Healing

I still tear up when I talk about the surgery. Not every time, not when I give my well-worn spiel to a stranger or acquaintance, not when tears would be inappropriate and awkward. No, not then. It’s when I remember the sights, the sounds, the pills, the blue masks hovering over me as I drifted into anesthetic sleep, holding someone’s hand. It’s when I remember the fear - both mine and my family’s. It’s when I’m talking to someone who is so gentle, so caring, that my crumbled guard is flooded with the memories that I can’t push away.

I want it to be done; I wish I could wipe my hands of the last seven months and just enjoy the gift I was given: a new life. I wish I could just enjoy it, but I keep getting sucked back like the stubborn straw that keeps slurping and slurping even though all that’s left is the latte-flavored water from the last melted ice cubes.

But maybe it’s good. I went through a lot. To just walk away doesn’t seem right. When I remember what I went through, I can acknowledge and accept the tests, the surgeries, the fear and the uncertainty that have branded me. When I remember, I let myself start to heal.