Britta's rose

I saw my friend on Monday for the first time since her car accident and I've been back numerous times since. I was terrified on the way into the hospital the first time, not knowing what kind of scene I was about to be confronted with. Thankfully, my imagination always prepares me for such things by making sure I have the worst possible image in my head all the time, so that when I see something in reality it is not nearly as bad as it was in my mind. This was true again. Not that it was not distressing to see Britta so battered, but that I was very relieved to see that she still looked like herself and sounded like herself. She was still Britta, despite her injuries.

I was so happy that her little girl was there to visit. She was massaging Mummy's feet with some moisturiser with her chubby three-year-old hands and taking everything in her stride like the wise, thoughtful little girl she has always been. She told me all about the helicopter that had taken Mummy to get fixed up in the hospital and she was on the constant look out for sounds that the helicopter was about to take off again.

Britta is immobile. She can move her arms, but that's about it. Her legs are strapped into these mechanical socks that inflate and massage to prevent blot clots and she is in a brace so that she can only look straight ahead.

It is her birthday on today. She will be 33, and probably spending a lot of time wondering how the bloody hell she is going to get to 34, and what the next year will look like. I can relate to this. Traumas share certain characteristics, no matter the form in which they descend upon you.

Because I didn't know what to do, I planted Britta a rose.

Britta's Rose

I chose a rose because roses are the hardiest, most resilient plants I've come across. Remember my story of the rose that sprung out of nowhere in my front yard? That's what I wanted. A bloody-minded, determined rose. Roses come back season after season in Spring to bloom magnificently no matter how many times you've hacked into them and cut them back, and no matter how bitter the preceding winter has been to them. That would be Britta's flower.

I chose a red rose because red symbolises life force, the heart, love, and courage. Red is the colour of battle.

Leslie and I will care for this rose and watch it grow until such time as Britta is able to take it home with her. Then it will be in her garden; a sign of how far she has come.

I plan to take photos of Britta's rose every week so that she can see it's progress. Watch this space!