I have been slacking and chilling at home, nursing my sore surgical incision…. which is closed up but inspires a fear that it’ll just open up and spill my guts to the floor should I so much as sneeze.

I haven’t sneezed in two weeks.

While physically I’m on the mend and feeling more and more ‘myself’, I’m harbouring fears that it’s gonna happen again. And that if it does, I’m not going to know about it until it’s too late. They said it was a ruptured ovarian cyst and tht I bled 1.5 litres of blood internally, probably due to the blood thinners I take. If it happened once, who’s to say it won’t happen again?

In the hours leading up to the surgery and after, I felt my mortality keenly. I always thought that my end would come with my PPH. But this new… thing… that had me immobilised on my bed, in pain, unable to even sit up, gave me a new perspective on the human condition. You just never know how fragile you are until you’re forced to your knees.

Did I think I would make it through the ordeal? I don’t know… my thoughts were disorganized, fragmented. There was always the pain, dulled if I lay still on my side, but knifing into my sides if I dared to move or clench my stomach. I thought about the people around me, felt bad that they had to worry about me. I wanted to tell them I would be fine. At the back of my head, I remembered someone telling me it’s not that easy for a person to die, and there was a small measure of comfort in that.

But through the haze, I remember I prayed. In a way, I was ready for whatever came. Not that I expected the worst – I knew I was strong enough, and that the surgery wasn’t an overly complicated one, and that they were taking all the precautions they could think of. When they wheeled me towards the operation theatre, I just felt relieved that something was going to be done to take away the excruciating pain.

While I think I was too weakened to be scared, the thought of going under the knife was intimidating. With false bravado I weakly waved to my loved ones before disappearing from their sight.

Inside, I was moved to the surgical table – each breath was laboured and shallow, as the slightest movement while lying down on my back brought sharp stabs of pain. But my torture didn’t last too long. Shortly after they strapped on an O2 mask and gave me a shot, I think, and then the lights and faces of the strangers around me swirled in a daze, and I was out.

I awoke, groggily, to the sounds of the surgeons above me, felt a keen soreness in my midriff, and was lifted onto a bed. I felt… relieved, and thankful. They wheeled me out, and my family and my dear djb were waiting where I left them. In my stupor, I had the presence of mind to wave again.

ICU for 3 days, and then 9 days in 2 wards. Home has never been sweeter.