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Show 160 As the anesthesia bums further out of my system, my body is tightening to the exact degree of tightness it had before the surgery. I am too tired to cry. Too tired to protest. Too tired to even care. Can I ever survive all this in one piece? Can my family? I turn my face to the wall. It is two days since the surgery and Faith has come by to see me each day. I am curled in a fixed position, aching. "They were there." I am telling her my dry grieving. "They were there and they replaced what didn't need to be replaced and didn't replace what obviously needed to be replaced." My voice is flat. I have no fight left in me anywhere. "They know that now," she is saying, trying to give me comfort. "And they will do the surgery for the catheter soon. Dr. Jessop told me that." "Yeah," I am saying, recalling a further insult. "He said this was 'water under the bridge.'" |