Yes, after 10 days in hospital and surviving three major operations, thank God I’m still alive, guys!
I know, I know, I’ve been absent for a week from this blog. Not because I don’t want to write, but because life gave me a little detour called “hospital survival mode.” And let me tell you, survival mode is no joke. Imagine trying to juggle post-op pain, a stubborn IV line, doctors coming in at odd hours, and me negotiating with nurses for one more round of painkillers like I was bargaining in a flea market. Add in Netflix running in the background, half-watched movies I don’t remember, and me dozing off mid-dialogue. That was my week.
See? Even my fingers had a medical leave. Who knew something as small as an IV placement could make me feel like a baby bird learning to type? But apparently, while I was away, statistics showed hundreds of people were still peeking at this blog every day, as if to check if I’d left a heartbeat here. That thought touches me deeply. So now that my hands are free from IVs, I’m back. Slowly, but back.
Here’s the plan: I’m going to backdate my posts. Write things down day by day, just the way they happened, while the memories are still fresh enough to catch. Like breadcrumbs on the forest path, so I don’t lose the story of what I went through.
Because here’s the thing. Memory has this tricky habit of blurring the hardest parts. Pain gets fuzzy, details fade, and before long, you remember the event but not the texture of it. And I want to remember. Not to glorify suffering, but to honor the fact that I got through it. To honor the people who stood with me. And maybe, to leave a trail of words for someone else who might find themselves in the same dark woods, wondering if there’s a way out.
If that’s you; whether you’re the one lying in the hospital bed or the one holding the hand of someone who is, I hope these stories help. Even if it’s just to whisper, “You’re not alone. Someone else has been here too.”
For now, let me end this short post with gratitude. For the doctors and nurses and admins and insurance who worked like a perfect orchestra. For my husband, my family, my friends, and all of you who sent prayers, love, and warm words when I needed them most. And for this second chance at writing with two hands again.
As Joan Didion once said, “We tell ourselves stories in order to live.” I guess this is mine. If you’re reading this, maybe it can be yours too. Whatever your story is, don’t be afraid to write it down. Words may not heal stitches or scars, but they do heal something far deeper.
And here I am, alive, still typing, still telling stories. So here’s my invitation: keep living, keep writing, keep remembering.
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