Three black spots. Are they spots? Dirt? Insects? Cascading confusion envelopes me. Three walls, a ceiling, three tiny windows. High up. I want to reach out my right hand to touch the spots. Possibly scrape them off the wall. My hand will not move. I am encumbered by the weight of my skin. Wiggle your big toe. It moves. The left one. Only the left one. Blinking eyelids send shrieks of pain through my face. I smell… detergent. I taste… nothing. I feel… terrified. I see… three black spots. Why are they there? Taunting my misconceptions. I want to cry out for water. My eyes struggle to make sense of some photographs on the wall. Three black spots. Is that my son? Who are those girls? My nieces? Yes. Yes? Where is my son? Is he alive? Am I alive? Sleep.
The lights are painfully white. My lips crave saliva’s embrace but my tongue is heavy and dense. I see someone. His shirt. Colours. His shirt has colours. Three black spots. Patterns. My eyes feel like they have never had to process these things before. I was experiencing colour for the very first time. White walls. Blue nurses. White sheets. Three black spots. I want to tell him to help me but somewhere lurking deep within a crevasse of my mindful expanses, I know that he can’t. Water. I need water. I barely open my mouth to utter my plea with not a sound escaping my chapped lips but he knows. He knows what I need. His colourful shirt leaves the room to consult a nurse. She denies me my water but offers an ice-cube as a consolation prize….
The story above begins with me waking up in hospital two months after my borg was surgically removed from me. Over the next couple of posts I endeavor to share my brush with death after contracting HELLP Syndrome while being pregnant with my wee borg. Expect blood, tragedy, spilled tea, confusion, despair, sarcasm, determination and resolve. A semblance of resolve, at least. My words are my therapy. This keyboard my broadsword. This life my own. This body for rent.