment of a prosthetic leg. Roger joins us as we slowly forge ahead, his one walking pole seeking out the most manageable steps between rocks. A symbolic scallop shell teeters from his modified pack. "Last year, I hiked over 200 miles with some war buddies," he says proudly. "But I'm going alone this time," he adds. "Just to show I'm not impaired." With that, the pain in my feet miraculously subsides. Light from a window suddenly appears through the mist as we finally approach the village. Peter, now witnessing a shift in my demeanor, jokingly says, "Relax, you're about to be intubated, it’s going to be OK."