The Dreamer's Pen

Day two, and the pain is relentless. It moves through me in waves: sharp, deep, and unforgiving. I’ve always been a side sleeper, but now my body resists every position, every shift, every attempt at comfort. My bed, once a place of rest, now feels foreign, incapable of holding me through this. So, I’ve surrendered to the recliner downstairs.  It’s not home, but it’s something.

I read through my surgeon’s notes, and suddenly, everything makes sense. This wasn’t just a routine procedure. The mass had woven itself into me, attaching to my pelvic wall, growing its own blood supply like an unwelcome parasite. Separating it wasn’t simple. It had to be carefully detached, its lifelines severed, its hold on me undone. They drained it, piece by piece, before finally extracting it through a small incision. The process was slow, deliberate, difficult. My surgeon even noted just how challenging it was.

No wonder I feel like I’ve been torn apart. This wasn’t just a mass,it was an invasion, something my body had carried, unwillingly, for far too long. And now that it’s gone, the absence is loud. The pain is proof of what was there, of the battle fought inside of me.

Healing is never just physical. It’s an unraveling, a reckoning, a slow confrontation with what was and what remains. And so, I sit here, in this recliner, in this pain, knowing that each day forward is a step away from what held me captive.