I keep telling myself that someday I will wake up. That what I discover in my research, in the experiences of my peers, and in what I build an awareness of that I am not somehow cosmically causing this onslaught of complications.
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I'll wear v-neck rompers and continue telling humorously shocked strangers that "it's a botched boob job!" 'till the cows come home, but this palette is already too full of the artwork of some unnamed fellow's sutures. I'm just done. I'd like to be vain, just for a little while.
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In the same way that I can't watch horror movies pervasively because of the soundtrack, I nearly can't live through a horrible situation with the sound on…. its hard to escape the sounds in the hospital; even long after you leave.
*Might* is a four letter word in the healthcare world. It is a drug all its own that causes either euphoric hope or engulfing fear. It is too bipolar. It is too broad. It is too inconclusive.
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A poem.
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The catalyst of joy is the kindness of others. Together they create the recognition that, though this is absolute shit, at some point today you'll get to go home.
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I recall thinking how plain and bizarre that was; here was a room of thirty+ medical experts, professors, and pioneers who couldn't decide whether I should live or not until the following week, schedule permitting.
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Because I cannot and I am not and, for the first time, I truly fear that I never will be.
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It was a catharsis, a vindication, and reassurance to hold this part of me so close to the chest it once occupied…It was my first, and it was my friend.
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I got it cut to help detangle (in a vain attempt to slow down the loss) and averted my eyes from the cutting room floor, lest I see the pain of my loss increased, lifeless, on the ground.
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I just want to look in the mirror and recognize the face crying back at me.
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It's a daunt I've known not of for, as naive as I was about the intensity of the heart transplant stay, I was not quite so scared then as I am now of this even less-intense procedure. And right now, it's too much.
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