Of my relationship with my surgeons.

Complications after another.

No answers.

“Sometimes, these things just happen. There isn’t a why.”

“We’ve looked everywhere we could.”

“We didn’t tell you about this complication because, well, this issue isn’t even supposed to arise in this method, let alone so resistant. You’re the first.”

The first.

19 months of pleading to a God, just like I did when I was a child.

Taking back all the thankfulness I felt for the doctors.

Taking it away.

“Do whatever you want. You’re anyway not listening to us.”

Why should I?

19 months.

You don’t know what you are doing.

Typical treatments for an atypical patient.

I am thin.

I am dry.

Walking on this sheet of ice, I wonder why no one ever taught me to.