Lucky

Add a k to my name

What do you get?

Lucky.

That’s what they call me:

Lucky to be here,

Lucky to have a voice,

Lucky to be alive.

I smile sweetly and agree,

That’s me, I think to myself, the luckiest person in the world

And I am … lucky to be alive.

My heart breaks when I hear stories of those who weren’t so lucky.

The families left behind after this illness came and snatched their loved ones from them without warning or remorse,

The friends who didn’t get to say goodbye,

And the souls lost during the prime of their lives; the places they never got to see, the people they never got to meet, the dreams they never got to fulfil.

If I could have sliced up my luck and shared it with every one of these individuals I would have.

If my luck had seen me first in the Grand National I would have split my winnings with every single person affected by encephalitis.

So I guess all of us who survive are the lucky ones. We should be grateful. We should be happy with what we’ve got.

But you can’t tell me that you have been blessed with good luck when you no longer recognise your parents’ faces.

You can’t tell me you found your pot of gold when the end of the rainbow means you lose all of your most precious memories.

You cannot tell me that you hit the jackpot when your brain feels heavy and your limbs no longer work.

Luck is defined as producing a good result by chance,

Are any of these things a good result? Is surviving purely on steroids and other drugs for the rest of your life a good result?

Are the continuous trips to the hospital a good result?

Is losing months of your life, months of opportunities, and months of memories a good result?

I cannot count the amount of people that have said to me ‘well, if the problem with your leg is the worst of it then it’s no big deal really is it! You’re so fortunate!’

The worst of it? The problem with my leg is the worst of it? The problem with my leg is the best of it. The worst of it is having lost months of my life, having to pull out of my university course, having my family sit for hours at my bedside not knowing if I would ever wake up. The worst of it is being isolated inside my house day in day out whilst my friends are all out achieving things and going places. The worst is watching the world go on as I sit watching and sinking in my own depression. The worst of it is actually feeling my heart ache as I contemplate the life I should be living.

I’m sorry, am I making you uncomfortable?

I hate to be ungrateful, but I wouldn’t call what I’ve been through lucky. Don’t get me wrong, it could be worse. A lot worse.

But it could be a lot better.

When my neurologist told me my recovery had been remarkable and like nothing he’d ever seen before and that I was one of the lucky ones I smiled sweetly and agreed.

But I didn’t feel lucky.

As I picked up my crutches and hobbled out of his office a tear fell down my face. I was meant to be happy now. I was meant to feel joy. My encephalitis had gone, for now at least. But as my foot dragged helplessly along the floor as sharp spasms travelled up my leg like a knife stabbing me, my heart felt heavy and numb.

Unlucky is defined as having or meeting with misfortune.

I can’t help but think that this is somewhat of a better description for all of us affected by encephalitis.

But we shouldn’t dwell on these negatives. After all, not everyone gets a second chance. Not everyone gets to stare death in the face and come back fighting. I cannot compare for even one second the journey that I am on to the journey of someone who has lost their life to encephalitis. But just maybe, there are no winners in this race. Maybe we all lose something.