Recording

The past week or so, I’ve been writing down my memories of the hospital, the surgeries, each one a vignette caught in type like a firefly on fly paper. I sift through the foggy recesses of my mind, drug- and pain-induced clouds concealing the whole picture but letting one memory at a time float to the surface like the answer in a Magic 8 Ball. The scene is revealed to me and suddenly I’m right back there, lying in bed, my thoughts oscillating between the present and the future, fear and excitement.

I want to write, I want to record everything I felt, saw, smelled, touched, pin it down before it fades away, but it’s not easy. I shake the Magic 8 Ball of my mind and a memory floats up in response, and as promised, I can see, feel and smell, but what I find is not always good. So many things there were easier when I didn’t know what was coming. I waltzed blithely (or more likely crawled blindly) through each decision, toward each procedure, knowing nothing about the fear and pain that waited on the other side. That made it easier at the time, but now when I go back, the fear and the pain stick out. I don’t like remembering those parts. When I put myself back there, looking through my same eyes, the strong, courageous heroine I’m proud of now is a scared little girl whose head hurts so much she can hardly move.

It’s hard to remember those things, it really is, but I need to record them. I force myself back there and I write down as much as I can, because even if no one else ever reads it, I want my children to know what their mom did for them. I want them to know the strength inside themselves and believe that they can trust it.