The day before tomorrow…
The weight of uncertainty today is oppressive, a constant presence in every moment and every thought. The questions keep playing on repeat: “Will she make it through? Is this the last time I’ll see her smile, hear her voice? Could she wake up and no longer be the person I’ve known all these years?” The sheer magnitude of the situation, the idea of extracting something the size of a tennis ball from the intricate neural network of the brain, is both awe-inspiring and terrifying.
I understand, rationally, that medicine has come a long way. I’ve read the statistics, heard the stories of success. The odds are in her favour. But statistics are cold comfort when it’s someone you care about deeply, when it’s not just a number but a life full of memories, shared jokes, mutual understandings, and countless shared moments.
It’s frustrating, this feeling of helplessness, of being unable to do anything but wait and hope. Catastrophic thoughts are hard to fend off, even though I know they’re not productive. Deep down, there’s a part of me that wishes I could shoulder some of her burden, take on some of her pain.
But for now, all I can do is be there, offer my support, and hope that tomorrow’s entry will be one of relief and gratitude. I’ve been trying to focus on the positive moments, on the happy memories we’ve shared, on all the reasons she has to fight. After all, hope is a powerful weapon in times of darkness.
Leave a Comment