The anniversary of my brain surgery is two weeks away. In one sense, it’s been a long year, but in another, it’s passed by in the blink of my one good eye.
Even though I am blessed to be alive and still making improvements to this very day, I have been mourning deeper than I ever have before. Just the thought of how my life so drastically changed one year ago, causes pause, brings tears to my eyes, and a lump in my throat.
My mother told me the first year of grief is always the hardest. My neurologist explained the looming anniversary will inevitably prompt deep emotions. And even though I know all of this, I harbor this unexplainable emotional obligation to be more resilient than when I actually experienced the brain surgery.
My unflinching strength at the time of my surgery was undoubtedly a survival mechanism. I had to believe I was going to live. I had no choice but to think I would be okay.
But where is my survival mechanism now? The intuitive fight has fizzled, and I now am dealing with the reality that I almost died, that there was a strong possibility I may not have been okay.
I’ve been told that I’ve experienced more in this past year than many people do in a lifetime. Knowing this is consolation, but very little. I have no idea what would serve as significant consolation.
The only thing I do know is that I’m here. Despite the bad days and the uncertainty of the next day, I’m still here. And that must count for something.