My husband had renal failure (transplanted in 2004), one thing that he has kept was a piece of rope that was tied to the front door.
I went through some postpartum depression with my last child (he's almost 13 now). I was working at home at the time, and also suffering from herniated disks in my back. One morning my then-baby toddled into my office while I was working and set a chunky little Playmobil knight on my keyboard. The knight had his hand raised as if to throw a spear. I ignored it for the most part, but after a few weeks of (barely) getting up at 4 a.m. to do my work before the baby woke up, while I was in pain both physical and mental, the kind of pain that destroys relationships...that little knight appeared to be raising his hand in defiance. He became my symbol of my eventual defiance of the diseases I was fighting, the pain I was suffering, the emotional turmoil in inflicted on myself and my family.

I don't think I could have gotten through without that tiny little plastic raised fist, pointing the way and encouraging me to do the same. Even now when I think of it I think of a groan welling up from inside of me so deep--the kind you make when you are lifting the heaviest thing and the lifting will save a life--so deep inside, careening out from the exertion so strongly, that no one will mistake it for what it is. Defiance of odds that lead to victory.

I understand all about pieces of rope. I lost track of my little knight in plastic armor long ago--but I still have what he represents, right here. :: pounding chest::

Karen