Apparently when a surgeon removes a few lymph nodes, your lymphatic system can throw a bit of a tantrum. Exactly as mine was in the process of doing. I was beyond frustrated. My body wasn’t doing as I wanted. Every day felt like I was moving backwards. I had a new and not so inconspicuous drain inserted into my arm, half of my body was in bandages, and I had just generally had enough.
For two months, my life had been centred around my health. I was either driving to or from the hospital, sitting in a specialist room, or confined to my house. Our summer house, which we had gotten for the specific purpose of facilitating ‘the year of fun’. Wasn’t really working out that way thus far.
Being inside is not good for my general mental health. I need to be active, I need to be out, and ironically, I need to feel the sun on my skin. All three things I was unable to do. Hell, I could barely even tie my own hair up at this point.
It was at this point that I had a lot of time to think. Actually no, thinking is not an appropriate term, dwelling is. I had a lot of time to dwell. About the present, but mostly, about the recent past. A combination of people and events that ultimately contributed towards leading me to this very moment. Reflecting on these now has since shed light on lessons which I was unable and unwilling to admit at the time. They were painful, and I was in pain. They are each poignant and deserved to be honoured with their own respective entries.
It’s at this point that I’d like to point out what real writers do. Real writers have a concept. They have a start, a beginning, and an end. They have structure and they have discipline. Except, I’m not a real writer. I don’t have structure, and I don’t have a plan. I write when I feel the need to write. I start without any inclination as to where it will end. And with that being said, let’s temporarily skip ahead a few steps. Let’s talk about scars.
MY MATHS TEACHER AND I 