My first surgery of the third week was a rough one, one that I hadn’t wanted to wake up from. I suppose my body was so tired of the day-to-day surgeries that I just wanted to give up.
I hadn’t been able to take a real bath or shower yet, merely a quick rub down from someone I barely knew. I can remember how much I just wanted to feel clean again. My aunt and mother came together to wash my once beautiful and long hair. I leaned slightly over the side of the bed in order for them to pour cups of water through the tangled and dull mess. By the end, the water in the bucket hadn’t looked like water at all. Just a pail of muck, really, with a distinct brown coloring. It was a relieving feeling though, having my scalp and hair wet again.
Days ran together, sleeping during the day and then waking up at dusk only to fall to sleep again. There was no way for me to do anything for myself, yet. I am lifted up and then placed back down, my independence is completely stripped from me. I was, in a way, a child.
The road that I traveled was a long and treacherous one, each day I was able to do more and more. One metaphorical step at a time.