Tonight I’m sitting on my own little garden bench that I assembled this morning. There have been many brown paper packages that have arrived in the last few weeks that have slowly but surely begun to make our house home. Pillows, lamps, a laundry basket, an iron, an extension cord. (Thanks, Amazon). But the arrival this morning of my little bench seems poignant. I’ve waited for it, sure. No overnight delivery for this package. Somehow it feels like a full stop after a very long sentence. A spot to breathe after a year that has pulled and pushed and dunked and strained and then pushed again. A real bully of a year. You see, tomorrow marks a year since we received news that Stephen’s aviation medical had been refused, and a year of delays, frustrations, financial strain and complete confusion. And while I hadn’t meant to write about this event in this post, somehow that is where I’m going, so humour me (I’ll get back to the bench).

A year ago tomorrow, just a few weeks after our magical wedding day, a day after my MA graduation, and in the middle of Stephen’s bank-account-draining flight training, we received the news that he may never fly again. The machines that the aviation doctors use to determine fitness for duty had given Stephen a very firm “no”. Something about his heart being broken (not sure who’s to blame for this one? Not me.). What followed was a truly awful few weeks. The saying “having the rug pulled from under your feet” is often used as a cliché, but I’m not using it like that now. I still remember the sense of not being able to breathe. Of being cold in my core, deep, deep shivers coursing through my system every time I thought about the situation. I still remember the stomach-fear gripping at my intestines. I remember collapsing into bed as soon as I got home from school and watching hours of ‘Hudson and Rex’ with Stephen because it meant meaningless distraction from the reality that Stephen’s career might be over. I remember sending family and friends updates of how we were doing each day, and of the darkness that clouded those messages and calls. I remember the desperate phone calls to cardiologists across the UK and then in SA to get an appointment for Stephen ASAP, followed by equally desperate phone calls to Lufthansa to change Stephen’s flight ticket to JUST. GET. HIM. HOME. so that at least no one had to be alone as we worked through this news. I

I remember waking up and telling myself one lesson, one email, one meal, one hour at a time. I remember the weeks studying aviation law worldwide and looking at UKCAA medical regulations. Flowcharts, documents, statistics, forums. Again and again and again. Over and over. Hoping something would change. In those same weeks, I remember telling a colleague about the army of prayer warriors I could sense around me who were praying for and over and with me and Stephen. A circle of trusted God-sent colleagues carried me in this time. I also had friends reaching out to me and checking in to hear: how is it going? Any news yet? What can we do? I can never thank these people enough. God worked through them to bring me a deep sense of peace in a time that should not have been peaceful at all. He works in mysterious ways.

I’m not going to get into the medical technicalities now (even though I did then), but long story short, Stephen saw a wonderful cardiologist who did all the tests (and there were many). This doctor wrote a report that told the UK bureaucratic machine that his heart was not broken after all and that the machine can go screw itself (my words, not the doctor’s). When the news came a few weeks later that Stephen was “Fit”, we were amazed. I have a photo of me pointing at that word on the computer screen. It’s not getting deleted. The power of those three little letters remains magical. (Side note: Stephen had his annual aviation medical a few weeks ago. We all waited with baited breath, but he’s in the clear – he just has to learn to touch his toes.)

Unfortunately, by the time he was medically cleared, all the other timelines and start dates had been pushed back, and just when we thought we were on the home stretch, really, the marathon had just begun. Suffice to say, the last 9 months have been soul-breakingly hard. I have at times in the last months struggled to think straight, to hold a conversation with my husband without crying, to make decisions, to wonder, to be human, to write.

And so, getting back to my garden bench, having written an entirely different piece to what I set out to, I just wanted to say that it hailed today as I put together my flat pack bench. It rained also. But I’m sitting here solidly with a blue sky over me, a little, (almost) weed-free lawn in front of me. The sun is shining despite the cold. In the last few months I have often said to my dear, dear, strong husband: “Stevie-cat, we’re almost there.” 

And this time I believe it.

We have a little house that’s beginning to feel like a real home. I have a vegetable allotment with tomatoes that are looking happy and healthy (I look at the weather report every day in case of late Spring frost). I have a spousal visa that gives me the right to live and work in the UK. We have a National Trust membership. I have weeding to do and a library membership to explore in between my teaching. Stephen has a job he enjoys with a (mostly) positive collegial experience. I have a church on the hill and footpaths to walk, and a glorious English summer to look forward to. We have holidays booked. I have oak kitchen chairs to sand down. We have central heating when it gets chilly. We have a happy Macchia-cat with us. We have a garden bench. 

It’s been a year. It’s been a testing one. Financially, emotionally, physically, spiritually. But in the last couple of weeks we’ve had a sense of normality creeping back into our lives. 

Stevie-cat, we’re almost there.