One moment you’re staring at a white ceiling as white curtains reflect shapes upon white linens. You’re suffocated by sterility. You’re manipulating your wrist to slide your identification band off and on — on and off, again. You’ve got two intravenous lines in your right arm and a tube emerging from the right side of your chest but at least you’ll no longer have to feel like a number. Nights spent staring out windows at beautiful things that you feel a lesser part of are common, but you’ve fought these battles before.
And so little time seems to pass before those days are over.
Suddenly you’re walking barefoot down the street with your best friend, and the afternoons you spent away from her at the hospital don’t seem wasted. They seem necessary, because you’re getting sunburnt and laughing about crappy films and you know that the very conversation wouldn’t be possible without those sacrificed afternoons. Soon you’re out for coffee with old friends and new friends and you’re surrounded by stimulating conversation while sipping the best lavender latte you’ve ever had. You’re trudging through mud to find a treehouse that may or may not exist with someone who understands what it’s like to want a future more than anything. You’re sitting for hours in a field of grass on the first warm Spring day screaming the words to acoustic tracks and sharing music recommendations. You’ve got scars, but your body no longer feels broken.