The wee hours of the morning, my surgery happening in a few hours. And I cannot sleep.
I tried to be responsible and sleep at 10, later than I should have but better than I usually get. I starred at the black of my ceiling for hours. The turtle clock (made by a cousin of mine) ticks loudly in the silence. Ticking away until the appointed hour.
It is odd to compare this with the night before everything changed. Deciding that since I always sleep through car rides I would stay up the whole night and sleep the car ride home. This is a tactic that I had done before, to great affect. So that night, I said goodnight to my sister, my father, and my mother; then snuck down to the basement to play video games. I am unashamed to say I played Lego Indian Jones, completing the whole game that night. About 5 minutes from finishing the game, I ran into my father, who had gotten up to make sure we were all awake.
We had gotten up early to take my sister to the airport. I remember very little about that morning. We loaded up the small car, packed ourselves in, and left. I leaned my head against the door (with pillow) and fell asleep. They woke me up when we got to the airport so I could say goodbye to my sister. Then I fell asleep again. The rest is history. All that I remember after that is a morphine fog, parting days afterwords.
Now, on the morning before surgery I can't help but marvel at the parallels. Both were nights before important events, both deprived of sleep, both stretch on endlessly in my mind.
Only this time I have time to dwell on circumstances, to know what is to come, to fear what may pass. The hope of my walking clashes with my realism. My knowledge that I'm getting one of the best surgeons in the world clashes with my knowledge that it is surgery and there's always the chance that this is my last post. All my hopes and fears amass themselves in this one evening that stretches on into eternity.
I know I should try and sleep again but it is hard. Shallow dreams have come, but only the sort that awaken and sharpen your brain, so I simply end up tossing and turning. The overactive brain is masochistic. It knows that it should shut down and recharge while it can but ignores this and keeps trudging on anyway. But that is why we blog I guess. Too much in an overpacked brain. I forget who I'm quoting, but in a description of blogging, "never have so many communicated so much to so few." Forgive the ramblings of a sleep deprived fool.
For I am scared. Never in my life have I gained back so much to risk loosing it again. I've gained back a leg. Aside from surgery's own risks (where there is always risk of death) I risk loosing function and the little bit of freedom that has gained me. I hear from everyone I talk to that people are praying for me; weird to think that in a weird way I have a following. I hope God hears those prayers. It is pointless to rant why, why, why, but it would be too much to say God and I are on even terms. I have seen my legs taken from me and face the prospect of loosing them again. And I know it can happen, that God decides to let me go without them. And I am frightened that it will come to pass. So I hope that prayers are heard. There is nothing else to do now. Except sleep.