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Jun. 10th, 2015 08:08 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
alt_nymphadoraD'you know, a few years back, I was one of those unlucky sods who got struck with a nasty case of the plague?
It's probably more accurate to call it 'Rookwood's Paralysis' instead of 'Black's Paralysis' -- the Department of Mysteries had their signatures all over that particular mess -- oh, don't even get me started, it's all quite the rabbit hole, believe me, but anyways, a couple of years back, I found myself very ill, and in an extended stay at St M's.
There are bits I don't clearly remember, of course. Great huge lengths of time that are just simply missing because I was too out of it. But whatever memories I do have make it clear that the Healers of St Mungo's were there with me every step of the way. Making me as comfortable as possible. Working round the clock to come up on something, anything that'd help me feel better. Keeping me fed and bathed. Pushing me to keep my muscles active, to walk and hold a quill again, and cheering me with every milestone I passed.
I imagine they must've been worried about catching it themselves, and I wasn't anyone special by any stretch -- a halfblooded bog cleaner isn't someone you normally go out of your way for. But that's the thing about Healers. At least the ones I know, and I have the great privilege to call a few of them friends. Healers don't give a damn what you do for a living. They work as hard as they can to help as many people as they can, and there's something deeply admirable about that.
Helping people because they're people who need help. Full stop. It's simple, but so very profound all at the same time.
I owe my life to the Healers at St Mungo's. So many of us do.
It's probably more accurate to call it 'Rookwood's Paralysis' instead of 'Black's Paralysis' -- the Department of Mysteries had their signatures all over that particular mess -- oh, don't even get me started, it's all quite the rabbit hole, believe me, but anyways, a couple of years back, I found myself very ill, and in an extended stay at St M's.
There are bits I don't clearly remember, of course. Great huge lengths of time that are just simply missing because I was too out of it. But whatever memories I do have make it clear that the Healers of St Mungo's were there with me every step of the way. Making me as comfortable as possible. Working round the clock to come up on something, anything that'd help me feel better. Keeping me fed and bathed. Pushing me to keep my muscles active, to walk and hold a quill again, and cheering me with every milestone I passed.
I imagine they must've been worried about catching it themselves, and I wasn't anyone special by any stretch -- a halfblooded bog cleaner isn't someone you normally go out of your way for. But that's the thing about Healers. At least the ones I know, and I have the great privilege to call a few of them friends. Healers don't give a damn what you do for a living. They work as hard as they can to help as many people as they can, and there's something deeply admirable about that.
Helping people because they're people who need help. Full stop. It's simple, but so very profound all at the same time.
I owe my life to the Healers at St Mungo's. So many of us do.
