Tuesday, 7 June 2016


Stuck in this shell. You feel like you've only got limited breaths left so you breathe slow to make it last. You watch your chest expand as the oxygen mask fills your lungs. Your body, motionless, stuck in the position the nurses put you in. No way to cuddle up under the covers, scrunch up your legs into a tight ball and sleep. Just stuck there, like your lying in a coffin.
Your face itches but you lay there, incapable of lifting your hand or any fingers to relieve you of the niggling pain. You can't even comprehend what is going on, you don't know why your body won't work, you don't know what's going to happen next.
Tears flood your eyes, stinging, they then spill down your cheeks and make they're way down your neck and absorb into the cotton gown your now forced to wear.
My parents sit there, exhausted. I want to talk to them. I want to tell them I'll be ok. I want to reassure them. I probably won't be ok but I need to say that I will, they need that little bit of comfort. I can't even turn my head.

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