No man is an Island, entire of itself

Today, March 31st, is the day that the Church of England (and doubtless other religious organisations) gives thanks for the life of the priest and poet John Donne, who famously wrote, No man is an iland, intire of it selfe.  And surely no woman either.

I've been reflecting on those words as I think about how much our lives have changed since my beloved S-- discovered that a throbbing pain was down to having a worn-out hip joint.  I am physically fit, but I'm no island! At a stroke, our plans to continue walking Offa's Dyke have been put on hold; indeed, any walk of more that about 4 miles is out of the question.  As the condition inevitably worsens, we will probably have to curtail our activities still further. For now, though, we still live in hope of enjoying a September holiday in France.

The story so far:

X-rays have been taken, confirming the GP's diagnosis.  In a couple of weeks' time S-- be triaged to determine the next step. The word of a medically qualified GP is no longer accepted as sufficient to refer one to a specialist!  Hopefully, S-- will then join the waiting list to see that specialist, and only after that join the still longer waiting list for treatment.

There is a faster route, which we are very tempted to take if the wait is as long as we fear -- to opt for private treatment. For a mere £16,000 or so, S-- could have the operation and be fully mobile again long before Christmas.  Unfortunately, we don't have a spare £16,000, so would either need to negotiate a loan or release equity on the house. 

Alternatively, we could go to Lithuania, where I'll enjoy a short holiday in a country I've never seen and they'll do the op. for about £7000.  S-- is not keen on the idea, asking "What if it goes wrong, or there are post-op problems?"  "Don't worry," I respond. "I just get two holidays in Lithuania!"

No man is an Iland, intire of it selfe; 

every man is a peece of the Continent, a part of the maine; 

if a Clod bee washed away by the Sea, Europe is the lesse, 

as well as if a Promontorie were, 

as well as if a Mannor of thy friends or of thine owne were; 

any mans death diminishes me, 

because I am involved in Mankinde; 

And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; 

It tolls for thee.

John Donne: 

Devotions upon Emergent Occasions